#i will post this without thinking before posting

[mcrdvcks]

bergamot

chapter summary: You haven’t seen Bucky in almost two months because you’ve been away on a mission for the UN. Bucky is miserable—the team has only known him for two weeks, but they can already tell that something on his phone is making him smile. word count: 8.2k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: here is the request that inspired this! i had a lot of fun writing this. i just wanna curl up with bucky (and hold onto his arms like a koala) and run my fingers through his hair, and— warnings/tags: reader works for the UN, mention of reader having wet hair, soft!bucky, clingy!bucky, loverboy!bucky, fluff, thunderbolts, yelena is suspicious, light violence, mention of injury, references to tfatws, post-thunderbolts

Alexei leaned back in the couch, gesturing broadly with a half-eaten pretzel. “So there I was, hanging from the side of the Khrunichev rocket, no harness, only my teeth and a stubborn cable—”

“Again with the rocket story?” Ava muttered, phasing a hand through the coffee table on instinct. Bob perked up, wide-eyed, as though picturing the whole scene.

Bucky barely looked up from his phone. A grin tugged at the edge of his mouth as his thumbs flew over the screen. Yelena caught it immediately. She nudged Ava’s ankle and jerked her chin at Bucky. “Did the Winter Soldier just smile?”

Ava arched a brow. “Maybe Alexei’s comedic timing has finally evolved.”

John, propped against the doorway, snorted. “Pretty sure that’d require the universe bending its own rules.”

Alexei glowered. “You Americans have no appreciation for true heroism.” When no one rose to defend him, he sighed and continued anyway. “Point is, the launch director screams, ‘you will die, Red Guardian!’ and I—”

Bucky’s phone chimed again. He angled the screen away, shoulders hitching in a short laugh before catching himself. Yelena’s eyes narrowed like a laser sight. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Barnes, who’s making you look like a Golden Retriever with a new squeaky toy?”

“No one.” He tapped the screen off, expression settling into its usual guarded set. Too late—the damage was done.

Ava kicked her feet up on the table. “Is ‘no one’ some kind of new social app?”

“Or a codename?” Bob asked, genuinely curious.

John cleared his throat. “Leave him alone.”

Yelena’s gaze snapped to him. “Why so defensive, Walker? Do you know something?”

“Don’t drag me into it,” John said, folding his arms. “Some of us respect privacy.”

“Some of us are lying,” Yelena shot back. She rose and sauntered toward Bucky’s armchair. “Come on, Barnes. Two weeks living in the Watchtower, we’ve seen you brood, we’ve seen you pace, we’ve seen you out-bench the gym equipment. But a genuine smile? That’s new content. Share with the class.”

Bucky pocketed the phone and stood. “Getting coffee.” He pushed past her, metal fingers clinking softly against the mug rack as he filled one.

Ava phased through the counter to peer at him from the other side. “Is the coffee machine texting you too?”

He exhaled through a tight grin. “It’s just... a friend.”

“What kind of friend?” Yelena pressed.

“The kind who doesn’t need to be part of story time.”

Bob’s voice drifted from the couch. “Do you think they like rockets?”

“Bob,” Yelena said, “focus.”

Bob nodded, solemn. “Focusing.”

John pushed off the doorway, intercepting Yelena. “Seriously. Drop it. We’ve got enough on our plates without interrogating Bucky’s social life.”

“His social life is our plate now,” Yelena argued. “Trust is key to team cohesion.”

Bucky set his mug down with a soft clink. “I trust you, Yelena.”

She perked up. “Then tell me.”

He hesitated, thumb brushing the rim of the cup. The phone buzzed again. The grin resurfaced—small, private, and impossible to hide.

Yelena’s eyes widened. “You’re impossible.” She pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then at him. “I’m watching you, Barnes. One day, I will know.”

“Good luck,” he said, taking his coffee and heading for the exit. “Alexei, finish the rocket story without me.”

Alexei puffed out his chest. “As I was saying—”

The automatic door slid shut behind Bucky, muffling Alexei’s booming voice. In the quiet hallway, he pulled the phone back out.

You: Flight got moved again. Landing tonight after all. Can’t wait to see you.

Bucky’s shoulders softened. He leaned against the wall, thumb hovering for a beat before he typed.

Bucky: Counting the hours, doll. I’ll be there.

He stared at the message until the screen dimmed, that rare smile lingering. Then he slipped the phone away, squared his shoulders, and headed back toward the lounge—mask firmly in place, ready to fend off Yelena’s next round of questions.

---

Of course, his luck was having a meeting with Valentina he couldn’t get out of at the exact time you were landing.

You promised him it was okay, that you were going to go to the apartment and take a nice shower after spending three and a half weeks in Guinea-Bissau with only four bucket showers.

The apartment smelled faintly of bergamot and fresh paint when you stepped out of the bathroom, damp hair shoved into a towel‑turban. Your suitcase still yawned half‑open in the bedroom, shoes sticking out like protest signs after the forty‑hour trip home. You tugged one of Bucky’s sweatshirts—soft navy cotton you’d stolen months ago—over your head and padded toward the kitchen.

Keys scraped the front lock.

You froze, toothbrush still in hand, the door cracked open just wide enough for a familiar metal fingertip to tap against the frame.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, almost cautious.

“Bathroom’s on the left, Sergeant,” you called, grinning. “But fair warning—hot water’s depleted.”

The door swung wider. Bucky stepped inside wearing a charcoal henley rolled to his forearms and a pilled cardigan that made his shoulders look unfairly broad. The cardigan hit the floor the second he saw you.

He crossed the room in three strides, pulling you straight against his chest. His nose tucked into the damp bend of your neck. A low, shaky breath escaped him. “You’re here,” he mumbled. “You’re actually here.”

“Last time I checked.” You squeezed his waist, feeling muscle tremble under the fabric. “Thought you had a debrief.”

“I threatened to walk out if Val kept talking.” He nuzzled closer, the words muffled. “She got the hint.”

You laughed. “That might be a new record for shortest Barnes‑Fontaine meeting.”

“She shouldn’t schedule anything on your landing day.” His flesh hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing water droplets from your jaw as though they offended him. “You good? Flight okay? Anyone sneeze on you?”

“Only everyone in coach.” You tapped his chest. “I lived.”

He lifted your left hand in both of his, studying the calluses on your fingertips like they were precious intel. Then he laced your fingers with his human ones and didn’t let get, even when he tried to flip the kettle on with his metal hand without releasing yours. He misjudged the angle, and bumped the counter.

“Bucky,” you laughed, tugging gently, “two hands are useful for tea.”

“Fine.” He let you go… for half a second. Then his palm found the small of your back, guiding you nowhere in particular, just touching. “Missed you.”

“Month and a half,” you reminded. “I kept count.”

“Thirty‑nine days,” he corrected softly.

Your heart stuttered. “You counted hours too, didn’t you?”

“Two thousand. Give or take.” He swallowed, shoulders hitching as though the admission cost him. “When you were in the field and comms went dark that first week… I—”

You reached up and brushed hair from his forehead. “I’m here now. And I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

He nodded, but the tension didn’t ease. He bent suddenly, hooking an arm behind your knees and lifting you. You yelped, toothbrush clattering onto the countertop.

“James Buchanan—”

“Shush.” He settled onto the couch with you cradled sideways, both hands banded around your ribs. “Grounding exercises, remember?”

Your brows lifted. “Thought that was when you were having nightmares.”

“They’re preventative tonight.” His metal thumb tapped a light rhythm against your spine. “Body heat. Your heartbeat. Works better than any breathing drill.”

You exhaled, letting muscles uncoil. His chest expanded under your cheek with each slow inhale. After a minute his pulse evened out, but he still didn’t loosen his hold.

“I should order food,” you murmured.

“Later.”

“Brush my teeth?”

He pressed a kiss to your hair. “Mint’s overrated.”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “What about bathroom breaks?”

“I’ll escort you.” The deadpan delivery cracked you up, and the faintest smile curved his mouth—one that actually reached his eyes. “Not letting go yet, doll. I need another minute.”

“Take five. Or fifty.”

He sighed, forehead dropping gently to yours. “Gonna need more than fifty.”

“Take all night.”

A soft noise—half laugh, half relief—escaped him. The kettle clicked off behind you, steam curling upward, ignored. Outside, city traffic whooshed three stories below, but inside the apartment everything had narrowed to the weight of his arms and the solid, steady drum of two heartbeats syncing after far too many hours apart.

Bucky brushed his lips across your knuckles. “Welcome home.”

---

The bedroom was gray with winter light when your alarm buzzed. Before you could reach for the phone, Bucky’s arm tightened, hauling you the last inch across the mattress so your back fit the curve of his chest.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice sanded rough from sleep.

“You’re due at the Watchtower at nine,” you reminded, twisting enough to see him. His hair was everywhere, soft and ridiculous. “And I’ve got a briefing at the UN.”

“Virtual.” He kissed the top of your shoulder. “Can do it from here.”

You laughed. “Pretty sure Val expects you in person.”

“That’s her problem.” His grip didn’t loosen. “Could stay like this forever.”

“Barnes.” You nudged his metal fingertips where they were splayed over your stomach. “Breakfast.”

“She can brief John first.”

“John will murder you.”

“Let him try.” He pressed his face into your hair. “Smell better than flapjacks anyway.”

“Flattery isn’t protein.” You jabbed an elbow—gently—into his ribs. “Up.”

He groaned but finally released you. Sort of. He followed you down the hall like a very large, slightly sleepy puppy, his hand sliding back into yours before you’d even crossed the doorway.

---

You cracked eggs into a bowl while Bucky stood behind you, both arms caging you in against the counter while still managing to breathe down your neck.

“Need a whisk,” you said. He fetched it—without letting go—so your joined hands performed an awkward baton pass to the utensil drawer. “Buck, I need two hands.”

“Negative.” He kissed the side of your temple. “One hand’s enough. I’ll be your sous‑chef.”

“My sous‑chef usually chops, not holds hands.”

“Multitasking.” He reached around you, grabbed a spatula with his metal hand, and flipped a pancake. Terribly.

You bit a smile. “That’s the cutting board, champ.”

“Details.”

---

Laptop open on the coffee table, your UN briefing countdown read T‑23:04. You tried to review bullet points while Bucky tried to fuse himself to your side. His sweater sleeve pooled over your fingers where they stayed laced.

You nudged the trackpad with your free hand. “Can’t scroll like this.”

He scooted nearer, draped his arm across your lap. “Dictate. I’ll scroll.”

“You don’t know the acronyms.”

“Then you’ll have to brief me first.” His thumb stroked the veins at your wrist like he could memorize your pulse.

You went for stern. “James. I have to appear competent in twenty‑three minutes.”

“You’re always competent.” He lifted your hand, kissed the back of it. “I just need contact.”

“You were literally on top of me twenty minutes ago.”

“And it was great.” He kissed your knuckles again. “Just… humor me, okay?”

The quiet plea in his eyes melted whatever resolve you’d been pretending to hold. You exhaled. “Okay. But if I bomb this call—”

“I’ll hack their email and delete the recording.” The grin he flashed was boyish mischief carved onto a war‑worn face. “Relax, doll. I’ve got you.”

---

The ring lights were on, and you had a blazer shrugged over Bucky’s sweatshirt that you had borrowed. You were live with six UN security advisers, none of whom could see the six‑foot supersoldier crouched just out of frame, one hand wrapped around your ankle like a magnetic cuff.

“Current intel indicates the smuggling corridor shifted west,” you said, clicking to the next slide. Bucky’s thumb traced slow circles above your sock line. “We’ll need to re‑route surveillance assets accordingly.”

A message pinged at the top corner of your screen.

Bucky: Proud of you.

You pressed your heel lightly into his palm in reply. He squeezed once, grounding himself—and you—in the silence between your words.

---

After the call ended, you ditched your blazer and grabbed your backpack. You reached for the door handle but Bucky’s fingers hooked your belt loop.

“Walk me downstairs?” you asked.

“Farther.” He shrugged into a heavy coat, still holding you. “All the way to First Avenue.”

“That’s two blocks past the subway.”

“Exactly.” He laced your fingers again, gaze skimming your face like he expected you to disappear in a puff of smoke. “Need every extra minute.”

You brushed his sweater collar flat. “Meet me for lunch? Midtown. One o’clock.”

“Done.” He kissed you quick, chased it with another slower one like a punctuation mark he didn’t trust. “Text me when you get through security.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

He groaned. “Why’s that hot?”

“Because you’re impossible.” You opened the door. He tightened his grip anyway, escorting you down the hall as though the space between heartbeats was hostile territory.

Halfway to the elevator, his phone buzzed.

Yelena: Barnes. Where are you? Walker’s making Bob recreate a latte art swan and it’s getting weird.

Bucky typed back with one hand.

Bucky: Running late. Focus on team cohesion exercises.

“Team cohesion,” you echoed, trying not to laugh.

He kissed your hand one last time before the elevator doors slid open. “You’re my cohesion.”

“See you at one.”

The doors closed. Through the sliver of glass, you watched him press his palm to the metal until the cab whisked you out of sight. In the cab, your phone buzzed.

Bucky: Counting minutes already.

You shook your head, smiling like an idiot all the way to work.

---

Alexei was still mid‑swan demonstration when Bucky slipped through the sliding doors. Espresso foam mottled Bob’s chin, while Yelena perched on the counter like an irritated gargoyle, phone in one hand, and an evidence board of possibilities in the other.

“There he is,” John called from the coffee machine. “Barnes, you’re officially twenty‑one minutes late.”

“Traffic,” Bucky muttered, heading straight for the fridge.

“Traffic of what?” Ava asked, phasing a spoon through her cereal. “You’re the only person I know who can hop rooftops to work.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “I tracked five separate rooftop cameras. None caught your signature.”

Bucky’s neck stiffened. “You’re tracking my—”

“Team cohesion,” she sing‑songed. “We covered this.”

Bob looked up. “I thought cohesion was about lattes.”

“Everything is about lattes if you do it right,” Alexei said, still sculpting foam. “Observe the curvature—”

John rolled his eyes. “Enough. Barnes, you got Val waiting.”

“Already briefed her by phone,” Bucky replied, retrieving bottled water. The collar of his cardigan smelled faintly of your shampoo and he tugged it closer. “Any actual emergencies?”

“Just boredom,” Ava said.

“And speculation,” Yelena added. “You smell like bergamot.”

Bucky froze. “I switched laundry detergent. That illegal now?”

Yelena hopped off the counter, blocking his path. “Who was the text from this morning?”

“Not your business.”

She grinned. “So it was someone.” She opened her mouth to press further, but John cut in.

“Leave it, Belova. Val wants us in the gym in ten.”

Yelena’s eyes flicked between them. “Fine. But mystery texts will be solved.”

Bucky brushed past her, metal hand flexing. “Good luck.”

---

You chose a corner booth facing the door, laptop bag tucked beneath your feet. The place smelled of rosemary focaccia and printer ink from the little receipts machine. At 12:59 exactly, the bell jingled and Bucky ducked inside wearing a black baseball cap and a gray wool sweater that might have belonged to a Norwegian fisherman in a past life.

He spotted you, exhaled relief, and crossed the room so fast the waitress startled. The cap hit the seat first, followed by Bucky, who slid in beside you instead of across. His arm settled behind your shoulders, and his fingers immediately laced with yours on the table.

“Made it with a minute to spare,” you said.

“Fifty‑four seconds,” he corrected, gaze already soft. “Missed you.”

You tilted your head. “We parted three hours ago.”

“Still counts.” He kissed your temple. “How was the briefing?”

“Half of them think increased drones will solve everything. The other half wants a task force.”

“Let me guess—the drone faction has no ground intel.”

“Bingo.”

He squeezed your hand, thumb stroking the base of your thumb. “Tell me what you really need.”

“More eyes in Dakar. And you.” You nudged his knee. “But Val would weaponize that.”

He huffed a laugh. “She already is.”

The waiter approached and Bucky ordered two grilled‑chicken salads without looking at the menu, eyes locked on you. After the waiter left, Bucky’s flesh hand rose to brush your forehead gently—a habit. You watched the knit lines of tension between his brows ease as he touched you.

“Sleep okay?” you asked.

“Better than the last thirty‑nine nights,” he said softly. “Woke up every hour just to make sure you were still there.”

“And?”

He ducked his head, almost shy. “You were. Every single time.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Planning to disappear at lunch?”

“Try it,” he murmured. “I dare you.”

The salads arrived and Bucky lifted your fork first, twirling lettuce like pasta before offering it to your mouth. You laughed, cheeks heating.

“This is not ergonomically sound,” you said around the bite.

“Fine.” He set the fork down—only to pick up your hand again. “Needed the tactile confirmation.”

“Bucky, eat.”

He kept hold of your fingers with his metal hand and maneuvered his fork with the other, awkward but determined. You shook your head, amused, and chewed.

Across the room a teenager whispered, eyes widening at Bucky’s metal arm. Bucky clocked it, then shrugged out of the sweater sleeve to cover the vibranium. You slid closer, pressing thigh to thigh.

“Hey,” you whispered, “they’re staring at the arm, not us.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He squeezed your knee. “This is my safe zone.”

You smiled into your water glass. “Safe zone has croutons.”

“And bergamot,” he added, nose brushing your cheek. “Missed that smell in the tower. Everything there reeks of disinfectant and Alexei’s cologne.”

“He probably bathes in that stuff.”

“Trust me, he does.” Bucky took another bite, chewed, and tried to drink without relinquishing you. “I ever tell you what happened when he sprayed Ava by accident?”

“No. But it sounds riveting.”

He chuckled and told you the story. You ate, laughed, and wiped a stray breadcrumb from his beard. All the while, his grip never faltered, as though letting go would trigger another world‑ending void.

---

The elevator doors slid open with a chime. Bucky stepped out, cap tucked under his arm, expression so relaxed it looked out of place against the glass-and-steel interior. His phone vibrated before he thumb‑typed a quick reply, shoulders shaking with a silent laugh.

Ava phased through the adjacent wall, bowl of grapes in hand. “Look who’s finally smiling again.”

Bucky pocketed the phone, deadpan back in place. “Afternoon, Ava.”

“Don’t do that,” she said, falling into step beside him. “The neutral face after the happy one—it’s creepy.”

“Take it up with my face.”

They rounded the corner into the lounge. Alexei, sprawled on the sectional, tossed a foam stress ball toward the ceiling like a bored teenager. Yelena hunched over the coffee table, assembling what looked suspiciously like a color‑coded conspiracy web. John perched on a barstool, drinking black coffee straight from the pot. And Bob sat cross‑legged on the floor, building an elaborate domino maze out of coasters.

Alexei noticed Bucky first. “Hello, little comrade! Good lunch?”

“Fine.” Bucky headed for the fridge.

“Define ‘fine,’” Yelena said without looking up.

He grabbed a water bottle, cracked the seal. “Edible. Quiet.”

John’s brows rose. “That why you’re thirty minutes late?”

“Traffic,” Bucky answered. He took a long drink, then caught himself smiling again. He turned away too late—but Yelena saw.

“Aha,” she declared, pointing a red string at him like an accusation. “Mystery texter strikes again.”

Bucky capped the water. “String theory usually requires facts.”

“I have facts.” She tapped a sticky note. “Fact one: you left this morning smelling like bergamot. Fact two: you returned smelling like rosemary.”

Alexei sniffed the air theatrically. “I smell none of this.”

“Your cologne killed your nose in 1984,” she snapped. Yelena turned back to Bucky, “who serves rosemary at lunch?”

“A lot of cafés, Belova.”

“Which café?”

“Downtown.”

“Name.” She flicked the string.

“Not relevant,” he said. “What is relevant is that Val wants us in the gym at fifteen‑hundred.”

Bob accidentally toppled a coaster, setting off half the maze. “Fifteen‑hundred is three o’clock, right?”

“Yes,” Bucky answered automatically, still staring at his phone. The screen lit with a new message—the grin came back, small but unmistakable. He swiped it away and pocketed the device before Yelena could pounce.

John set the coffeepot down. “Let it go, Yelena.”

“Never,” she muttered. “Cooperation is built on transparency.”

“Trust works both ways,” John shot back, folding his arms.

Bucky ignored them, rolling his shoulders as he moved toward the corridor. “I’m hitting the range before sparring. Anyone joining?”

Ava shrugged. “Sure, I’ll watch you obliterate paper bad guys.”

Bob raised a hand. “Can I finish my dominos first?”

“Ten minutes,” Bucky said. He started down the hall. Halfway there he paused, pulled the his phone out again, and typed.

Bucky: Made it back. They’re insufferable. Text when you’re done at the embassy.

A second bubble appeared before he could lock the screen.

You: Speech in 20 min. Survive your teammates.

He smirked, slid the phone into his back pocket, and continued, metal fingers flexing like they still held yours. Life at the Watchtower suddenly felt a lot less claustrophobic.

Behind him Yelena’s voice carried down the corridor: “We’ll figure it out, Barnes!”

“Good luck,” he called over his shoulder, tone almost playful.

In the armory he set out fresh magazines, checked the sights on his pistol, and let the rhythmic clack of loading rounds drown out the team’s chatter. Every third breath he felt the phantom press of your palm against his—clean, steady, grounding. The clingy ache eased, replaced by a quiet anticipation. Fifty‑one minutes until the embassy reception ended. Fifty‑one minutes until another message, another small confirmation that you were still on the map.

He’d counted less forgiving seconds.

Bucky clicked the last magazine home and holstered the weapon. “All right,” he muttered under his breath, allowing himself one quick smile at the thought of you before the mask slid back into place. “Let’s get this over with.”

---

When he got back to the apartment, the first thing he noticed was a vinyl playing old jazz music—a record you got him for his birthday last year. The second thing was the smoke detector going off.

Bucky dropped the grocery bag and sprinted for the kitchen. You were fanning a dish towel under the screeching smoke alarm, half‑laughing, half‑coughing.

“Surprise,” you said, waving at the haze. “Dinner’s… toasty.”

He tapped the detector with his metal hand; the shriek cut off. Jazz filled the silence, soft trumpet and scratchy vinyl. Bucky’s gaze flicked from the charred skillet to the table set for two—candles, fresh flowers, a folded letter.

“You okay?” he asked, stalking closer, hands already mapping your arms for burns.

“Minor smoke inhalation, major embarrassment.” You tugged his cardigan sleeve. “Come here.”

He stepped into your space, you hooked fingers in his belt loops, and pulled him closer until his chest hit yours. His arms wrapped tight—one flesh, one vibranium—locking you in place.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your hair.

“I saw you five hours ago.”

“Too long.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “What’s all this?”

You slipped a slim envelope from your back pocket and held it between you. “Official UN notice. Two‑month leave, effective immediately.”

His eyes lit, quicksilver joy. “You’re kidding.”

“Figured we could use a stay‑cation. Or, you know, any‑where‑cation.”

He didn’t take the paper. Instead, he clasped your hand around it, sealing both of your palms between his. “Best news this apartment’s heard in years.”

“You mean besides the ‘no more bucket showers’ update?”

He chuckled, but the sound wobbled. “I thought you’d be gone again by next week.”

“Not leaving.” You squeezed once. “Val’ll have to fight me for you.”

“She can try.” He pressed a lingering kiss to your knuckles, then another to your wrist, working his way up like a man starved of contact. “What’s for dinner—besides charcoal?”

“Option A: order Thai. Option B: salvageable garlic bread if you scrape the tops.”

“Option C.” He turned off the stove, slid the skillet aside, and laced your fingers together once again. “We forget dinner, dance to Duke Ellington, and order Thai after.”

“Music first?” You arched a brow. “You, Sergeant Barnes, requesting a dance?”

He tugged you toward the living room where the record spun. “Can’t lose track of you in take‑out chaos.”

You laughed, letting him guide your hands to his shoulders. His palms found your waist, thumbs drawing slow circles through the thin cotton of your shirt. Trumpet crooned as he swayed, small steps, no real technique—just motion. You settled into the rhythm, noses brushing.

He exhaled. “Grounded.”

“Yeah?” You rested your cheek against his sweater. “How’s the altitude?”

“Perfect.” He closed his eyes, holding you a little tighter. “Don’t plan to land anytime soon.” The song faded into soft vinyl crackle, but he didn’t let go. He brushed your lips with his, slow and certain as your fingers threaded through his hair, and he melted, knees bending just enough to press you deeper into the sway. “Two months together,” he whispered. “I’m not wasting a second.”

“You’re the clingiest supersoldier on record,” you teased.

“File the report.” He captured your hand again, spinning you once before pulling you flush. “Now, about option C…”

A fresh jazz track crackled to life. Bucky smiled—the soft, private one nobody else got to see—then set his cheek against yours, heartbeat steady, grounding both of you as the city hummed beyond your windows and the smoke curled harmlessly toward the vent.

---

The blinds still cast gray stripes across the bed when you heard the closet door whisper open. Bucky moved on bare feet, trying to sneak a shirt over his head without jostling the mattress. Fail. The hem got stuck around his shoulders and he muttered something about faulty cotton.

“Morning,” you croaked, rolling toward him.

He froze halfway through the maneuver. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You did.” You sat up, tugging his bunched henley down for him. “Tower day?”

“Val wants drills at eight.” He glanced at the clock like it might bargain on his behalf. “I can call in ‘emotional support leave.’”

“Pretty sure that’s not a thing.”

“Could be.” He dropped onto the edge of the bed, palm automatically finding your thigh. “Two months of you and nine‑to‑five superheroing don’t mix.”

“You’ll survive.” You stroked his jaw. “I’ll hold down the fort. Maybe fix last night’s skillet.”

His lips twitched. He leaned in, kissed you slow—until the alarm on his phone trilled. 06:45. He cursed softly against your mouth.

“You’re gonna be late,” you warned.

“Worth it.” Another kiss, then he stood, finally threading the henley right‑side‑out. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

---

The moka pot hissed. You buttered toast while Bucky hovered, hand at the small of your back even while reaching for mugs. “Barnes, I need elbow room.”

“Compromise.” He slid closer but kept his palm resting lightly against your hip. “Still counts.”

You set two travel cups on the counter. He filled them, then laced his fingers with yours while the coffee settled. “You’ll text?” he asked.

“Every hour on the hour,” you teased.

“Every half if you’re bored.” He took a breath like he might say more, but his phone buzzed again—07:05, Depart. His shoulders slumped.

You cap‑handed him his coffee. “Go save the world. I’ve got laundry.”

“Call if the detergent fights back.”

You walked him to the door. He kissed you once, stepped into the hall, then pivoted, and came back for another. And a third. Finally he groaned, resting his forehead to yours. “This separation thing is crap.”

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re actually going to be late.”

He huffed, gave a final squeeze, and forced himself down the corridor. You watched until the elevator doors shut, then exhaled, heart doing tiny gymnastics.

---

Yelena circled Bucky like a shark as he wrapped his fists. “You’re smiling again.”

“Drop it,” he warned.

She flicked a glance at Alexei on the treadmill. “He hasn’t seen daylight since 1987 but you, Barnes, look freshly sun‑kissed. Explain.”

“No.”

Ava leaned over the railing from the mezzanine. “He came back smelling like toast.”

John’s eyebrow shot up from the bench‑press station. “Toast?”

“Bergamot two days ago, rosemary yesterday, now toast,” Yelena listed, ticking fingers. “Either he’s dating an aromatherapist or he’s turned into a bakery.”

Bob piped up from the corner, arranging kettlebells by color. “I like bakeries.”

Bucky slid his phone into the locker, screen still lit with your recent text—Made pancakes. Missing ingredient: supersoldier. He shut the door, spinning the code. “Focus, team. Val wants sparring pairs.”

John clapped once. “Barnes with me. Maybe I can punch the perfume right out of you.”

“Bring it,” Bucky said, rolling his shoulders. He felt lighter even as he stepped onto the mat. The cling was a steady itch at his palms, but your hourly update already hovered on the horizon.

The first bell rang before John lunged. Bucky blocked, pivoted, mind half on the bout, half on the image of you in his sweatshirt icing a ruined cake you’d probably claim was “rustic.” A grin slipped and John nearly caught his chin.

“Head in the game, Barnes,” John barked.

“Working on it.” Bucky deflected another strike. “Just… motivated.”

“Must be some motivation,” Ava called.

Yelena’s conspiratorial smile widened. “Operation Mystery Texter continues.”

Bucky threw a roundhouse that sent John skidding, then shook out his wrist. “You’ll never figure it out.”

“I will.” She shot back.

“Good luck,” he said, and meant it. Because for once every secret, every code, every hidden life led to something good—someone good—waiting in a sun‑lit apartment with jazz spinning and pancakes cooling. He’d count the hours, the minutes, the seconds, until he could fold himself back into that warmth.

The bell rang again. He reset his stance, vibranium palm open, already anticipating the next contact—on the mat now, but later, when it really counted, wrapped around your fingers where it belonged.

---

Rain slicked the rusted cargo containers. Bucky crouched behind a forklift with John and Yelena while Ava scouted through the walls up ahead. Bob hovered by the jet, humming nervously.

“Target bunker’s twenty meters,” Ava’s voice crackled through comms. “Three armed. Thermal says two more in back.”

“Copy.” Bucky flexed his metal fingers round the grip of his sidearm. “Yelena, flank left. John—”

“On your six,” Walker answered.

They moved. Two steps from cover, a pipe‑bomb arced out of nowhere. Bucky shoved Yelena aside, but the homemade charge hit the forklift mast near his shoulder. The blast rippled hard—enough to rattle vibranium. The shockwave threw him into a crate; pain spider‑webbed through his right side.

“Barnes!” Yelena slid beside him, checking for holes. “You bleeding?”

“Just ringing.” He pushed upright, but his flesh shoulder protested with a nauseating crunch. He kept his voice steady. “Got it.”

John’s shield clanged as he slammed an assailant to the deck. “Cover secured. Yelena, status?”

“Barnes is hit,” she reported.

“I’m fine,” Bucky snarled, standing too fast as the world tilted. “Finish sweep.”

Ava phased through the last container and waved. “All clear. Perps zip‑tied.”

Valentina’s voice sliced in over comms. “Asset report.”

“Minor soft‑tissue injury,” Bucky answered, grinding words through clenched teeth. “Nothing med‑bay can’t patch.”

“Negative, Sergeant,” Val said. “Your vitals say otherwise. Stand down—Walker takes command. Barnes, return to base for eval.”

Bucky rolled his shoulder, white sparks burst behind his eyes. “Copy,” he bit out. “Walker, bag evidence. Yelena, back him up.”

John approached, expression tight with worry. “You’re riding home with Bob.”

“I can fly.”

“Not with that shoulder.” John kept his voice low. “Look, just… let someone take care of you for once, okay?”

Bucky glared but didn’t argue. Pain radiated in hot pulses, every beat reminded him of you waiting two boroughs away.

---

Bob settled Bucky into a jump seat, buckling him with exaggerated care. “Does it hurt like nine out of ten, or six out of ten? I need scale.”

“Seven.” Bucky hissed as the strap brushed bone. “Thanks, Bob.”

Bob nodded solemnly. “Pain is temporary, but cookies are forever. I will bake later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Bucky tapped his earpiece off, then thumb‑typed one‑handed.

Bucky: Took a hit. Shoulder’s out. Coming home.

Three dots appeared almost instantly. You: I’ve got ice packs and soup. ETA?

He exhaled and the ache loosened. Bucky: Wheels up now. 20 min.

Another bubble. You: Door’ll be open. No heroics on the stairs.

He allowed himself the smallest smile, then slid the phone into his pocket and let the hum of take‑off blur everything but that waiting warmth.

---

Dr. Adler snapped Bucky’s shoulder back into place with a wet pop. He didn’t flinch—much. “Ligament strain,” Adler pronounced. “Sling, ice, thirty‑six‑hour rest. No combat.”

“Copy.” Bucky tugged his jacket over the brace. “I’ll recover off‑site.”

Yelena leaned in the doorway, arms folded. “Off‑site meaning… mystery apartment?”

“None of your business.” He brushed past.

“You know secrecy only fuels my curiosity,” she called.

“Happy hunting.” He headed for the exit, clutching his slinged arm to his ribs.

---

John intercepted him at the bike rack. “Need escort?”

“Got one.” Bucky swung a leg over his old Ducati, wincing. “Thanks, though.”

John studied him. “They must be something special.”

“More than you know.” Bucky kicked the engine alive, visor down. “See you tomorrow—if Val lets me out of bed.”

“Take two days. I’ll cover.”

Bucky nodded once, throttled, and sped into the falling dusk—toward vinyl crackle, soup steam, and the only pair of hands that could make the throbbing ease faster than any med‑patch.

---

The front door was propped with a slipper just like your text promised. Bucky eased the Ducati’s helmet off with one hand, nudging the door open with his boot. Steam from soup met him in the hallway, mingling with the faint hiss of the jazz record you’d forgotten to stop.

You appeared from the kitchen in socked feet and one of his Henleys that hit mid‑thigh. “Right arm’s grounded, Sergeant.” You pointed at the sling. “No sudden heroics.”

“Was planning none.” He leaned down; you met him halfway, bracing the back of his neck as he kissed you, slow and a little shaky. The scent of rosemary shampoo—yours, not his—settled the knot in his stomach. “Missed you.”

“You’re a mess.” You thumbed a smudge of oil off his cheek. “Come sit before you keel over.”

He let you steer him to the couch. The minute he sat, his good hand found yours, fingers linking tight. You brought a heavy bowl of chicken noodle, a spoon already plunged into the broth. Bucky attempted to angle it with his left hand and winced.

“Gimme.” You settled beside him, shoulders pressed. “Open.”

He grumbled, but opened. You fed him a spoonful; he chewed, then ducked his head in embarrassment. “Feel ridiculous.”

“Rule one of dating a UN liaison on leave,” you said, scooping another bite. “We weaponize bedside manners.”

“Didn’t realize that was classified.”

“Level seven.” You smirked and offered the spoon again. “Swallow, soldier.”

He did, then tipped his forehead to yours. “Thank you.”

The phone in his pocket buzzed. He ignored it as you raised a brow. “Work?”

“Yelena tracking my GPS again, probably.” He pulled it out, and glanced at the notification: Unknown Location Request. “I’ll disable it later.”

You set the bowl down and unfolded a blanket over his lap. “Think they’ll break down the door?”

“They can try.” He pulled you closer, even with one arm out of commission. “Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhaled through his nose, the tension melting as you tucked into his side. His vibranium thumb stroked your knuckles in a steady pattern. The record skipped once, then slid into softer brass.

“How bad’s the pain?” you asked.

“Manageable.” He kissed your temple. “This helps.”

“Clinginess as analgesic?”

“Doctor‑approved.” He squeezed your fingers. “Don’t let go.”

“Wasn’t planning.” You hooked your ankle over his shin, completing the pretzel of limbs. “Movie?”

“Anything.” He closed his eyes, letting your heartbeat set cadence. “Pick something with zero explosions.”

“Musicals?”

He groaned but didn’t argue. You queued Singin’ in the Rain. As the opening credits rolled, his breathing evened. Ten minutes in, he drifted, forehead pressed to your hair, spoon forgotten, and soup cooling on the table.

You answered the buzzing phone once more—Yelena, again—and texted back without waking him. Bucky: Barnes is asleep. Shoulder fine. No house calls tonight.

Three dots popped, then: Yelena: Who dis?

You smirked, locked the screen, and nestled deeper under his arm. On the TV, Gene Kelly twirled an umbrella. On the couch, Bucky held your hand like the world might tilt if he loosened grip. You listened to the sync of his breaths with the horn section and decided the universe could wait until morning.

---

Valentina’s hologram flickered over the conference table. “Barnes forgot to pull last night’s telemetry. The secure drive needs courier delivery—signature required. Who’s closest?”

Ava raised a brow. “Could overnight it.”

“Not fast enough,” Valentina snapped. “Barnes has forty-eight hours downtime. He can review while he’s iron-slinging his shoulder.”

Bob’s hand went halfway up, then Yelena slapped it back down. “I’ll drop it,” she said, voice too casual. “Fresh air, chance to stretch my legs.”

John shot her a wary look. “Stretching your interrogation muscles, you mean.”

Yelena blinked innocence. “He might need soup.”

“Pretty sure he’s covered,�� John muttered.

Valentina didn’t care. “Fine. You have two hours. Use the gray SUV—tracking only, no comm chatter. Out.” The projection blinked off.

Alexei clapped. “Field trip! Want company?”

“No,” Yelena answered too quickly, already pocketing the encrypted drive. She headed for the elevator. “Be back soon.”

---

Yelena adjusted her leather jacket, eyeing the apartment numbers until she found 3C. Rain pattered on the stairwell windows, muffling her footsteps. She knocked twice then leaned back, notebook ready for mental observations.

The door opened a crack. You peeked out, barefoot, drowning in an oversized navy sweater that clearly belonged to someone built like a fridge. Your hair was a post-shower tangle; steam curled past your shoulder.

“Uh… can I help you?” you asked.

Yelena’s assessment gears spun. Not a neighbor—tone was too guarded. Not a delivery driver—no handheld scanner. Definitely not a random roommate given the Rolex peeking from your sleeve, likely a gift. She smiled, just a shade predatory. “Package for Sergeant Barnes. He in?”

“He’s resting.” You tightened your grip on the door edge to stop it drifting wider. “What kind of package?”

“Classified intel.” Yelena held up the drive. “Signature required. I can come in, or you can sign for him.”

You hesitated. From the living room Bucky’s voice drifted—rough with sleep. “Everything okay, doll?”

Yelena’s eyebrows nearly left her forehead. Doll? Her grin widened. “Sounds like he’s alive.”

You cleared your throat. “James, it’s just a delivery.”

Thudding footsteps, then Bucky appeared behind you wearing gray sweats and a sling. His hair stuck up on one side. A flush climbed his neck the instant he saw Yelena. “Belova. What are you doing here?”

“Bringing homework, obviously.” She dangled the drive. “Val says you forgot to download.”

He shot a look at the sling, then at you, silently apologizing for the ambush. You squeezed his good hand in reassurance—tiny gesture, not tiny at all to Yelena’s sharp eyes. “I’ll sign,” he said curtly.

“Actually,” Yelena drawled, “protocol says the courier gets visual confirmation of the recipient’s workspace. Prevents data mishandling.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Since when do you follow protocol?”

“Since this morning.” She swept past before he could object, gaze flicking over the apartment: jazz vinyl spinning, soup bowls drying on the rack, and an ice pack abandoned on the couch. She whistled. “Cozy.”

You shut the door, hugging the sweater tighter. Yelena offered the tablet for Bucky’s signature. As he signed it, she pivoted to you. “I’m Yelena. Teammate. And you must be…?”

“Y/N,” you supplied, calm but firm. “James’s partner.”

Bucky’s ears went pink. Yelena’s grin reached Cheshire levels. “Pleasure. Always nice to finally meet the classified files Val forgot to mention.” Mission satisfied, she backed toward the door. “I’ll tell the others you’re alive, Barnes. Expect… questions.”

“Tell them nothing,” he warned.

“Of course,” she teased, slipping into the hall. “My lips are sealed—mostly.”

Door closed, Bucky exhaled like he’d run ten blocks. You tapped his chest. “That went well.”

He groaned. “They’re never letting me live this down.”

You rose on your tiptoes, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Guess you’ll need extra grounding tonight.”

His hand tightened over yours. “Not letting go, doll.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

---

Ava clicked through drone footage on the holo-wall while Bob built a domino maze on the coffee table. Alexei bench-pressed the couch again—because apparently it counted as “functional training.” And John stood at the espresso machine, timing a perfect shot.

The elevator pinged. Yelena strode out, swinging her leather jacket like a trophy.

“Mission accomplished,” she announced, dangling her empty courier bag. “Also—news flash. Bucky Barnes is not single.”

The room froze.

Alexei dropped the couch mid-rep. It thudded. “Impossible. He is brooding, therefore single.”

Bob’s eyes widened and a domino toppled. “Is she a double agent? Maybe he’s undercover dating.”

Ava leaned one shoulder against the whiteboard, marker poised. “Name.”

“Y/N,” Yelena said, savoring each syllable. “Lives with him. Wears his sweater. Very pretty. Nice toenail polish.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Hold up—Y/N? As in Y/N L/N? That name rings a bell.”

Ava uncapped the marker. “Spell it.”

John set his espresso down. “I met someone with that exact name during the Flag-Smashers operation. Helped Sam and Bucky chase Karli. Intel liaison—sharp as hell. But there’s no way it’s the same person. Barnes was hitting on her the whole time, she rolled her eyes like he was a mosquito.”

Yelena smirked. “She is now a mosquito whisperer, apparently.”

Bob tilted his head. “Maybe rolling eyes was spy code for ‘call me later.’”

Alexei pointed at Yelena. “Describe her.”

“Wet hair, smelled like shampoo, zero visible weapons. But the way she sized me up? Definitely trained.” Yelena tugged a sticky note off the conspiracy board and slapped it dead-center. “New subject: Mrs. Mystery Barnes.”

Ava scrawled Y/N? in bold letters. Underneath she drew two columns—Civilian? and Spy?—adding tally marks beneath each as Bob rattled off theories.

John folded his arms. “Look, even if it is her, there’s no guarantee they’re dating. Maybe she’s the roommate.”

“Wearing his sweater,” Yelena reminded.

“Laundry day,” John tried.

“Called him James,” she added.

Alexei let out a low whistle. “That is intimacy level eight.”

Bob flicked another domino. “So… not a spy?”

Ava tapped the marker against her chin. “Could be deep cover. We need data. John, pull the State Department file on Y/N L/N.”

John’s expression tightened. “If she is who I think, that file is classified past my clearance.”

“Then we hack it,” Yelena said, already flipping open her tablet.

“No,” John shot back. “We respect privacy until Barnes tells us otherwise.”

Yelena’s eyes glinted. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Where’s the trust?” John countered.

Bob cleared his throat. “Could bake them welcome muffins.”

Alexei perked. “Muffins and interrogation—classic Soviet hospitality.”

Ava started a flow chart branching from your name: Possible Covers: Analyst / Assassin / Accountant. She glanced at John. “Come on, Walker. You’ve got at least level four clearance.”

John sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. I’ll request a redacted summary. But if Val finds out—”

Yelena snapped her fingers. “She won’t. Because we are stealthy.” She pointed at Ava. “Build the suspect board. Bob, muffins. Alexei, locate champagne. We’ll need it when Barnes admits defeat.”

John grabbed his espresso. “I’m telling you, he flirted with her and got nowhere. It cannot be the same woman.”

Yelena grinned, unsettlingly pleased. “Yet it is. And our Winter Soldier is currently cuddled on a couch with her somewhere in Brooklyn.”

Bob clapped, sending dominoes scattering. “Love mission!”

Alexei cracked his knuckles. “We assemble care package. Thunderbolts style.”

Ava scribbled a final line: Objective: Confirm Relationship Status. She capped the marker with a snap. “Operation Bergamot is a go.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need a better codename.”

“Fine,” Yelena said, eyes sparkling. “Operation Golden Retriever.”

Ava laughed, Bob cheered, and Alexei bellowed approval. John just prayed Bucky’s shoulder healed fast—he was going to need both arms to fend off this circus.

---

The jazz record had looped for the third time when the intercom buzzed. Bucky groaned, tightening his arm around your waist. “Ignore it.”

You shifted under the blanket. “Could be takeout.”

“Didn’t order any.”

Buzz. Buzz.

Bucky sighed, pushed to his feet—still slinged. He tapped the screen. “Yeah?”

Bob’s cheerful face filled the tiny monitor. “Delivery for Sergeant Barnes!”

Behind him, Yelena waved a bakery box. Alexei squeezed in, holding champagne like a trophy. Ava lurked at the edge, phone out. John stood dead-center, arms crossed, glaring at the camera as if to apologize in advance.

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course.”

You bit a smile. “Invite them up. Better than them camping in the hall.”

“If they scare the neighbors, it’s on them.” He buzzed the door, then turned, shoulders tense.

“Relax.” You straightened his sweater collar. “We knew this was coming.”

“Didn’t think it’d be today.” He grabbed your hand, lacing fingers. “Ground me.”

“Always.”

A rapid knock. He opened the door and five Thunderbolts piled in like an ill-timed clown car. Bob thrust the muffin box forward. “Carrot walnut, low sugar!”

Alexei brandished champagne. “For pain management!”

Yelena beamed. “Recon mission complete. Hi again, Y/N.”

John blinked twice, disbelief morphing into exasperation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You lifted a hand in greeting. “Hi, Walker. Shoulder doing better?”

He ignored the question, pointing at you like a prosecution exhibit. “She shot me, you know.”

Bucky didn’t let go of your hand. “You deserved it.”

John scoffed. “It was a bean-bag round—point-blank—right after I wrestled a Flag-Smasher off a truck.”

You tilted your head. “You were about to tase Sam.”

“Semantics,” John muttered, then jabbed a thumb at his ribs. “She also stabbed me in Riga. Still got the scar.”

Bucky’s smile was unapologetic. “She was being generous. Could’ve been a kidney.”

Yelena clapped like it was a reality-show twist. “So the tough UN liaison and the grouchy supersoldier are a thing. Adorable.”

Ava rolled her eyes, snagging a muffin. “I give it three days before Val adds this to our security clearance forms.”

Bob balanced a tray of paper cups. “Cranberry kombucha for everyone. Celebratory probiotics.”

Alexei tried to pop the champagne with his hands but you plucked it away. “Cork, first. Sofa, second. No glass shards.” He pouted but relented.

John shook his head. “Two years and no one noticed?”

“Three in November,” Bucky corrected, thumb stroking your knuckles.

Yelena whistled. “Barnes keeping secrets—what else is new?”

You squeezed his hand. “We kept it quiet for work reasons. Global politics, covert ops, the usual.”

Ava leaned against the fridge. “So how clingy is he, exactly?”

Bucky answered by sliding his arm around your waist, tugging you closer until your back met his chest. “Define ‘clingy.’”

Alexei laughed. “You look like octopus. Very muscled octopus.”

Bob offered a muffin. Bucky grasped it—still one-handed—then fed you the first bite while holding eye contact with the team like a dare. Crumbs dusted your lip; he wiped them with his thumb, and kissed the same spot before stepping back half an inch—no farther.

John exhaled. “Unbelievable.”

You smiled at him. “Want coffee?”

He opened his mouth, thought better, then nodded. “Please. And maybe an explanation for the knife thing.”

“Later.” Bucky guided you toward the kitchen, fingers still locked with yours. Over his shoulder he tossed, “no interrogations until I’m off medical.”

Yelena lifted her phone. “We’ll settle for pictures.”

He shot her a look that promised retaliation. She grinned wider.

In the small kitchen you filled mugs, Bucky hovering so close his sling brushed your side. Under the counter’s edge, his vibranium fingers traced calming circles on your palm—tiny grounding sparks only you could feel.

“Doing okay?” you murmured.

“Now that you’re here,” he answered, eyes soft. Then louder, to the team: “Nobody break anything. Deposit shoes by the door. Alexei, that includes boots.”

Alexei sighed but complied, unlacing loudly.

Ava sniffed the air. “Anyone else smell bergamot and smoke?”

Yelena grinned. “The scent of romance—and burnt skillet.”

John raised his mug in mock salute. “To the happy couple.”

Bucky squeezed your hand once more, holding on like the room, the day, and the world could spin as it pleased—as long as this point of contact stayed fixed.

[vingtetunmars]

would you be willing to wire a joel miller fic based on the song ‘fuck me eyes’ ? anytime i listen to it i just think about joel wanting to show the reader they deserve to be taken care of and treated with nothing but love, something they’re not used to. he seems how other men use and discard them, and he will not let that slide…

Not Just One Night

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: You’ve been a regular at Joel Miller’s bar for months—sharing drinks, teasing flirtations, and quiet glances that never quite cross the line. After one too many heartbreaks, you’ve learned not to expect much from men. Still, Joel sees more than you realize. He watched you walk away too many nights, and he’s done staying silent. This time, he’s asking—if you’ll let him, he’ll show you what it really means to be cared for.

Tags: Friends to lovers, mutual pining, soft Joel Miller, implied age difference, Joel Miller is a sweetheart and a gentleman, bar owner! Joel. No descriptions for Reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: Sorry for the wait! I've been so so busy with my thesis defense preparations. I'm so stressed, I basically used writing this fic as a distraction from everything else lmao. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 4.8k

masterlist

The bar was quiet for a Wednesday, the low hum of conversation and the gentle clink of glass the only sounds filling the space. You were at your usual seat, elbows on the worn wood counter, eyes tracing the gold lettering on the bottle Joel had just set down in front of you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” Joel said, sliding a napkin under your drink. “Didn’t you say you had plans?”

“I did,” you murmured, twirling the glass between your fingers. “Didn’t pan out.”

Joel’s eyes lingered on you a moment too long before he nodded. “Figures.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Figures?”

“Nothin’.” He wiped at a nonexistent spot on the bar with the edge of a rag. “Just mean you always end up here anyway. Like clockwork.”

“Guess I just like the company,” you teased, your voice light.

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, then leaned his arms on the counter to meet your gaze. “Uh huh. You come for the ambiance or for my good looks?”

You smirked. “Bit of both. You pouring drinks with those rolled-up sleeves? Can’t say it’s not working for you.”

He didn’t smile, not really—but there was a shift in his expression, something unreadable behind the warmth in his eyes. You liked making him react. Even if just a little.

“You always flirt this much with your bartender?”

“Only when he plays along,” you shot back, taking a sip.

Joel chuckled low under his breath and turned to grab a fresh bottle. But not before you caught that flicker in his expression—something restrained. Protective. Maybe even something else you didn’t dare name.

You weren’t sure if it was the liquor or the loneliness that kept bringing you back here. Maybe both. But Joel always kept your glass full and never asked too many questions.

He saw more than he let on. You knew that much.

And tonight, he wasn’t just watching you.

He was paying attention.

You were halfway through your second drink when a guy slid into the seat beside you. Tall, clean cut, reeking of expensive cologne and confidence.

“Hey,” he said, flashing a grin. “Did it hurt?”

You blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“When you fell from heaven.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Wow. Bold move.”

He shrugged, undeterred. “Just trying to make you laugh. And it worked.”

Joel was a few feet away, drying a glass a little too slowly. His jaw ticked when the guy leaned in closer to you, elbow nudging yours like he owned the space.

“You come here often?” the guy asked.

You didn’t even have to think about it. “Yeah. It’s kind of my spot.”

“Then maybe I’ve been missing out.” He tilted his head. “You wanna get out of here?”

It was fast. Too fast. But that was the point, wasn’t it?

You didn’t glance at Joel. You didn’t have to. You could feel his silence from here, the heavy weight of his eyes on your back.

You offered the stranger a smile—tight, performative, but enough. “Sure.”

You grabbed your jacket off the back of your stool, downed the last of your drink in one quick go. Joel was suddenly right there, as if he’d just appeared from the shadows, his voice low and gravel-rough.

“You good?”

You met his eyes. His face gave nothing away, but the look was all there—guarded, unreadable, maybe a little disappointed.

“Yeah,” you said, giving him a soft smile. “I’ll see you, Joel.”

He nodded, stepping back just enough to let you pass.

But he didn’t watch you leave.

He just turned back toward the bar, back to the glasses that didn’t need cleaning, hands clenched a little tighter than before.

You hadn’t been in for a week.

Joel noticed.

Didn’t say anything when you finally showed up, though—just nodded when you walked in, gave a short, almost too-neutral “Evenin’” before setting a glass down at your usual spot.

You didn't smile. Just slumped into the stool and leaned your head in your hand, the heel of your palm digging into your brow like you were trying to press a headache out of your skull.

Joel poured your usual without asking. Pushed it toward you gently.

“You look like shit,” he said after a long moment.

You huffed. “Thanks. Just what I needed.”

He didn’t take the bait. Just raised an eyebrow and leaned a hip against the counter, watching you quietly. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty—it was patient. Like he was waiting for you to say something real.

You picked at the edge of your napkin. “Remember that guy?”

Joel didn’t have to ask which one. He just nodded.

“Turns out,” you said, swirling your drink but not sipping it, “he has a girlfriend. Fiancée, actually.”

Joel���s jaw flexed. His voice stayed low. “Jesus.”

You laughed, but it came out all wrong—tight and bitter. “Yeah. She found my number. Sent me a photo of the two of them on vacation. Said she hoped I ‘enjoyed the leftovers.’”

Joel’s hands were gripping the edge of the bar now, knuckles pale.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You kept your eyes on the drink, voice quiet. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t’ve gone home with him if I did, Joel. I swear to God—”

“Hey.” His voice cut in, firm. You looked up. He was already leaning in a little, close enough for just the two of you to hear.

“I know you didn’t.”

The way he said it—no hesitation, no judgment—hit harder than it should have. Your throat tightened.

Joel didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to make you explain more than you needed to. He just grabbed the rag from the sink and started wiping down the bar again, like he needed something to do with his hands. Like he was keeping himself from saying what he really wanted to say.

“I keep doing this,” you muttered after a minute. “Meeting these guys who say the right things, smile the right way, and then just—leave.”

That silence hung thick between you.

And maybe it was just the dim lighting, or maybe it was the week you’d had, but something in his expression looked like he wasn’t just angry for you.

He was angry because of you.

Because someone had touched you with no intention of keeping you. And Joel—he didn’t say it—but he would have.

If you let him.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting back to the glass. Then, with a deep inhale, you straightened your shoulders and tossed back a sip like it might burn away the last seven days.

“Whatever,” you said, forcing a shrug. “I’m used to it.”

Joel didn’t say a word, but you could feel the tension shift in him.

You slapped your hand lightly on the bar. “Anyway. I’m not here to mope.” You flashed a smile—too bright, too rehearsed. “I’m here to have fun. Forget everything. Drink something strong. Flirt with a bartender. Same old, same old.”

He watched you closely, eyes narrowing like he was trying to read between the lines of your performance.

You stirred the ice in your glass with your finger. “So. You gonna tell me if you finally fixed that janky jukebox, or am I still stuck listening to the same eight classic rock songs from the 70s?”

Joel exhaled a short breath—more of a scoff than a laugh—and shook his head. “Still broken. You’re stuck with Skynyrd and Fleetwood Mac, sweetheart.”

You grinned, a little more real this time. “You say that like it’s a punishment.”

He finally smiled. Not a full one, but it reached his eyes.

“Pretty sure you could recite ‘Landslide’ by now.”

“I do recite it. Weekly,” you said, tapping your glass with a faint smirk. “Like a prayer.”

Joel chuckled under his breath and leaned in slightly, resting a forearm on the bar. “You sure you’re alright?”

You waved him off with a half-laugh, leaning back in your seat like it was all water under the bridge. “Joel. I’m always alright.”

But your eyes didn’t quite match the smile.

Joel noticed. Of course he did.

He didn’t press, though. Just nodded once and reached for the bottle, topping off your glass without asking.

And when his hand brushed yours, he let it linger. Just for a second.

A reminder.

You didn’t have to be fine if you weren’t.

The next time you came in, it was a Saturday night.

Busier than usual. Music a little louder. Lights a little dimmer. The hum of conversation and laughter bouncing off the walls like static.

You slipped onto your usual stool like you belonged there—which, at this point, you kind of did. Joel was already in front of you, pouring your drink before you asked.

“You’re early,” he said.

You offered a lazy smile. “Didn’t feel like waiting around tonight.”

He nodded, lips pressing into a line. His eyes flicked to the rest of the bar, then back to you. “You look nice.”

You did. He’d noticed the second you walked in—your makeup done just enough, neckline dipped just low enough. You looked like someone trying not to look like they were trying.

And he knew that look. Knew what it meant.

You were scanning the room.

Your eyes drifted past him and swept toward a table of guys in the corner, lingering just a second too long when one of them looked back and smiled.

Joel saw it.

You didn’t notice him watching.

You took a slow sip, adjusted the strap of your top like you wanted someone to be looking. Maybe not anyone specific—just someone. Someone who’d make you feel wanted, even if only for the night.

Joel’s jaw clenched. He wiped at the counter with a rag he didn’t need and forced himself to breathe.

He wasn’t a young guy. He didn’t play games. And he sure as hell wasn’t as smooth as half the guys eyeing you from across the room. But he also wasn’t stupid.

He saw the way you tried to laugh things off. The way your smile always faltered a second too late.

So before he could stop himself—before he could chicken out like he had the last dozen times—you felt his voice cut through the low buzz around you.

“You ever think about goin’ out with someone who doesn’t just want you for one night?”

You blinked, turning to face him. “What?”

Joel’s hand paused on the bottle. He wasn’t looking at you now. He was focused too hard on the liquor, on the glass in front of him. On anything but your eyes.

“I mean,” he said, voice rough, quiet, “you ever think about…someone different. Maybe older. Someone who’d stick around. Treat you right.”

You didn’t say anything.

So he filled the silence, his next words rushed—like he regretted saying any of it already.

“I’m not sayin’ it’s a good idea. You’d probably laugh in my face, anyway. Just—forget it.”

You set your glass down. “Joel.”

He finally looked up, and you swore—for just a second—he looked scared.

Like he already knew your answer.

Like he was bracing for it.

You tilted your head, studying him, that same drink going warm between your hands.

Then, after a beat, you leaned in slightly, voice low. Almost amused.

“Joel,” you said, with a tiny grin tugging at your lips, “just ask already.”

His brow creased. “What?”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as your heart hammered against your ribs. “You’re dancing around it like you think I’m gonna throw a drink in your face.”

Joel blinked, caught completely off guard. “I—”

“If you’re asking me out,” you said, voice quieter now, “then… yeah. I’d like that.”

He stared at you, stunned into silence.

You let out a small, nervous laugh and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’ve been waiting, actually.”

Joel’s mouth parted slightly, eyes narrowing—not in anger, just confusion. “Waitin’? You—what do you mean?”

You bit your lip, suddenly bashful. “Joel. What did you think I was doing? Coming here all the time. Flirting with you like it’s my second job.”

“I thought—” He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck like the words were caught somewhere between disbelief and self-doubt. “I dunno. I thought it was just for fun.”

You gave him a look.

“I mean—” he added quickly, “not that it didn’t mean anything. I just didn’t think you’d ever… y’know. Actually want me. I’m not exactly your age, darlin’. Thought maybe I was just—safe. Easy to tease.”

Your expression softened. “You really thought that?”

Joel nodded, eyes dropping to the counter. “Yeah. Kinda did.”

You exhaled, slow and steady. “You’re not just some guy behind a bar, Joel. Not to me.”

His gaze lifted to yours again, and this time—finally—he let you see it. All the things he’d been holding back in the tight lines of his mouth, the quiet glances, the protective silences.

You smiled, a little crooked now, a little uncertain. “So… is this where you tell me when and where, or do I gotta plan the whole thing?”

Joel let out a breathy laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time all night.

“I’ll handle it,” he said, voice warm. “You just say yes.”

“I already did.”

Joel picked a small Italian place off a side street you didn’t even know existed. It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t trendy. But it was charming—warm lighting, real candles on the tables, and a piano in the corner that looked like it hadn’t been played since the 90s.

You were smiling before you even sat down.

“This is… kinda adorable,” you said as Joel pulled out your chair.

He raised an eyebrow. “Adorable?”

You nodded, sliding into your seat. “Got me feeling like I'm in the 80s.”

Joel chuckled, settling across from you with a faint smile. “What? People don’t do this stuff no more?”

You grinned. “Not unless they’re trying to impress someone’s parents.”

“Maybe I am.”

That caught you off guard. You blinked, but before you could come up with a comeback, he was already scanning the wine list like he hadn’t just said something that made your heart thump harder than it should.

Dinner was good. Really good. The kind where you kept leaning in, forgetting your fork mid-air because you were too caught up in whatever Joel was saying. He was funny, sharp in that dry, understated way. Comfortable.

He listened. Like, actually listened. Didn’t check his phone once. Didn’t look over your shoulder. Just looked at you.

It was almost disarming.

And when he paid—without the awkward check-splitting shuffle, without making it a Thing—you teased, “You really are old-fashioned, huh?”

Joel just smirked. “Figured you deserved a real night. One without jukeboxes and drunk college kids screamin’ lyrics at each other.”

You laughed. “Careful, you keep raising the bar like this and I’ll start expecting flowers and love letters.”

“Shit,” Joel muttered, deadpan. “Forgot the quill and parchment in the truck.”

That earned a snort out of you.

But somewhere between dessert and the walk back to his truck, your words slipped out, quieter than before. “Usually… guys will do one nice thing. Maybe open a door. Pay the bill. And then expect a night in the bedroom.”

Joel looked over at you. He didn’t say anything, just walked a little closer, hands in his jacket pockets.

You tried to laugh it off. “But if that’s your plan, you must be asking a lot tonight.”

It was meant to be a joke. Light, deflecting.

But it kind of just… hung there.

Joel slowed his step, then stopped completely. You did too, a beat later, suddenly unsure if you’d misread something.

He looked at you—really looked—and when he spoke, his voice was soft. Honest.

“I ain’t expectin’ anything, darlin’. Except maybe another night like this.”

Your chest ached, just a little.

“…Okay,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Joel nodded once, then offered his arm like he was someone out of a damn novel. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

You looped your arm through his.

And for the first time in a long time, walking home didn’t feel like the end of the night.

It felt like a beginning.

After that night, things… kept going.

A few dates turned into more.

You and Joel didn’t rush anything—he picked you up for late dinners, brought you to a cozy movie night at his place, even introduced you to the grumpy old dog he swore wasn’t *his* but followed him everywhere anyway.

It was easy.

Warm.

Safe, in a way you weren’t used to.

At the bar, things stayed mostly the same. You still had your stool, your usual drink, your banter. Except now Joel’s hand would brush your lower back when you passed behind the bar. You’d linger a little longer at closing. And he’d walk you home more often than not.

You hadn’t really told anyone, not outright. But the looks said enough. The softness between you two wasn’t exactly subtle.

It was good. He was good.

Which was probably why it started to scare you.

It was just another evening—warm, comfortable, full of laughter—until she walked in.

Tall. Confident. Lipstick sharp. She leaned on the bar, gave Joel a once-over like she knew exactly what she wanted.

You were just heading back from the bathroom when you saw it.

Her fingers brushing the counter. Her laugh. Her eyes locked onto his like a target.

Joel didn’t flirt back. Didn’t even give her much more than a polite nod before walking away to grab a glass.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you’d seen that look before—on other women. Women who didn’t have to try. Who didn’t second-guess every word, every outfit, every glance.

You slipped back into your seat and swirled your drink, suddenly very aware of the weight in your chest. Joel returned like nothing happened, setting a water in front of you like he always did.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded. Too fast. “Yeah. Fine.”

But the smile didn’t come easy.

Because the truth was—you were easy to leave.

Guys had done it before. Said the right things, touched your skin like it meant something, then ghosted like you never mattered. Like you were just a waystation before the real thing came along.

And maybe Joel was different.

But you weren’t.

You weren’t enough to make someone stay.

You took a sip to hide the sudden tightness in your throat.

He didn’t even look at her, your mind whispered. But he could have. One day, he might.

You hated that thought. Hated that it felt like armor you’d worn too long to take off.

Joel reached across the table, fingers brushing yours. “You sure?”

You gave him a smile.

One that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Yeah,” you lied. “I’m sure.”

Joel walked you to your door like he always did.

Hands in his jacket pockets, pace slow, the sound of your footsteps soft on the concrete. The night air was cool, the kind that made you breathe a little deeper, like it might settle the noise in your head.

You hadn’t said much since leaving the bar.

Joel hadn’t pushed.

But when you stopped at your doorstep, fumbling with your keys, he reached out—fingers wrapping gently around your wrist to still you.

You looked up, startled by the touch. He wasn’t smiling.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”

You did.

Slowly.

Joel took your hands in his, his calloused thumbs brushing over your knuckles like he was grounding himself in the moment—like he didn’t want to risk saying the wrong thing.

“I ain’t stupid,” he said, voice low and steady. “Something shifted tonight.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t pull away.

Joel tilted his head, searching your face.

“And I think I know what it is.”

You opened your mouth to deflect, maybe make a joke—but he squeezed your hands, just enough to stop the words.

“I saw her,” he said. “I saw the way she looked at me. And I saw the way you looked after.”

You stared down at your hands in his. “It’s nothing. I’m just—tired.”

But Joel shook his head. “No. It ain’t nothin’. You got quiet. Pulled back. Like maybe you remembered every time someone made you feel like you were just there until somethin’ better came along.”

His voice cracked a little on that last part. Like it physically hurt him to say it out loud.

You swallowed.

Joel took a breath. “I’m not those guys. I’m not here just to fill a seat or pass the time or see how far I can get before walkin’ out the door.”

He reached up, brushed a strand of hair away from your face like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m serious about you,” he said. “Been serious since the first damn night you walked in and tried to flirt your way into a free drink.”

That earned a soft laugh from you, quiet and fragile.

Joel’s thumb traced your cheekbone.

“I saw what they did to you,” he added. “All of ’em. Front row seat, week after week. You’d come in lookin’ like you’d been told you were too much or not enough. And I hated it.”

You blinked hard.

“I wanna do right by you,” he said. “However long you’ll let me.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to unlearn the instinct to smile and brush things off.

But Joel wasn’t asking you for anything.

He was just offering.

The thing no one else had.

Staying.

You didn’t answer right away.

You couldn’t.

Joel’s words sat heavy in the air between you, wrapping around your ribs like something warm and solid. Something that scared you because it felt real.

He was still holding your hands. Still looking at you like he meant every goddamn word. Like he’d stand there all night if that’s what it took for you to believe him.

And maybe that was why your voice came out so small.

“I don’t really know how to do this,” you admitted, barely more than a whisper.

Joel stepped closer. “Don’t need to do anything.”

You looked up at him, searching for doubt. There was none. Just the steady set of his jaw, the softness in his eyes.

And then his hand moved—slow, careful—rising to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, over the faint smudge of tired makeup, like it didn’t matter if you were perfect or put-together or even sure of yourself.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice low. Rough around the edges.

That was what undid you.

Not the gesture, not the closeness—but the asking.

You nodded, just once. “Yeah.”

Joel leaned in gently, like he didn’t want to startle you. His nose brushed yours, breath warm between you, and then—

Soft.

His lips met yours like he had all the time in the world. No rush. No pressure. Just the weight of a man who’d waited long enough and wanted to mean it.

Your hands curled into the front of his jacket, grounding yourself in him as he deepened the kiss just slightly—slow and deliberate. He tasted like whiskey and warmth, and something steadier than anything you’d ever known.

When you finally broke apart, your forehead lingered against his, eyes still closed.

Joel exhaled a quiet breath.

“You okay?”

You smiled, breathless.

“Yeah,” you said. “Better than okay.”

And for the first time in a long, long while, you actually meant it.

It was a Thursday night. Slow, mellow, the kind of evening where Joel let you play whatever you wanted on the jukebox and poured you a drink before you even sat down.

You were perched on your usual stool, flipping through your phone, when someone slid into the seat beside you.

He gave you a slow once-over. “Hey there. You here alone?”

You blinked. “No.”

He glanced around. “You with someone?”

Your eyes flicked across the room—immediately, instinctively—toward Joel.

He was behind the bar, pouring a drink, but he caught your gaze in an instant. Paused. Watched.

You turned back to the guy and gave a tight, polite smile. “Yeah. I already have someone.”

He raised an eyebrow, like he hadn’t heard you right. “Oh, come on. Just one drink. I’m not asking you to marry me.”

You leaned away slightly. “I said I’m with someone.”

“But I don’t see anyone.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but you didn’t have to.

Because Joel was already there.

He’d crossed the room so quietly, you hadn’t even heard him until he was beside you, calm and steady, one hand braced casually on the bar behind you.

“She said no,” Joel said evenly, voice low but hard enough to cut through the noise.

The guy looked up at him—slightly confused, slightly amused. “Who the hell are you?”

Joel didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t puff his chest. He didn’t have to.

“Someone who won’t ask again.”

There was a beat. A shift in the air.

The guy scoffed, muttered something under his breath, and got up, walking off with a frustrated shake of his head.

You leaned in, chin resting on your hand as you looked up at him with a glint in your eye.

“Gotta say,” you said, voice light, “that was kinda hot.”

Joel blinked. “What was?”

“You. Getting all protective.” You gestured to his chest with your glass. “Stepping in all calm and gravelly. Like some Clint Eastwood scene.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was a flush rising on his neck. “Wasn’t tryin’ to be hot.”

“Well,” you said with a grin, “bonus points anyway.”

“Are you makin’ fun of me?”

“Maybe a little,” you teased, sipping your drink like it was no big deal. “But you can’t blame me. My man just went all John Wayne for me in front of a whole bar.”

Joel’s head turned slowly, brow raised. “Your man?”

You blinked, realizing what you said a second too late. “I mean—yeah. I guess. Unless you wanna fight me on that?”

He stared at you, expression unreadable for a second… then that slow, crooked smile crept onto his face. The kind that started in his eyes before it ever touched his mouth.

“No,” he said quietly. “Ain’t fightin’ you on it.”

Your heart did a small, dumb somersault behind your ribs. You tried to keep your cool, but your grin gave you away.

“Well,” you said, leaning an elbow on the bar, “then I stand by my statement. My man’s kinda hot.”

Joel chuckled, shaking his head as he walked back behind the bar—though you caught the way his ears flushed pink on the way.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The morning light spilled in slow, golden streaks across the bed, warm against your skin and filtering softly through the curtains. You blinked awake to the scent of cotton and him—Joel’s cologne, faint from the day before, still clinging to the sheets.

He was still asleep beside you.

Flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting gently against your hip like his body couldn’t quite relax unless it was touching yours.

You smiled.

Then shifted just a little—enough to scoot closer, pressing your face into the curve of his shoulder, your leg hooking around his without thinking.

He stirred.

A low, raspy sound rumbled in his chest as he exhaled, and a moment later, his arm curled tighter around you, pulling you in like instinct.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Sorry,” you whispered, nuzzling into him. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’fine,” he said, eyes still closed, lips brushing the top of your hair. “Wakin’ up next to you’s not exactly a bad thing.”

Your chest warmed at that.

You stayed there a while, tangled in quiet, feeling the weight of his body beside you, solid and steady. No rush. No awkward goodbyes or disappearing acts. Just warmth and breath and Joel.

Eventually, he shifted slightly beneath you. “You want coffee?”

You peeked up at him, barely lifting your head. “Always.”

He kissed your temple. “Alright. Stay here. I got it.”

And just like that, he peeled himself away, sliding out of bed with a quiet groan as he grabbed the T-shirt he’d tossed onto a chair the night before. He shot you a lazy smile before padding out toward the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled.

You stayed in bed, eyes drifting over the doorway where he’d just gone.

And without warning, a quiet smile pulled at your lips.

Because he stayed.

Not just for a night. Not for the rush or the thrill or some empty promise.

He stayed every time.

And for the first time in longer than you could remember… you believed he always would.

[mariacallous]

Confronted with the bald fact that, of the people in Florida’s just-constructed swamp internment facility for the “worst of the worst,” more than 250 had neither criminal convictions nor pending charges, the Department of Homeland Security was untroubled. “Many of the individuals that are counted as ‘non-criminals’ are actually terrorists, human rights abusers, gangsters and more; they just don’t have a rap sheet in the U.S.,” DHS Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin told the Miami Herald /Tampa Bay Times. “Further, every single one of these individuals committed a crime when they came into this country illegally. It is not an accurate description to say they are ‘non-criminals.’”

Except for the fact that they have not technically committed any crimes, these are criminals. Except for the tiny, tiny, minuscule (I hate to even mention it) quibble that we have no evidence they’ve done any crimes, these people deserve to be locked up. Except for the minor, minor technicality that they haven’t violated any laws, other than by arriving here—which might not even have violated a law! We have asylum, or used to, before we decided to pull the rug out from under thousands of people—these are the worst of the worst.

The total lack of any evidence against them, except that Trump border czar Tom Homan thought they seemed suspicious, is just proof of what good criminals they are. Evidence, schmevidence! All you need to do is look at them, listen to them! (Homan has subsequently walked this back, or tried to.) You can simply tell when someone is a criminal, even when they keep trying to abide by the law, showing up for immigration hearings and paying taxes on time. Perhaps especially then.

So many neighbors of serial killers say that the killers were quiet, kept to themselves, and seemed like productive members of their community. If these detainees’ neighbors say the same, that’s so much more proof that they are some of history’s greatest monsters, or would be, if they ever took up crime. These would be hardened assassins if they had ever killed anyone. If they had done a single war crime, it would have been worse than those of Slobodan Milošević. The only reason these serial killers’ names don’t ring in the ear with the horror of Jeffrey Dahmer’s and Ed Gein’s is because they have not killed or eaten anyone. But we’d better keep them behind bars to be safe. They could start at any time!

Indeed, all that stands between them and crime is means, motive, and opportunity. That’s why it’s good that in addition to the preemptive measure of putting some of these all-but-criminals behind bars, the DHS has also taken the extraordinarily un-racist precaution of collecting immigrant DNA into a large database for the ease and convenience of suspecting them of crimes. If these toddlers weren’t criminals, would their DNA already be in this Usual Suspects Database? Unlikely.

These are almost certainly terrorists, human-rights abusers, gangsters, and more! And some of them even have parking tickets. That’s why they belong in a facility that we laughingly refer to as “Alligator Alcatraz.” (“If there’s alliteration, it’s not a human-rights violation.”) They are probably human-rights abusers, which is why we have locked them up without due process or any kind of publicly posted list to let anyone know their whereabouts.

Remember, criminals are to be found around other criminals. (“I think we all know that criminals tend to hang out with criminals,” Deputy ICE Director Madison Sheahan noted.) And there they all are now, in a facility that we have insisted is for the worst of the worst. Sounds pretty dispositive. If they weren’t the worst of the worst, what would they be doing there?

You can tell they are human-rights abusers because they are sleeping on cots 32 to a room in a just-constructed internment camp. The human-rights abusers are the ones who have been seized by masked men because they looked or sounded a certain way. The human-rights abusers are the ones packed into cages in the oppressive heat. The human-rights abusers are the ones brushing their teeth with toilet water, unable to shower for days, crammed together in a mosquito-infested swamp, struggling to access lawyers. You can tell they are criminals because of the side of the fence they’re on.

[wynnevee]

baby on board

bob floyd x reader

synopsis: just when you were about to announce your unplanned pregnancy, your boyfriend gets called away on a dangerous mission—and although he comes back safe, things still don’t unfold as planned

warnings: pregnancy, a little crying, mentions of death, fear, unedited lol are we surprised?, mentions of sex and bob’s dick, mentions of parental abandonment, mentions of plan b, mentions of divorce

notes: i changed the plot for this like three times but i finally like it enough to post!! enjoy :)

stupid fucking bob floyd and his stupid dick.

and stupid you for not being able to keep your hands off of him.

you’d just moved in together, and in your defense, he just looked so good in that tight white shirt, arm and back muscles flexing as he hauled your boxes into his apartment.

when he dropped the last box, you pounced on him immediately, and in your haste and horniness, you may have forgone a condom.

you were planning on getting a pill the next morning but… you may have been distracted once again… and again… and then one more time before bed that night.

but all those times, he’d worn a condom!

so before long, your unprotected sexcapade was lost in your memory. well, it was until you missed your period a few weeks later. it was until those two little pink lines appeared on the test.

your first thought, of course, was to think of every way this could possibly turn out (or more precisely, go horribly wrong).

1. bob is happy, you keep the baby and the three of you live happily ever after.

2. bob is not happy, he leaves, but you keep the baby and live happily ever after.

3. bob is not happy but pretends and so you have the baby and live in a strained relationship bound to end in a divorce 10 years down the road

and the most recent and terrifying one:

4. bob dies on this mission without ever knowing he was about to become a father.

shortly after bob had called with the news of the high risk, short notice, and just all around terrifying mission, you decided #4 was just not an option, and so you started planning.

first, you wrapped all three tests in a cute little pink bow, which took about twenty minutes with your shaking hands. then, you scoured the internet for the perfect little onesie, paying a ridiculous fee for overnight shipping. and then, finally, you hid the evidence.

you cleared your browser history, hid the tests in your underwear drawer, and waited patiently for bob to come home. he left for the mission the day after tomorrow, meaning that in just about 24 hours, his world would flip sideways.

well, that was the plan, at least. but when your bobby came home, hands shaking and cheeks pink from stress sweat, your heart sank.

“i’m so scared,” he’d whispered, hugging you tightly. “this is the most dangerous mission phoenix and i have ever flown and i have barely 48 hours to prepare.”

you tightened your arms around his neck, elaborate plans going out the window. that night, all he wanted was to hold you, watch silly movies, and fall into a slightly-less restless sleep.

but long after bob’s breathing had evened out, you laid awake; #4 was back on the list.

the next night was similar, only worse, considering you and your hormones had had all day to worry about it.

you made a nice dinner—nothing too nice, though, because that felt like a goodbye—and turned in early for extra rest. however, any peace of mind was still out of reach for you.

bob would leave at 5:00 AM the next morning and if all went well, he should waltz back in at 5:00 PM and you would tell him that you were having a baby. #4 would just have to crawl back into the dark crevice of your brain it was born in.

in the morning, you woke up, giving bob a hug and a kiss goodbye, tuning out the screaming of the pregnancy tests and onesie in your underwear drawer. he was way too nervous, you just couldn’t tell him now.

“good luck,” you whisper instead. “i love you.”

you don’t even bother trying to fall back asleep.

you keep your phone on, the ringer at the highest possible tone, and you don’t set it down for a second. you try to distract yourself with cleaning and setting up the surprise, but it only takes a few hours and the clock won’t tick any faster. eventually, you knew you had to get out, less you develop zoochosis from pacing in your confinements for one more second.

you decide to take a nice walk around the forest preserve, one you and bob had been to a million times before. it was a beautiful day and the sun shown down on the path you walked, and finally, you had a moment to breathe. you still felt the weight of your phone in your pocket, waiting for a call from maverick telling you that your worst nightmares had come true. and you did get a call from maverick—only of a very different nature.

“it was a close call, but the mission went well, they even came back early,” he’d said, and you could hear the relief in the way he breathed. “bob’s phone overheated in the locker though and won’t turn on, so he asked me to call and tell you he’s on his way home.”

your relief turned to panic once more.

home. he was on his way home, where a onesie reading “daddy’s co-pilot” and three positive pregnancy tests were laying on your dresser, without you there to explain it all. luckily, you weren’t too far from the car when maverick called, so you rushed back and probably broke a few traffic laws on your way to the house.

but when you pulled into the driveway, you saw you were still too late. bob’s truck was sitting in your driveway.

you slowed your walk into the house now, creeping inside and up the stairs, into the bedroom—and there he was.

bob sat at the foot of the bed, onesie in one hand and tests in the other. he didn’t notice you at first, so you had the chance to watch his expression: shock, with tears dripping down rosy cheeks.

“you’re home,” you finally manage to spit out.

he looks up, eyes softening at the sight of you. “how long have you known?”

he doesn’t sound hurt, which is good, just… absolutely dumbstruck. you sat down next to him.

“the day you found out about the mission. i was gonna tell you the next day, had this whole thing planned for after work, but… you were just so nervous, bobby, and i didn’t want to scare you even more with this huge thing, and i didn’t even know if you’d want it—”

“want it?” he interrupts, voice rising not in anger, but in incredulousness. “want it? baby, this is all i’ve ever wanted.”

you looked down, suddenly very interested in playing with the frayed ends of your (his) hoodie strings. “i didn’t know if you’d want it with me.”

he goes silent and you immediately expect the worst, that pit in your stomach returning. but in just a few seconds, you find yourself gathered in his arms and tucked against his chest.

“of course i want it with you,” he whispers. “i want everything with you. i especially want a little version of you waddling around our house.”

“a little version of me?” you laugh, voice watery. “you’re already guessing it’s a girl?”

he shrugs. “we’ll have a girl eventually.”

you almost sob, the relief overwhelming. suddenly, the twisting in your gut was replaced with an unfamiliar but welcomed warmth. in just nine months, there’d be a full formed baby snuggled in there, just waiting to come out. honestly, it made your skin crawl a little at first, but the thought was growing on you.

“you think i could hide you from jake until you give birth?” bob asks abruptly.

you look up, the confusion cutting through your emotional brain fog. “what?”

“the ‘baby on board’ jokes are just gonna get so much worse.”

[meiyokbf]

under your spell | megan x g!p!reader | part five

author's note: took me long enough but i’m backkk! got down with a flu + writers block but now i’m better than ever, lmk what you think & i hope you guys enjoy this one. :’)

warnings: mdni. stripper!megan x g!p!reader, slightly manon x lara. no smut, just megan being scared and reader trying their best. kind of a filler chapter but in the best intention possible. also, meet sophia!

word count: 4,2k

🏷️: katseye, megan x reader, megan skiendiel x reader, katseye x reader, katseye smut, megan smut, manon x lara, marz, sophia laforteza.

megan’s spotify playlist!

masterlist. | prev. I next.

you tell yourself you’re not going to text her.

and you say it out loud this time, a quiet promise to your ceiling fan, to the wrinkles in your sheets, to the ghost of her hand that still lingers somewhere near your ribs. you won’t do it. not again.

but, oh well. you open your phone anyway.

it’s muscle memory at this point: swipe, tap, check. still no new message. nothing since the one she sent at 2:17am.

megan: can’t sleep.

megan: thinking about the way you said my name.

you had read it twice. then again. then again until the words felt like they weren’t in english anymore. you didn’t know how to respond. or if she even wanted you to.

you think about replying now. type something. delete it. type again. delete.

(y/n): i didn’t sleep either

and leave it there.

it was wednesday now; three days since the last time you’ve seen her. but honestly, at this point, it kinda felt like three years. you couldn’t even focus on your uni work without thinking about her voice or her eyes, and the way she purposefully seemed to take hours to text you back was driving you insane. you needed to take a breather before going to class, in which you already knew you would doze off the entire lecture because you would much rather be around her instead.

so, you dress slowly. batman & robin tee, jacket, sneakers that squeak when you walk too fast. you grab your bag and ignore the pile of laundry in the corner, the coffee mug on your nightstand still full of yesterday’s tea. before leaving, you decided to grab something to eat on the way, already listening manon’s voice in your head about how you always forget to eat while studying and how your blood pressure is shit. so you decide to steal one of her granola bars. which, of course, had a heart-shaped post-it on it.

“these are technically for me, but i know your sad little raccoon hands will find them.

fine. take one.

ONE.

(ily though. please hydrate.)

- manz”

you laughed slightly and took one bar. this was your guys’ thing; you both knew that you could always talk to each other over text messages, but ever since you moved in together, post-its were the main mean of communication between you two. there were some things that could only be said on a paper, you thought. and you cherished that a lot.

you’ve got class in less than an hour, but your brain isn’t ready for structure. it feels like soup. or static.

you take the long way. the sun hasn’t fully committed to the sky yet and everything is washed in that early kind of light; soft and blue, like it doesn’t want to wake you up too quickly. birds chirp like they don’t know what day it is.

you pass three dogs, one crying baby, a couple making out against a bike rack. the world is still moving. it always is.

and then you think about her again.

the way she laughed back at her place last weekend. her hand pressed to your chest like she was checking for signs of life. the way she looked at you; half-there, half-running.

you stop by the café before class. it’s not your usual morning haunt, but you can’t sit still. you need something warm to hold.

you open the door. the smell of cinnamon and burnt espresso. the low hum of other people’s lives. this place always feels like a sigh.

you look up to the counter. you’ve seen her before —the barista with the glossy lips and flower name tag. sophia.

you’ve seen her smile at other people. never you. not because she’s mean. just because you’ve never given her a reason to.

you stand in line, staring at the drinks menu like it might give you a sign.

when it’s your turn, you step forward too fast, nearly bump into the display case. she glances up and smiles like she doesn’t notice your awkwardness. like she’s known you all along.

— hey. you’re usually here on fridays, right?

you blink. startled that she noticed. your mouth is slower than your brain.

— yeah, uh… i guess i just needed caffeine sooner this week.

she smiles, warm and easy.

— well, don’t we all? — she laughs. not mockingly. not like she’s uncomfortable. just warm. you look up at the menu like it might offer guidance. she tilts her head. — want me to surprise you?

— what would you recommend?

— hmm… maybe a dirty chai with oat milk and a side of emotional clarity.

you almost laugh. it comes out soft.

— can you do that?

— only the chai. emotional clarity’s a seasonal special. — she smiles to you like she just came out of a disney movie, then grabs a cup, scribbles something on the side.

you think you’ll leave it there; just a weird, slightly too-honest exchange with a stranger. but your chest is buzzing, and your mouth is tired of keeping secrets.

— can i tell you something insane?

she looks at you, curious. elbows on the counter, chin in her hand. she doesn’t look bored.

— always.

— i’m… losing my mind a little over this girl.

the words tumble out before you can pull them back.

— she… she did these things. and they’re not even big stuff. just… things that made me feel seen. and then she disappeared. not like, forever. for like a day or two. just enough to make me feel crazy. and then she’s back like nothing happened. it’s hot and then cold, you know?

you exhale. glance down. your fingers tap against the wood of the counter.

— and i believe i’ll keep letting her do it. because when she’s here, it’s… really good. and i think she’s trying. i want to believe she’s trying. but sometimes it feels like she’s just…

you don’t finish. sophia watches you for a second, then gently replies.

— you think she’s afraid?

you nod. a little too fast.

— yeah. i think she’s afraid of being loved.

— and you’re not?

— maybe. — you pause. — i think i’m more afraid of not trying.

she starts the espresso machine. the hiss and churn of it fills the silence between you.

— you know… — she says eventually. — when i was sixteen, i fell in love with someone who only called me when it rained.

you glance at her. — what?

— seriously. it would pour, and they’d text. every time. for almost a year. — she smiles, but there’s something sad behind it.

— i used to think it meant something. like maybe i reminded them of safety. or lightning. or the sound of thunder in someone else’s bed. — she shrugs. — turns out, they just didn’t like being alone when it stormed.

you don’t know what to say. so you say nothing. she hands you the drink. your name’s not on it; instead, she’s drawn a small sun and the words “this is a hug in a cup. :)”

— look, i don’t think your girl’s trying to hurt you. — she smiles at you sympathetically. — but sometimes people like that… they don’t know they’re pulling you under until you’ve already drowned.

your throat feels tight.

— yeah… i’m just terrified, you know?

— i know, truly. — she adds. — fear isn’t a stop sign. it’s just a sign you care.

you swallow hard. grip the cup. feel the warmth press against your palms like a second heartbeat. give her the money and don’t even bother about asking for the change. she definitely deserves it.

— thank you.

she nods, her smile making you believe for a second that she might be right. — i hope she figures it out.

you almost ask her name. then remember you already know it. so you leave the café with a little more silence in your body.

not emptiness, just space.

and of course, megan hasn’t texted back.

but you check anyway.

the studio walls on the velvet room’s backstage are mirror-lined and unforgiving. overhead, the lights buzz faintly, the kind of sound that feels like it’s echoing inside your teeth. the floor is a little sticky from last week’s sweat and glitter. it always is.

megan leans back against the barre, gum in her mouth, legs crossed at the ankle. she’s supposed to be warming up, stretching, something. instead, she watches lara in the mirror; ponytail sharp, eyeliner sharper, heels already on. lara looks like someone who bites when she loves you.

they’re rehearsing a shared number. or at least, they were supposed to be. it’s for friday’s late set: something femme fatale-coded, high energy, choreography that flirts with the edge of violence. lara had chosen the song. megan had said fine. she really didn’t care.

but her head’s not in it. not today.

she’s been messing up small things all afternoon; missing beats, forgetting transitions, zoning out mid-chorus. it’s pissing lara off. megan can feel it in the way she keeps clicking her nails against her thigh, like she’s trying not to scream.

— megan. — the indian scoffed, annoyed. — you’re two beats behind. again.

— i know.

— jesus christ, then fix it.

megan doesn’t move. she just shifts her jaw slightly, biting down harder on her gum, staring at her own reflection like it might offer her a better version of herself. it doesn’t.

lara exhales, sharp, just like her makeup.

— what the hell is going on with you today?

megan shrugs. doesn’t answer.

they’ve danced together a hundred times. shared sets, shared shots, shared nights curled into each other on lara’s couch when the world got too loud. this shouldn’t feel like a battle, but it does. today it does.

lara crosses the floor, heels clicking.

— i’m not going to babysit you through this, meg. if you can’t do the number-

— i can. — megan says it too fast. defensive. like she’s been caught bleeding.

— then act like it, god damn it. — lara counters.

— you’re off, you’re distracted, you’re… — she continues, then trails off, dragging her hands down her face. — is this about them?

silence. megan looks away. fixes her gaze on the smudge on the mirror near her hip. says nothing. lara sighs.

— okay, yeah. that’s what i thought.

megan still doesn’t speak. her throat is tight in a way she doesn’t like. lara softens, just slightly.

— you’ve been weird all week.

— no, i haven’t.

— megan.

that tone again; not angry, not pitying. worse. the one lara uses when she’s worried. and god knows how megan hates it.

she shrugs again. sits down on the floor, stretching her legs out, arms behind her for balance. her body feels too heavy. her chest even more so.

— i don’t know what i’m fucking doing. — she says, eventually.

— with them?

— with anything.

lara doesn’t laugh. doesn’t scoff. just sits next to her, their shoulders not quite touching.

— then do what you know.

megan chews her gum slower. the peppermint tastes like regret.

— it’s not that simple.

— yeah, it is.

they sit there in the silence for a beat. outside the studio, someone’s blasting music from the dressing rooms. something with too much bass, too much bravado. probably other girls who were rehearsing too. and the world keeps spinning. megan picks at her fishnets, nails chipping.

— it was supposed to be a hookup. — she says quietly. — that’s what i wanted. easy. clean. fun.

— and? — megan doesn’t answer. lara studies her, then sighs again. louder this time. more tired than angry. — ok, fine. do you wanna know what scares me?

— isn’t it, like, everything?

— cute. — lara smiled sarcastically. — but no. what scares me is watching you do what i did.

megan blinks, looking up. lara rarely goes here. not out loud. so, she paid attention.

— i felt something too, after that night with manon. — lara reluctantly said, almost swallowing her own words. — just for a second. one fucking second. like maybe i wasn’t alone in the world; maybe someone actually wanted me, not the performance. not dallas. then i ran. because that was easier. safer. and now? i keep thinking about the way she fucking caressed my hair when she thought i was asleep.

that’s the most she’s said about it since that night.

— you… really liked her? — megan stares.

— that’s not the point.

— it feels like the point.

— shut the fuck up, my point is… — she raised her voice for a second, then lowered it back again. — don’t do what i did. don’t pretend you don’t care just because you’re afraid they’ll stop.

— but what if they do?

— then at least you were honest. and you’ll survive it. like we always do.

— yeah, but that’s the point, lara. i don’t wanna survive it. — megan sighed. — i don’t know how to do it right. okay? i don’t know what they want from me. i don’t know if i can give it. i’m trying and i still fuck it up. i say something nice and then i hate myself for saying it. i feel soft and then i feel stupid. and they keep being… them. they’re so fucking kind it hurts. i hate it.

she buries her face in her hands.

— i fucking hate it.

lara watches her. eyes narrowed. something like protectiveness crests beneath her ribs, sharp and sudden.

— you don’t hate it. — she says.

megan doesn’t look up.

— you hate that it makes you want to be good.

megan scoffs. — fuck you.

— yeah, yeah.

they sit in it for a moment. the ruin of what megan isn’t saying. lara reaches into her bag, pulls out her phone.

— i’m putting something on. you’re going to breathe for five seconds and stop being a nightmare.

megan groans into her hands.

— don’t send me another thirst trap compilation.

— shut up, you love those.

— i don’t.

lara scrolls through her feed, thumb flicking fast. trying to find something dumb and distracting: a dog in pajamas, a couple falling off a paddleboard, something with sparkles. something easy.

but instead; there she is.

manon. on her screen. lips glossy, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head; the lighting is shit. but her voice is bright. and her smile’s too real. “thrift haul! let’s see how many gay crimes i can commit in one outfit!”

the screen shakes slightly as she flips the camera around. mirror shot. oversized leather trench coat. chain belt. cropped tee with a vintage graphic of the moon.

lara’s breath catches in her throat.

it’s stupid. it’s not even a hot video. she’s not dancing. not even trying.

but she looks so damn good. effortless. sharp and funny and alive. the way she talks to the camera like it’s an old friend. then lara’s hand freezes on the screen, her eyes trying their best not to roll.

— fuck.

megan glances over.

— what?

lara doesn’t answer. the video keeps playing. manon holds up a faux-fur coat with rhinestones on the collar and says “this is either a blessing or a curse and honestly i’m fine with both.”

megan snorts softly.

— you’re watching her tiktoks now?

lara swipes out of the app. shoves her phone face-down.

— it came up.

— sure.

— whatever.

megan leans back, grin small but alive now.

— do you miss her?

lara’s jaw flexes. — i miss not thinking about her.

— same.

a beat.

— so when you’re gonna tell her you left your favorite earring there?

— jesus christ, i don’t know.

— just saying. — megan shrugs, looking at the indian girl. — you’ve been debating this for three days.

— shut up. — megan just raises her brows. — i can’t just show up. it’ll look like i care.

— you do care.

— i don’t want to.

— doesn’t make it less true.

lara picks at her nail polish. chips it off in angry flakes.

— what would you do then, smart-ass?

— me?

— yeah. if it were you. if you left something in (y/n)’s bed and didn’t know how to go back for it without handing them your heart on a plate.

megan thinks for a moment. then shrugs.

— i’d probably pretend i came for the earring, then make some excuse about how i didn’t even like it that much. but really i’d just want to see them again.

lara goes still.

— well, that’s fucking stupid.

— it is.

— but also maybe i’ll do it. not like you, though. that shit’s way too emotional for me.

megan leans back on her palms. the sweat cooling on her collarbones.

— tomorrow?

— yeah. maybe.

— want me to come?

— no. — then, quieter. — i think i have to do it alone.

— well… — megan stands. brushes dust off her thighs. — you’ll be fine.

— you say that like you believe it.

— i don’t. but i say it anyway.

lara watches her stretch, watches the way her muscles flex and settle. she wonders if (y/n) notices that too. she bets they do.

this room doesn’t look like much from the outside, just a cracked glass door above a laundromat. the buzzer always broken, the hallway always smelling faintly of bleach and cheap incense. the kind of place you’d walk past unless you knew what it was.

but to megan, it’s one of the only places in the city that doesn’t ask her to be anything.

the studio is warm when she steps in. humid from bodies, from movement, from the echo of whatever song was just playing. the floor is a little warped near the mirrors. the ceiling fan clicks. someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the barre like it lives there.

there are ten, maybe twelve students tonight. all kinds: a bartender with a buzzcut, two nursing students who come on their off weeks, someone who teaches yoga and always wears too many bracelets. none of them look like the girls at the velvet room. no glitter. no lashes. no faking.

here, sweat is just sweat. not spectacle.

the instructor plays a low-tempo r&b track and starts calling out warmups, but it’s loose. no one’s here to impress anyone. just to move. to let their bodies be something besides currency.

megan sheds her hoodie and finds a spot near the corner. she ties her hair up in a quick knot and lets her shoulders roll back, the ache of the day bleeding slowly down her spine. there’s no choreography yet, just a long stretch of breath and flow. hips shifting, ankles loosening, torsos bending with the music. she lets herself get lost in it. or she tries to.

but her head’s still full of you.

still looping back to the texts, the silences between them. still thinking about the way you looked that first night in your apartment; nervous, knees bouncing, wearing that one jacket and trying to act like your heart wasn’t pounding. the way you listened. the way you didn’t run.

she hates that she keeps thinking about you like this. like she’s seventeen again and still thinks crushes are a kind of religion.

but she does. and it’s starting to show.

— hey, stranger. you’re late.

sophia’s voice breaks the loop. megan turns, and there she is: perched near the windows, stretching her legs in her usual half-graceful way, hair braided tight down her back, tank top tucked into carefully chosen leggings. she always looks like she walked out of a painting and into a dance class. megan hates how comforting that is.

— wouldn’t be me if i wasn’t.

— fair enough.

they fall into their usual rhythm, stretching near each other, no real pressure to talk, just syncing up. sophia’s already glancing at her in that quiet, knowing way, like she’s waiting for the admission she knows is coming.

megan stalls for a while. bends. breathes. watches her reflection in the mirror and tries not to think about whether you’d still look at her the same if you saw her here.

the instructor cues up a guided improv drill. everyone’s scattered around the room now, moving to the rhythm without mirrors, facing inward. it’s not about precision. it’s about emotion. presence. release.

megan dances like she’s trying to remember what her body is for. not performance. not seduction. not survival.

just hers.

soft shoulders. open arms. eyes half-closed. but she still feels off, even after her conversation with lara. like something’s humming wrong in her ribcage.

when the exercise ends, everyone collapses to the floor or leans on the barre. the lights are dimmed now. the window’s cracked, letting in the smell of street food and summer sweat.

she and sophia drift to the corner together. they sit, legs sprawled, water bottles pressed to their necks. and after a long pause, megan decided to, for once, take the first step.

— i met someone.

sophia doesn’t flinch. just raises a brow. megan fidgets with the label on her bottle, eyes on her fingers.

— i didn’t mean to. it was supposed to be… nothing. or fun. or whatever. but they’re… — she shakes her head. — they’re soft. and sharp. like, smart but quiet about it. and they made me feel like i mattered. not just… existed.

sophia watches her. not judging, never. just absorbing.

— well, that sounds terrifying. — she says, soft smile tugging at her lips.

— it is.

— and?

— and i don’t know what to do with it.

megan leans back on her elbows, the floor still warm beneath her. the ceiling above her spins gently. her voice drops.

— they’re a college student, sophia. good kid, the kind of person who plays those weird medieval games with dices on their mom’s basement. and i’m… me. a girl who strips three nights a week because her life didn’t turned out the way she planned.

megan stopped for a second; sophia just listened.

— and i keep thinking they’re gonna wake up and realize what this is. what i am. and they’ll go tell their friends “oh yeah, remember when i hooked up with that stripper?” — she scoffed. — like i’m gonna be their edgy college rebellion they survived.

after a couple of seconds, sophia said softly, the only way she knew how.

— you know, i met someone at work today. — she says, voice warm, then megan looks over.

— just a customer. we barely talked. i made them some chai, poor thing looked like they were carrying the weight of the world in a canvas tote bag. didn’t even realize how much they were spilling until they were halfway through their order. said something about someone being distant, magnetic and scary in a beautiful way.

megan goes still. then sophia smiles, small.

— i gave them this exact advice. so i’m giving it to you too. — sophia held megan’s hand and squeezed it slightly. — fear isn’t a stop sign. it’s just a sign you care. and if they care, they’ll stay. not because you made it easy. but because you were real.

megan exhales through her nose. the kind of breath that’s half-sob, half-surrender. — but what if i ruin it?

— then you learn. and try again. and live. — sophia said, as if the solution to this problem was simple and easy. — but maybe; just maybe, you don’t ruin it. maybe you get it right this time around.

megan doesn’t answer. she picks at her knee. there’s a scar there from rollerblading in sixth grade. her skin’s always trying to remind her of who she was. sophia speaks again, quieter now.

— i know you think being seen is dangerous. but maybe this time it’s just being loved.

megan feels something lodge in her throat. her heart hiccups. she bites the inside of her cheek.

— i keep waiting for them to change their mind.

— have they given you any reason to think they will?

— no.

— then stop making yourself suffer in advance. go a little easier on yourself, huh?

megan’s quiet for a long time. just the sound of music switching again in the background, bodies stretching, someone cracking their back.

— should i text them?

sophia gives her a look.

— you already know the answer, honey.

megan pulls out her phone. the screen glows too bright. your last text is still there, soft and patient.

(y/n): i didn’t sleep either

she stares at it like it might respond if she waits long enough.

— i want to see them. — she says, mostly to herself. sophia smiles, almost proudly.

— so ask them out.

megan types. deletes. types again. tries a hundred different combinations of words.

megan: wanna get food tomorrow?

megan: not a date. don’t be weird about it.

she shows sophia.

— pathetic?

— very. — sophia grins. — they’re gonna love it.

megan stares a moment longer. then hits send.

the message floats away like a dare.

she locks her phone. presses it to her chest. breathes deep.

— fuck, i’m gonna hate myself if this goes bad.

— no, you won’t.

— why?

— because this time you’re not disappearing first.

megan doesn’t answer. just stares at the ceiling, where the fan keeps spinning, and lets the soft ache of hope settle into her sternum like something earned.

[wherethefigsfall]

Sugar and Spice:

Abby Anderson x autistic fem reader

(College Au)

AN: should I make this into a series??

Abby had five minutes to make it to the party and no time for distractions.

She was jogging down the pavement near the convenience store with a half-open Red Bull in one hand and her phone buzzing in the other. Her ponytail bounced with every step. Every guy on campus would’ve stepped aside just to let her pass.

But not the girl with the headphones.

Abby wasn’t looking. Neither was she.

They bumped shoulders — not hard, but enough that Abby’s drink splashed and the girl’s phone tumbled out of her hoodie pocket and hit the ground with a sad little clack.

“Shit—my bad!” Abby gasped, immediately crouching down to grab the phone.

The girl blinked at her like a deer in the path of a much cooler, much louder car.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there holding her headphones, like she’d frozen in the middle of a loading screen.

Abby handed the phone back, slow. “You okay?”

The girl nodded.

“You sure?”

Another nod. Then, after a second: “You hit like a linebacker.”

Abby smirked. “Not usually the first thing people say to me.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“That’s definitely the second weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

The girl shifted her weight, looking anywhere but directly at Abby. She tugged the sleeves of her oversized hoodie over her hands, fidgeting with the cuffs. Her bag was lopsided. One of her shoelaces was untied.

Abby couldn’t stop staring at her.

“What were you listening to?” she asked, nodding toward the headphones.

“Just… rain sounds.”

“Rain sounds?” Abby asked, curious but not teasing.

The girl nodded. “Yeah. Helps me focus. Makes walking easier.”

Abby raised a brow, impressed. “Huh. Never thought of that.”

“It’s just background noise,” she said quickly, poorly attempting to be nonchalant.

“I’m Abby, by the way.”

“I know,” the girl said without thinking.

Abby raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh yeah?”

“You’re on the basketball team,” she added quickly, like it explained everything.

Abby smiled. “Guess that makes me hard to miss.”

The girl shrugged, eyes flicking down to her own shoes.

“And you are?”

“…[Y/N].”

“Nice to meet you, [Y/N].”

Silence settled for a second. [Y/N] was clearly ready to disappear, but something kept her standing there. She shifted her bag up on her shoulder.

“I was just going in for a Slurpee,” she said quietly, like she felt the need to explain.

“Oh yeah? What flavour?”

“Cherry. But it’s usually out.”

“That sucks.”

“It's okay. It kind of hurts my teeth. I still get it.”

Abby nodded, fighting a smile. It was such a specific answer. No filter. No small talk fluff. Just honest.

She looked at the store, then back at [Y/N].

“…I wasn’t planning to stop,” Abby said, “but now I kind of want one too.”

Abby didn’t follow her into the 7-Eleven. She stood outside for a minute instead, pretending to check her texts, though her mind was somewhere else entirely.

She should’ve kept walking. The party was probably already loud and full of people calling her name.

But something about the way Y/N had spoken stuck with her. Soft voice. Careful words. Like she thought through everything before saying it out loud. No performance. Just… honesty.

The party was the same as always. Crowded kitchen. Music too loud. Warm beer. Everyone saying “what’s up” like they were supposed to.

Abby leaned against the counter, not really listening to anything. She scrolled through her phone, half out of boredom, half because she couldn’t stop thinking about that brief little run-in.

She found Y/N’s account quickly enough. She had a private profile, but Abby had remembered her first name and a username she’d seen on a group project story post a few weeks ago.

She stared at the profile picture for a second — just a photo of a tree with a bird on a branch.

Abby smiled and tapped follow.

Then she set her phone down and forced herself to actually socialize for ten minutes.

When she picked it back up, her notifications were waiting:

*Y/N accepted your follow request.*

Abby felt her stomach flip in a weird way — not dramatic, but enough to catch her off guard.

She looked through a few more posts. One of a vending machine. One of a cat outside a shop. A Polaroid of a blue Slurpee on a table.

She liked that one.

Then, without overthinking, she sent a message:

“Hey — did they have Cherry?”

A few minutes passed.

Y/N: they did

Y/N: first time in weeks

Y/N: it was good

Abby grinned at her screen.

“You got lucky.”

Y/N: i think so

“You’ll have to let me know next time. I’ll grab one too.”

A pause. She could see Y/N typing… then not typing.

Then finally: "okay!"

Just one word. But it made Abby smile again anyway.

Later that night, Abby lay in bed, arms folded behind her head, staring at the ceiling.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone made her feel this off-balance. Not nervous. Not even in a bad way. Just like she wanted to slow down and pay attention.

Most people she talked to tried too hard. Tried to impress her. Make her laugh. Show off.

But Y/N didn’t do any of that. She just… existed.

And somehow, that was better than anything else.

[hana-no-seiiki]

YAN! DAMIAN WAYNE x TSUNDERE! STARK! READER (PART TWO)

TW/CW: OP! Reader, “Mary Sue!” Reader, Bully!Reader (but they make up for it). Aged Up! Damian. [Y/N] falls first. Damian Wayne falls harder.

[PREVIOUS PART] [NEXT PART]

Damian had long since memorized your schedule. He told himself it was for strategy. For awareness. For self-preservation, even. But that didn’t explain why his eyes always searched for you in the crowd. Or why he lingered in places you were likely to pass.

Today was no different. He stood beneath the shadows of the library arch, eyes trained on the courtyard where you leaned against a marble bench—pristine in your perfectly pressed uniform, arms crossed, a knowing glint in your eyes.

Across from you stood Lucas Kerrigan—fresh scholarship student, neurodivergent, twitchy, painfully earnest. He clutched his laptop like a shield as you circled him slowly, like a cat toying with a mouse.

“I mean,” you said, voice syrupy-smooth but lethal underneath, “this code is . . . cute. Really. Adorable, even. Did you use a coloring book as a reference, or was the architecture supposed to look like it was written by a raccoon in heat?”

Lucas flinched, red blooming up his neck. He tried to stammer something—some defense, some joke—but you were already stepping in again.

“You really thought that would impress the Stark heir? My standards are a little higher than bargain bin Python errors and a UI that looks like it belongs on a government-issued toaster.”

Damian’s jaw clenched from his post behind the archway.

He hated this. Hated watching you like this—so sharp, so cruel. A ruler with a crown of thorns. You hadn’t just humiliated Lucas—you’d done it with your usual flair, wearing cruelty like perfume. This wasn’t teasing. It was cutting.

And then—Lucas laughed.

Actually laughed. Wiped his glasses with trembling hands and beamed up at you with the kind of admiration usually reserved for saints.

“Thanks for the feedback!” he chirped. “Seriously! You noticed my project at all. I—I’ve never had someone that smart even look at it. I’ll fix the framework and bring it to you again if you’re not too busy?”

Damian blinked.

You paused too, momentarily caught off guard. Then, with a noncommittal scoff, you turned on your heel.

“Do whatever you want,” you tossed back, “but if I see one more deprecated API in your backend, I’ll personally revoke your right to type.”

Lucas waved. “Yes, boss!”

Damian stepped back, shadows curling tight around him as confusion bloomed in his chest.

Why?

Why did people like you?

You humiliated them. Mocked them. Treated them like they were background noise. And still they gravitated toward you like moths to flame.

It made no sense.

And what made even less sense was him.

His own heart—his own traitorous heart—twisting painfully in his chest whenever you smiled. His body reacting without permission whenever you snapped at him, as if even your attention was a drug he wasn’t strong enough to refuse.

You were vicious. Condescending. Practically a tyrant in pressed uniform silk and limited edition boots.

So why the hell had he fallen in love with you?

He wasn’t following you. Not intentionally.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But when the perimeter alert on his comm mentioned your name during a low-priority incident, his feet were already moving before he could think.

And that’s when he saw it.

A collapsed concrete beam. Sirens in the distance. A girl—trapped beneath the wreckage, hyperventilating, her uniform stained with dust. Lucas Kerrigan stood nearby, panicked, too frozen to help.

You were already there.

Soot-smudged and furious, shouting orders into your watch.

“I said reroute the supports! No, not like that—God, does StarkTech have to do everything?!”

You dropped to your knees beside the trapped girl, hands trembling only slightly as you scanned the debris and tore a piece of your own jacket to stem the bleeding on her leg.

She stared up at you, tears running sideways.

“Y-you came back.”

You didn’t look up. “Of course I did, dumbass. I said I’d check your code tomorrow. You think I let people off that easy?”

Lucas knelt beside you, trying to stabilize the beam, eyes wide with awe.

And Damian—watching from the shadows above—understood.

Understood the brutal honesty of your words. The strange tenderness hidden beneath your cruelty. The way you destroyed people, only to build them stronger. Sharper. Better. And they knew. They always knew.

That’s why they worshipped you.

That’s why he loved you.

Not in spite of the claws, but because of them.

Because you never looked away from the broken things. You reached into their ugliness and made them better. Even if you had to draw blood doing it.

He exhaled slowly, pressing his back against the concrete wall, the rain clinging to his cowl.

Oh.

Oh.

So that’s why.

And in the quiet hum between his heartbeat and the sirens—

He fell in love with you all over again.

EPILOGUE

It started as a shimmer.

A single streak of rose-gold and white light cutting across the skyline like a divine brushstroke. The Aetherial bomb pulsed wildly in your arms, threatening to swallow you in light and force.

But you didn’t slow down.

You climbed higher, higher—past the towers, past the clouds, past the reach of anything that might hold you back.

And below, three pairs of eyes followed you.

From the crumbling edge of a half-demolished parking structure, Jason stood alone, helmet tucked under one arm, the red of his armor smudged with soot and ash. He watched the streak of white and gold carve across the night sky—your form, silhouetted in flame and light, carrying a bomb that should’ve belonged to the end of the world.

You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t wait for orders. You just went.

Even now, flying farther and farther out of reach, you carried yourself like the whole damn sky belonged to you.

And he hated it.

He hated that he couldn’t follow you. Hated that you were always the one running headfirst into danger like it owed you something. Hated how you never looked back—not once. Because looking back meant hesitation. And hesitation got people killed.

But most of all, he hated that he was falling for you now—now—as you vanished into light like something holy.

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched.

“Idiot,” he muttered, voice rough. “Stupid, reckless, brilliant idiot.”

Because in a city full of cowards, you were the only one who had the guts to take the fall—and the only one he couldn’t stop thinking about.

And as the sky lit gold and the shockwave echoed through the ruins, Jason felt the truth settle low in his chest like a loaded gun.

He was already yours.

He stood in the Batcave, surrounded by blinking monitors and hollow static, frozen as your vitals spiked, then flatlined from range.

The AI couldn’t track you anymore. You’d flown beyond its reach. Beyond his.

But Tim had seen enough.

He replayed the footage again and again, each time slower—pausing on the moment you angled your body to shield the city with your own. The way your lips moved right before you vanished into the heavens.

“I want to make something beautiful out of this world . . .”

It echoed through his mind like a mantra.

You weren’t just brilliant.

You were terrifyingly, unbearably good.

And for a boy who had spent his life calculating risk, you were the one variable he never saw coming.

He stood on the GCPD rooftop, grappling hook loose at his side, Commissioner Gordon forgotten at his shoulder.

Your light broke across the clouds, and for a second, the whole city stopped.

People looked up. Not out of fear. Out of awe.

“That’s a Stark, huh . . . “ Gordon muttered beside him.

But Dick wasn’t listening.

He was thinking about the way you’d once called him “gymnast Ken” with that infuriating little smirk, the way you always acted like you weren’t paying attention but remembered everything.

He’d flirted with you. Teased you. Brushed shoulders with you in more ways than one.

But now, watching you carve a miracle across the sky—

Yeah. He was gone.

He smiled, soft and tired.

“Of course it’s you.”

TAGLIST: @mx13sworld @theall-seeingone

[borderlinereminders]

This might be a bit of a harsh sounding post, and I don't mean it to be. But I want to talk about having a Favourite Person, and how to try and change that into something healthier because while it's not automatically unhealthy, it often can be.

Having a Favorite Person (FP) when you live with BPD can feel intoxicating. They're the sun. Their attention makes everything okay. Their distance feels like the worst thing ever. Not hearing from them can ruin your entire day.

It’s not just “having a bestie” or a crush it’s often deeper, messier, louder. It can often lead to emotional dependency in disguise and that can feel amazing, until it doesn't anymore.

Here’s what a FP dynamic can look like (I'm not saying this is always the case):

Feeling euphoric when they text back, and worthless when they don’t.

Needing constant reassurance or fearing they’ll leave if you mess up.

Basing your mood, worth, and stability entirely on how they’re acting that day.

Panic when they bond with someone else, even just a little.

Obsessive checking, over-texting, testing them, or pulling away first out of fear.

Changing yourself to fit what you think they want

So how do you shift it into something healthier?

Call it what it is You don’t need to shame yourself for having an FP. Just call it what it is. Sometimes this means admitting that “I’ve built too much of my emotional world around this person, and that’s scary for both of us.”

Branch out to have a bigger support system One person can’t hold all your pain, joy, panic, and need. Start slowly expanding: journaling, talking to multiple friends, engaging in hobbies that don’t center around them.

Ask yourself: Is this about closeness or control? Is the constant contact about love, or about managing anxiety? Be honest. This isn't meant to shame you, just bring some awareness.

Practice self-soothing and asking for reassurance in healthy ways before lashing out Before you text “Are you mad at me?”, pause. Breathe. Regulate. Then decide if you still want to reach out just not from a place of panic. Here's my post about needing reassurance and my post about self-soothing.

Have boundaries, and this means both of you having them, not just them You deserve safety and so do they. Boundaries don't mean that people don't love you, though I understand the kneejerk feeling to that. Boundaries are a way to cultivate healthy relationships and when I set boundaries with people in my life, it's because I still want them in my life.

It’s okay to want deep connection. It doesn't mean you're bad or undeserving of love. You’re just someone learning how to love without losing yourself in the process, because often that is what can happen with a FP.

Having a FP itself isn't inherently bad, it's just important to be mindful and aware of how having a FP is affecting us and them.

[xylatox]

Operation: How Not To Get The Girl || lhs

Did I giggle at the title? Yes. Did I giggle even more because its Heeseung? Also Yes (so down bad for him actually). The synopsis already has me freaking out lol. I am so excited😭

(Post thoughts edit, this is long as hell, I'm so sorry <//3)

Before I get into this, I have a vague (terribly vague and honestly probably inaccurate) recollection of the duff but it honestly takes me back to those times of 2015 where everything seemed very much peak. Honestly, just excited to me immersed into a fic that feels nostalgic with some favs in it :) 

Always a smiley idiot whenever I read a Rain fic, I swear.

You try to speak, to jump into the flow, but your voice is swallowed by the noise.

I have such an immediate soft spot for the mc as a soft-spoken girlie who has also had her voice swallowed by noise :’) shes very dear to me. I love that she also excuses her friends behaviour when they also could have tried harder to include her, to be nicer 

And then there’s Heeseung, casual arrogance wrapped in black denim and a hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms. 

I fear I giggled, i will never not when it comes to him and its so embarrassing actually

“Like, sorry I don’t care about symbolism in 18th-century poetry, man.” 

My heart break :(( symbolism in poetry is the best, probs the only thing i misses from literature (and eatting yummy foods in front of class :P) 

“Brainiac chic?” You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your insult? Do you even have a GPA?”

I LOVE her, thats the greatest comeback ever. I love that despite her soft vibe she has a bit of flare to her

Heeseung, unfazed, smiles lazily. “Touché. Though, I’m not the one who just quoted my GPA like it’s a flex.” 

Giggling because this doesnt even sound like a comeback to me.

Bro. Her entire reaction to Soobin had me saying “Oh” so many times and feeling so much embarrassment. Shes so sweet and so down bad oh my god😭its painfully obvious. Still love her though, shes such a cutie afterall

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, your voice dry as dust. “I just had to sit next to the guy who thinks MLA formatting is a type of sandwich.” 

LOL WHAT😭😭😭😭I cannot be laughing this loud at 12am please

“Wow. Vicious. No wonder you’re single.”

Wrong! She just hasnt found the right man to handle her!

Their banter is so amazing though. Like they genuinely have this very amusing and almost sweet chemistry

Wonyoung….jealously isnt cute on you, sweetheart. I will also never understand people that actually behave like this. Genuinely, what is the point of putting someone else down? For your own personal gain? To feel good? I will never get it.

And then, like the knife finally finding skin, it hits you. And the world splits open. The page fills with links, slang dictionaries, gossip forums, teen advice articles, old Reddit threads dissecting high school hierarchies like scientific taxonomy. 

Rain, as always the way you phrase words always leaves me in amazement. This feels like a can of worms opening and I do not like it. Its also so devastating when the mc makes sense of it, when things line up and honestly, it breaks my heart because she does not deserve that.

Not the loud, sobbing kind of cry. No, this is something quieter. A leak in the dam. A silent surrender. The kind of crying that happens when the weight of the world doesn’t come crashing down in one dramatic moment; but seeps in, slow and steady, drop by drop, until you’re drowning. 

Sigh, I really would always love your way with words, Rain. It makes mme so happy everytime they hit in all the right places. It ironically always feels rainy, like a cozy day, even when the words are mean to hurt, it always feels as if its delivered, wrapped in a soft blanket.

“It’s just… you could try a little harder, you know? Like, you don’t really… put effort in.”

This genuinely caught me off guard. I am left without words, like what the fuck??

Part of me desperately wants to think they actually valued the friendship enough and cared but those words hurt I cant lie, and thats something hard to overlook

You scream because you thought they were your people.

You scream because you believed, deeply, that you were loved.

You scream because you didn’t know you were being pitied.

Literally went oh my god out loud then giggled because this progression was just that good 

Reading this definitely brings back memories of watching the movie and it definitely had me worried as a silly 12/13 year old as extremely nerdy girl in a class with mean girls😭Looking back at myself I can laugh at it, but truly it was so serious back then it was kind of silly.

Your heart skips. Not in a cute, rom-com way. In a fuck, how does he know that kind of way.

Giggling again. Baby, its obvious that he knows. You cant hide it

He just smirks, eyes glinting with quiet mischief. “Come on. I’m not an idiot. The way you looked at him at that party? Like he was your last meal. It was kinda cute.” 

😭😭Yup, shes cute with it for sure

Duh. 

Took a break to sing Duh by P1H because I cant help it

Alos that entire conversation with Hee is sending me; also I love how you did the texting layout?? Super duper satisfying, actually

noted. wear something that’s easy to take off tomorrow.

BRO???HELLO???? Shes right, phrasing is crazy

deal. i’ll even hold your hair back. I'm generous like that.

Oh hes so annoying ahh

You blink at him innocently. “You like Taylor Swift?” There’s a moment, a beautiful, brief, perfectly humiliating pause, where Heeseung seems to glitch. His mouth opens, then closes, then he looks back at the road like he’s searching for an exit from this conversation. 

I had the biggest reaction to this because??? Hes so endearingly annoying in the fic and this just makes him so fucking cute. His literally response is so fucking cute ahh i cant take it

“You’re getting contacts,” he says, matter-of-fact. “The glasses gotta go.”

Bro this is genuinely so crazy to me like. Even in my grown age I could never wear contacts??? Like wdym i gottaput that in my eye???? No. It sounds so uncomfortable.

Also I appreciate that this fic (Im assuming its based around the same time as the fic but not really? Like the vibe I mean) has the whole glasses are librarian and nerdy thing and its so funny now how many people purchase glasses with no lenses just for the asethetic and fashion of it. Its just comical considering where things headed with glasses. Definitely a bit unexpected

“Hair cut. Hair styling. Hair lesson. Hair magic. Come on, keep up.”

I love this line, simply because he sounds so sassy with it

“She’s fragile,” Heeseung calls after her with a smirk as he saunters toward the waiting bench. “Mentally and emotionally.”

Hes so annoying I wanna strangle him

Once you’re outside, you finally say it, because someone has to. “You’re not going to call her.”

“Nope,” he replies, the ‘p’ popping off his lips like punctuation. 

I shouldnt have laughed. Poor Yuri.

I like that eventhough this is a whole plan for mc to attract Soobin, it gets her out of her comfort zone and the moment with the dress is cut because I think she honestly just needed more confidence. As someone who prioritizes comfort over everything, Im genuinely super happy for her. Also giggly over Heeseung’s reaction to her :) 

Your heart feels like it’s doing somersaults, and not because of Soobin.

Im grinning so big over this

Smiling again because her whole interaction with Soobin at the computer lab is so cute actually

You force a smile. “I like your… phone.” He blinks again. You want to die. “I mean — I like your case! It’s… very rectangular. Classic. Minimalist.”

Genuinely might pass out in embarrassment, why would Hee make her do this😭😭AND HE HAS A BOYFRIEND OH MY GOD. Rain I will die

“Try the dress. You know the one.”

Fuck meeeeeee. Oh my god

“Wait. Are you new? Like, transfer student new? 

I said oh my god out loud again. Oh my fuck. (Love the boys, truly) but i hate men (yes, there is a difference here)

“She’s always looked like this,” Heeseung says coolly, giving them a look that says don’t push it. “You just never paid attention.”

Smiling because this feels super sweet to me

Dani crosses her arms. “And with him?” 

I am having full convos with myself over this. Like ew, dont say it like that.

His eyes are dark and unreadable, but his voice is soft when he says, “They don’t get to make you feel like that. No one does.”

Im fucking soft I cant do this

I cringed so bad when Wonyoung re-appeared. Like, girl not again

RAIN HELLO???? COPS??? Girl wasfinally going to have her moment😭

I am now going to go crazy over Hee giving her the option to go home moments before. Fuck. Hes so sweet and I genuinely feel like ripping my hair out

“I can teach you,” he repeated, “so you’re not inexperienced when you finally get Soobin.”

Going to start fucking sobbing. Hee it aint going to be that easy. You know that

You blinked at him, dazed, lips still tingling. “I  —I think I need another lesson.” He grinned, something sparking behind his eyes, and then nodded. “I think so too.” 

Oh fuck me, they are so sweet actually

“Let’s get you back to the dorms before I forget this is supposed to be educational.”

Oh my god. Im so giggly

But then, somewhere between explaining tragic irony and discussing the gothic atmosphere, his focus started to slip. You were mid-sentence when you felt it, his fingers poking at your side, soft and quick like a spark.

Man, theyre so cute with this natural chemistry. Its getting to me

Despite the kisses they literally just shared I think they developed such a sweet friendship actually. And the way he literally showed her his Lit midterm grade ugh :::( they are so sweet, I love them.

Your smile faltered, just a hair. Because somewhere, buried beneath all your excited nerves and fresh lip gloss, there it was. That voice. Small. Soft. Inconvenient. What if I don’t want Soobin anymore? You blinked, shoved it down. Laughed, even, like it wasn’t true. But it was. Or at least…it was becoming true. Every second you spent with Heeseung, that voice got louder. The boy who was once just a cocky annoyance was now a constant in your thoughts. He made you laugh. Made you feel seen. Kissed you like you were the only girl in the universe.

I didnt wanna highlight this entire part but I couldnt help it. I really loved every moment juse reading it.

Also Wonyoung :( And Hee immediately defending mc, i cant do this

“Never have I ever…” she began, the silence prickling around her, “been a loser virgin that no man wants to touch.” 

I think thats crazy even for her.

“Y/N, that means you have to put your hand up.” 

Thats really fucking crazy actually

Dani scoffed, disgust heavy in her voice. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Cut it out.”

The fact that Dani says something as well (i meant this in a not mean way) says something.

“I want you to take my virginity.”

The way I gasped so loud HELLO????

Heeseung asking her if shes sure again, Rain I cant do this

The kiss wasn’t like the one in the car, not teasing, not frantic. This one was patient, intentional. Like he was asking permission with every soft press of his mouth, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your yes.

Ohmy godddddd

He just stayed there beside you, your bodies tangled beneath his sheets, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hipbone. You rested your cheek on his shoulder, skin still tingling, your heart finally slowing. And for a long time, neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to.

I might genuinely pass out

Listening to ABC by Polypia ft. Sophia Black is genuinely how I felt for the last bit of this for real

Bro.

Beomgyu.

🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️

And he doesnt say what he was going to anymore :::(( 

Also Soobin is pretty sweet to apologize on Wonyoung’s behalf

He gives a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Do you… have a crush on me?”

This made me have the most visceral reaction in the worst way possible.

The whole him kissing her?? Mc’s “I think I’m in love with him.” I genuinely think im short-circuiting rn

Bless Soobin’s sweet soul tho oh my god

Noooo not the scene with Wonyoung and Hee I cannot do this.

Mentally crashing out that I cant even say more in response

ALSO DANI??? AND SAKURA?? :(((( OH MY GOD IM SO GLAD THEYRE BACK

“We’re so sorry,” Dani begins, voice low and earnest. “For everything. For not being better friends, for not being there when you needed us.” Sakura nods, her eyes shimmering with an unspoken apology. “We love you, Y/n. We do. And we’re sorry for making you feel anything less than amazing.”

THIS IS MY HAPPY END IDC😭😭the girls are good!!

“Sometimes, we’re even jealous of you. You make everything seem so effortless, being smart, funny, just... you. We try so hard, but you just shine naturally.”

Not this being what makes me tear up :( i love them

Sakura appears at your side like she’s always belonged there and gives you a little nudge. “Hey,” she says, smiling with all her teeth, “Can you go grab the extra cooler outside? It’s on the deck.”

This feels suspicious 

“No,” he says, stepping toward you. “Looking like you. Just — you. Glasses, hoodie, stubborn scowl and all. You're beautiful.” Your breath stutters. The world sways. You try to speak, to make a joke, to do anything, but your lips don’t work. He fills the silence. “You’re so beautiful,” he says again, his voice stronger now. “And I love you.”

Biting my finger and screaming at 1am

“Told me she heard you and Soobin hooking up. She tried to kiss me. Said I should get over it. But I didn’t care what she said. Even if you were with Soobin, I didn’t want her. I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.” 

Oh my god

“I was never going to get in the way of you and him if that’s what you really wanted,”

Bro.

“I love you. Just the way you are. And I think I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at Sunghoon’s party. When you insulted my G.P.A and spilled that drink all over yourself.”  He laughs, almost breathless. “That’s when I knew I was doomed.”

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 Hes so into her oh god

Somewhere behind you, from the house, you hear Beomgyu shout, “ARE THEY FINALLY MAKING OUT?!” And then Jake yells, “SUNGHOON OWES ME FIFTY BUCKS!”

LOL😭This is so Beomgyu and Jake actually

You grin, cheeks flushed. “Worth it.” Because it is. It always was.

Oh my god. I cant believe I made it to the end. This was so sweet :) This may be now the only version of DUF i think about. I love it. I love that the girls were reunited in the end, that honestly made me the happiest. But in all, Im happy that mc loves herself as is, Im happy her friends and her cleared the air. And most of all I love that she went from liking the idea of Soobin, doing all this for him to fall in love with Heeseung in the end. Im so happy I finally got to read this fic. Rain, you made me a very happy girlie.

OPERATION: HOW NOT TO GET THE GIRL L.HS

SYNOPSIS ⦂ You've never fit in. That much was true. Always feeling like the odd one out in your friend group. But when you're told to your face, well everything becomes more clear. Suddenly, every sidelong glance, every pity laugh, every party invitation that felt like a mistake, makes a little more sense. But it still stings. Especially when it comes to Soobin; sweet, soft-spoken, out-of-your-league Soobin, who doesn’t even know you exist beyond the orbit of your prettier friends. Enter Heeseung: campus golden boy, effortlessly charming, dangerously smug. He’s the type of guy who knows exactly how attractive he is — and how to use it. When he overhears your predicament (okay, maybe you yell about it a little too loudly in the hallway), he makes you an offer: he’ll help you reinvent yourself, rewrite your story, and finally get Soobin’s attention. In exchange? You’ll tutor him through senior lit, a class he's on the verge of flunking. You agree, of course. What could possibly go wrong?

PAIRINGS: heeseung x fem!reader

WARNINGS: smut mdni, virginity loss, jealousy, alcohol use, mean girls, talk of toxic beauty standards, college setting, ft Dani (katseye), Sakura (le sserafim), Soobin (txt), jay, sunghoon, jake, beomgyu (txt), wonyoung (ive), angst, slight miscommunication + more i’m probably forgetting.

WORD COUNT: 28K

RAIN'S MIC IS ON ࿐ haiii this is based on the movie "the duff" i wanted to give this a fun and very like early 2000s rom-comy vibes!! I do want to note especially that i do not support the toxic mindset that makeup and no glasses and dressing slutty automatically makes you more visually appealing, i think that's a mindset we should be letting go of but for the sake of fiction, it will be playing a part in this. Just a reminder that everyone is beautiful no matter what you wear or what you look like. Wear makeup if you want, or don't. Glasses do not equal ugly and nerdy. Also in this, i shortened “DUFF” to “DUF” because even in fiction i don’t feel comfortable saying “fat” so in my version it just means “designated ugly friend” which is still eh, but again for the sake of fiction it will have to do, Please remember those standards are out dated. Love you all hope you have fun with this like i did (: thank you so much to my love @yeonmuse for helping make the banner, she’s so talented check her out guys.

You’re not sure why you came. 

The music pulses like a second heartbeat as you linger in the doorway of the house, the bass reverberating through your ribcage. Inside, it’s packed wall-to-wall with bodies moving in a chaotic kind of harmony, shoulders brushing, drinks sloshing, laughter climbing over music like ivy. You follow the familiar trail of your best friends, Dani and Sakura, as they dive headfirst into the party’s epicenter. They're already laughing with someone, effortlessly folding themselves into a circle of golden-lit conversation. You’re left in the doorway like static caught on the edge of a signal, half-there, mostly invisible. You try to speak, to jump into the flow, but your voice is swallowed by the noise.

Dani’s turning her head too fast, Sakura’s already moving on to a new story. It’s not their fault. They love you. They try; they always do. But in places like this, where charisma is currency and the loudest person wins, you always come up short. You’re the comma in their sentence. The pause between moments.

Eventually, Dani hooks her arm through yours and grins. “Come on. Let’s get some air.” You let them lead you outside, where the music softens behind glass doors and the cool night air brushes against your skin. The wooden deck is lit by string lights and scented faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. And that’s when you see them; The it boys on campus, Leaning against the railing like some untouchable constellation: Heeseung, Beomgyu, Sunghoon, Jay, and Jake. Each one a caricature of cool in different flavors. Beomgyu’s laughing with his head thrown back. Jake is draped over the deck chair like he owns it. Sunghoon and Jay are mid-story. And then there’s Heeseung, casual arrogance wrapped in black denim and a hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms. 

The moment the girls approach, everyone shifts to accommodate them, the circle expanding like ripples on water. You find yourself next to Heeseung, who throws you a brief glance that feels like an assessment. His gaze dips for a second to your glasses and lingers. You know that look. You’ve seen it before in classrooms and locker-lined hallways. The look that decides exactly who you are in the span of two seconds and four syllables: nerd. Unworthy of any and all social interaction beside incandescent teasing. How comical that was. “You guys,” Heeseung says, in that smooth, drawling voice that makes everything he says sound vaguely amused, “Mr. Yoon was on my ass today. Said if I bomb this next lit paper, he’s yanking my scholarship. Like, sorry I don’t care about symbolism in 18th-century poetry, man.” 

Sakura perks up, turning to look at you. “Wait She’s amazing at lit! Like, scary good.” 

“She tutors people all the time,” Dani adds, nudging you playfully. You blink, caught mid-sip of something lukewarm in a red cup, and find five pairs of curious eyes settling on you. Including his.

Heeseung’s lip quirks. “Oh, I’m sure she is.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He gestures loosely toward your face, vaguely circling your glasses. “Nothing. Just, you’ve got that whole bookish prodigy vibe. You know. Brainiac chic.” 

“Brainiac chic?” You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your insult? Do you even have a GPA?” His friends snicker. Jake lets out a low “oooh,” and Beomgyu slaps Heeseung on the back like he’s just taken a hit.

Heeseung, unfazed, smiles lazily. “Touché. Though, I’m not the one who just quoted my GPA like it’s a flex.” You can’t help the way your lip twitches. You shouldn’t enjoy this. You do. Heeseung is irritating. Arrogant. Infuriatingly pretty. But he’s listening. He’s bantering back. In this weird, warped little moment, you almost feel like you matter. 

And then he walks up. Soobin. You spot him from the corner of your eye, tall and soft around the edges, dressed in an oversized hoodie that somehow still makes him look like a dream. His hair’s a little messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and his smile; God, his smile, curls up slow when he sees your group. He says something to Jake, who waves him over, and then he’s standing in your circle, next to you, and your brain short-circuits. You try to say hi, but it comes out as a hiccuped squeak. Your voice cracks in three different places, and as if fate hadn’t humiliated you enough, you flinch backward and knock your elbow straight into the flimsy drink table behind you. The cup in your hand slips, spins midair, and splashes all over your shirt in one mortifying arc. 

Soobin blinks. Heeseung stares. You feel the heat crawl up your neck like a flame eating paper. Someone offers you a napkin, Dani, maybe — but it doesn’t matter. You’re already backing away. “I—I’m gonna go,” you mumble. “I’ll see you guys later.” You turn before anyone can say anything else, your heartbeat thudding in your ears, the deck already blurry with shame. Behind you, the laughter starts again, soft, harmless, not mean, not really; but it doesn't matter. You’re already gone. And you have no idea how this mess is only just beginning. 

The next morning arrives not like a promise, but like a punishment. The sun is too bright, the sky too smugly blue, like even the weather knows what happened last night. You drag yourself across campus wrapped in oversized layers, hoodie strings pulled tight around your face like armor. You haven't checked your phone since the party. Not because it hasn’t lit up — it has, but because you can’t bear to face the missed calls and texts blinking like tiny sirens across the screen. Dani: “hey, are you okay?” Sakura: “babe, call us pls.” A voicemail you didn’t dare open. It’s all waiting for you like unopened letters from a version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore. 

Because last night, you crumbled in front of Soobin. You keep replaying it like a cursed tape in your head: the way your voice cracked, the look of gentle confusion on his face, the splash of cheap punch soaking through your shirt like a scarlet stamp of shame. You can still feel the sting of it; hot, sticky, humiliating. You picture the exact moment his eyes met yours and how quickly you broke, like a window catching a stone at the wrong angle. You didn’t even say goodbye to Dani or Sakura. Just ran. Just let the night swallow you whole. And now, in the cruel light of day, everything feels worse. 

Your footsteps echo a little too loudly on the concrete path through campus. You keep your head down, gaze locked on your shoes as the crowds blur around you in streaks of motion and color. But you feel them; eyes. Not direct. Not obvious. Just there. Flicking toward you. Lingering. Someone lets out a muffled laugh as you pass. You tell yourself it has nothing to do with you, but the way your stomach clenches betrays you. It’s a peculiar kind of spotlight, being noticed for all the wrong reasons. You’re used to being invisible, not mocked. You never asked for attention, never needed a stage. But now you’re walking through campus like a meme brought to life, like the punchline of a joke you didn’t know you were telling. You pass a group of students lounging on the lawn. One nudges the other. Another whispers something behind a hand. Laughter. It could be about anything. It could be nothing. But you flinch like it’s a slap to the face. So you keep walking, keep shrinking.

Your classroom isn’t far, but the distance feels endless. Like the stretch of hallway in a nightmare where your legs move but you never get anywhere. When you finally reach the door, your hands tremble as you pull it open, slipping inside with all the urgency of someone trying to outrun their own shadow. The air inside is still and cold, the hum of fluorescents a dull buzz in your ears. You’re too wrapped in your own spiral to notice where your feet take you. The room is already half full, students murmuring over open laptops, pens clicking like insects in early spring. You move on autopilot, slipping into the first empty seat you see near the back, hoping the distance from the front will buy you some much-needed invisibility.

But the moment you set your bag down and glance to your left, the universe decides to play its favorite game, humiliation, round two. Because there he is. Lee Heeseung. Slouched in his chair with all the grace of someone who’s never had to try too hard, hoodie sleeves pushed up again like it’s a personal brand, one knee bouncing lazily. His arm’s draped over the back of the chair, dangerously close to yours, and he’s already looking at you when you meet his eyes, eyebrow raised, lips curled in that signature smirk that could make a mirror blush. “Well, well,” he says, low and smug. “Couldn’t get enough of me, could you?” You blink, brain short-circuiting for half a second before the sarcasm kicks in like muscle memory.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, your voice dry as dust. “I just had to sit next to the guy who thinks MLA formatting is a type of sandwich.” Heeseung whistles through his teeth, hand pressed to his heart like you wounded him. “Wow. Vicious. No wonder you’re single.”

Without missing a beat, you smile sweetly, and flip him off. And that’s what does it. Heeseung bursts out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a half-chuckle. A full-bodied, belly-deep laugh that shakes his shoulders and lights up his whole stupidly handsome face. It’s loud, too; sharp enough to draw a few curious glances from the rows in front of you. Someone turns around. Another student raises an eyebrow. But Heeseung just throws his head back and laughs, like you’re the funniest thing to ever happen to 9 a.m. lit. And somehow, against your will, a laugh bubbles out of you, too. 

Just a snort at first, barely more than breath. But it grows, because you can’t help it, because it was kind of funny, because maybe you’re so bone-tired from crying that anything even slightly absurd feels like a lifeline. You laugh into your palm, trying to hide it, but that only makes Heeseung grin wider. “See?” he says, nudging your arm with his elbow. “I knew you liked me.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re delusional.”

“And yet,” he hums, “here you are.”You shake your head, biting back another smile—and for a second, just a second, you don’t care that people are still glancing at the two of you. You don’t care that your shirt from last night is crumpled in your laundry basket or that the video of you spilling punch may or may not be circling the group chat. You don’t care that your friends probably think you’re ghosting them. Because for this one moment, there’s no spotlight. No pressure.

The rest of the class unfolds in a quiet, uninterrupted hum. The professor drones on about motifs and metaphor, and your pen finally scratches to life again. Heeseung doesn’t speak after that, not really, but you can feel the lingering heat of his presence beside you, like a low flame that won’t go out. You catch yourself glancing his way more than once. He catches you every time. 

Class ends in a quiet unraveling. You gather your things slowly, letting the rows of students trickle out ahead of you like a stream smoothing stone. Heeseung’s already up, stretching his arms over his head in that effortless way that shouldn't be allowed this early in the day. He tosses you a wink as he moves toward the door, and you pretend to roll your eyes, even as something traitorous inside you flutters like a curtain caught in wind. You follow the flow of students into the hallway, hoping to blend in. Hoping, maybe foolishly, that today might end on a quieter note.

But fate has sharp teeth. 

A manicured hand taps your shoulder just as you pass beneath the atrium light, and when you turn, you’re met with a smile so sugar-slick and venom-laced it makes your spine stiffen on instinct. Jang Wonyoung. She’s standing in front of you like a statue carved from polished ambition, long legs, glossy hair, not a flaw in sight. Her clothes are designer without needing to scream it, her lip gloss a shade too pink to be innocent. She oozes confidence, curated and sharpened to a point. And you know who she is — everyone does. She’s not just the most popular girl on campus, she’s the one people orbit around. She’s the center of gravity in every room she enters. You’ve never spoken to her before. 

“You’re friends with Dani and Sakura, right?” she says sweetly, voice as light as powdered sugar.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah,” you answer, nodding a little too quickly, nerves flaring. “I am.” Her smile doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes hardens. Shifts. It’s like watching a rose bloom only to realize the thorns are still sharper than the petals. She tilts her head slightly, and for a moment, you almost wonder if this is some kind of polite small talk. But then she leans in just enough for her perfume to ghost past your cheek; something expensive and calculated, and her voice drops to a murmur, low and cruel. 

“Don’t think for one second you have a chance with Heeseung.” She blinks, lashes fluttering like knives. “DUF.” You freeze. The letters don’t click at first. They hang there in the air between you, meaningless and jagged. You open your mouth, confusion spilling out in a quiet stammer. “Wait — what’s a DUF?” 

Wonyoung’s smile stretches wider, and it’s not a smile at all now. It’s the curve of something about to cut. “DUF isn’t a name. It’s what you are,” she purrs. “Designated Ugly Friend.” You stare, the words crashing into you like sleet against glass. You don’t even flinch; not yet. You’re too stunned, too caught between disbelief and dawning horror to react. Your throat tightens. Her words burrow under your skin, cold and gleaming. “You’re always with Dani and Sakura,” she continues, still smiling like this is all just a casual observation, like she’s not peeling your dignity apart with her manicured fingers. “They’re hot. Like, objectively. You’re just… there. To make them look better. That’s your role. Know your place.” 

You open your mouth again, breath hitching in protest. “My name is—” But she cuts you off, voice turning sharper, all pretense abandoned.

“DUF,” she repeats, slow and deliberate. “And Heeseung? He’s out of your league. So do everyone a favor, babe, and stay away from him.” She gives you one last look; final, dismissive, like you were never really worth seeing at all, and then she’s turning on her heel, walking away like she just dropped a bomb and is already bored of the smoke. And you — you just stand there. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears like a drum played out of rhythm. Your feet feel rooted to the tile, your hands limp at your sides, notebook barely clutched in your grip. It’s as if the world has narrowed to a single hallway, a single moment, and Wonyoung’s words are etched on the walls around you. DUF. 

You’ve never heard it before. Not like that. Not named. But now that it’s been said, now that it’s out in the open, it echoes. It colors everything. It twists last night into a sick joke, replays every photo you’ve stood in between Dani and Sakura, every party where you stood off to the side. You see yourself through Wonyoung’s eyes, and the reflection stings. You don’t cry. Not yet. The tears are waiting, crouched behind your ribs, but you won’t let them win. Not in this hallway. Not here. You just swallow hard, lower your head, and walk, each step heavier than the last, as if you’re trying to carry the weight of someone else’s cruelty on your shoulders. And all the while, her words stay with you like a brand: Know your place.

You don’t remember how you got there. One moment you were frozen in that hallway, still tasting Wonyoung’s words on the back of your tongue like something spoiled and sour. The next, you’re seated at the farthest computer in the campus lab, shoulders hunched, the too-bright monitor casting a cold glow across your face. Around you, students move in hushed clicks and muted coughs, the clatter of keyboards filling the silence like light rain. No one looks your way. No one ever does. It’s what you wanted, right? To disappear? To be invisible? But not like this. Your fingers tremble as they hover over the keyboard, uncertain, like they already know what you’re about to unearth. You type DUF first, because that’s what she said. That’s what she called you. The letters feel clunky and unfamiliar, like a language you were never meant to understand. When nothing pops up, you frown, your pulse quickening. 

And then, like the knife finally finding skin, it hits you. And the world splits open. The page fills with links, slang dictionaries, gossip forums, teen advice articles, old Reddit threads dissecting high school hierarchies like scientific taxonomy. You click the first video out of instinct, and a girl on the screen, barely older than you, leans into the camera with a sad smile and says, “The DUF is the Designated Ugly Friend. You’re the least attractive in your friend group, the approachable one, the funny one, the one guys talk to only to get to your prettier friends.” You freeze. Her voice continues, but it becomes background noise to the storm inside your chest. Your heartbeat hammers against your ribs like it wants to escape, and suddenly your body feels far too small for what you’re carrying.

Your fingers move on their own, clicking through link after link like each one might offer a different definition, something softer, something kind. But they don’t. They all echo the same gutting truth. The DUF is the one who fills the empty space. The background character in her own life. The girl who exists not for herself, but as contrast, to make her friends shine brighter by comparison. You feel it like a bruise blooming across your entire being. Memories rise unbidden, like film reels unspooling behind your eyes. The nights out where you stood at the edge of a circle, holding jackets and drinks while Dani and Sakura danced with boys who barely spared you a glance. The time a guy asked you for Sakura’s number while you were still in the middle of a sentence. The photos you’d be cropped out of, the stories you weren’t included in, the parties where you stood on the periphery like a shadow no one noticed. 

You thought it was just how things were. You thought maybe you were just quieter. Shyer. Less hungry for attention. But now the pieces fit. Too well. And what guts you, what truly guts you, is the realization that maybe — just maybe — they knew. Dani and Sakura. Your best friends. Did they know what DUF meant? Had they heard it tossed around and just… never told you? Had they laughed about it with others, let it live in whispers while you smiled beside them, oblivious? Were you some inside joke dressed in loyalty? Did they ever look at you and feel sorry? Or worse, did they agree? 

The nausea coils in your stomach like a slow-moving wave, threatening to rise. You press your palm to your chest, as if you can keep yourself from unraveling entirely. Your vision swims. The sterile blue of the lab feels too bright, too loud, too full of all the wrong kinds of silence. You’re still staring at the glowing screen, that same sentence blinking back at you like a taunt: “The DUFF is the one nobody notices until they need something.” Your throat tightens. You don’t want to be in this body. In this moment. In this story.

You slam the laptop shut without ceremony. The sharp clap of it draws a glance from a boy a few chairs down, but you don’t care. You’re already yanking your bag from the floor, stuffing your notebook inside with shaking hands. Your fingers are clumsy, rushed, like you’re trying to outrun a tidal wave that’s already crashing through you. You need air. You need to move. You need to not be here, not be seen. The walk out of the lab is a blur of cold tiles and humming machines. Your steps echo like betrayal. Like every footfall might draw more eyes, more whispers, more invisible hands pointing in your direction. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you taste salt.

Not the loud, sobbing kind of cry. No, this is something quieter. A leak in the dam. A silent surrender. The kind of crying that happens when the weight of the world doesn’t come crashing down in one dramatic moment; but seeps in, slow and steady, drop by drop, until you’re drowning. You step outside, wind slicing at your face, the sky too wide, too open. You feel small in a way you can’t describe. Not just physically, existentially. Like someone cracked your reflection and you’re left staring at the pieces wondering if any of it was ever real. And in the back of your mind, like a cruel echo still clinging to the walls of your skull, her voice repeats: Know your place, DUF. 

The first thing you do after leaving the computer lab is search. You needed to see Dani and Sakura. You find them exactly where you knew they’d be. The C building’s hallway is packed, echoing with the end-of-period rush. Footsteps slap against the floors in every direction. Lockers clang open and shut, laughter weaves in and out of the noise like a skipping stone. The scent of dry erase markers, mint gum, and cheap coffee lingers in the air. But it all feels distant to you, muted, irrelevant. Like you’re underwater, moving through the crowd on instinct, not thought. And then, through the blur of motion and sound, you see them. Dani and Sakura.

The two girls you’ve called your best friends since freshman year. The ones who’ve seen you through breakups, panic attacks, late-night cramming sessions and slow, sleepy Sunday brunches. The ones who claimed to love you. They’re standing outside their chemistry lecture, laughing at something; Sakura’s head thrown back, Dani’s hip nudging hers. It’s such a familiar picture that for a split second, you hesitate. For a split second, your brain lies to you.  Maybe they don’t know. Maybe Wonyoung was wrong. Maybe everything was just some cruel misunderstanding. But your heart knows better.  You push through the crowd with the desperation of someone chasing the truth, and the second your voice cuts through the air, they turn to you, your hair wild from the wind, breath ragged from running, eyes rimmed with something between fury and heartbreak. “Did you guys know?”

The words tumble out too fast, ragged at the edges, raw like a wound. They both blink at you, confusion washing over their faces like clouds across sunlight. “Know what?” Sakura asks slowly, brow furrowing. Dani’s already stepping forward, hand brushing your arm gently, like she’s afraid you might shatter on contact. “What are you talking about?”

And then you say it; louder than you meant to, louder than you ever thought you’d say anything in public. “Did you know I’m your fucking DUF?” The hallway doesn’t go silent, but it feels like it does. Their faces freeze, and you see it instantly, the flicker of recognition in Sakura’s eyes, the tightness in Dani’s jaw. It’s not confusion now. It’s not disbelief. It’s guilt. Guilt. They look at each other. It’s barely a glance, half a heartbeat, but it’s all the confirmation you need. Something in your chest gives, a sickening drop that feels like the floor vanishing beneath your feet. 

Your voice splinters when you speak again. “What? Are you just friends with me because you feel bad for me?” Your words hang in the air like smoke, heavy and choking. Dani’s eyes widen, her mouth opening like she’s about to say something, anything but you see the panic settle across her face. She wasn’t ready for this. They never expected you to find out. They never thought you’d ask.

“That’s not—” Sakura starts, then stops.

Dani shakes her head fast, her voice stumbling over itself. “That’s not true. Don’t say that.”

“Then why?” you ask, louder now, pain bubbling up from somewhere deep and long-buried. “Why did you always brush me off when I said I liked Soobin? Why did you laugh when I said I thought he might like me back? Why did you look at me like I was crazy?” They don't answer. Not really. They just look at you with wide eyes and silence thick between them.

“You didn’t think I was pretty enough,” you say, and your voice cracks right down the middle. Dani swallows. Her hands are wringing the strap of her backpack like she doesn’t know what to do with them. She steps closer again, gentler this time, quieter. “We don’t think you’re ugly,” she says, the words coming slowly, like they hurt her to say. “It’s just… you could try a little harder, you know? Like, you don’t really… put effort in.” The air leaves your lungs in a rush.

You feel it physically, like someone just knocked the wind out of you, punched a hole in your chest and left it gaping open for everyone to see. The people around you are still moving, still living their lives, but all you can hear is the echo of those words: try harder. As if your entire existence hasn’t been one long effort to be enough. And before you can respond, Sakura adds, “You’re just… not Soobin’s type, that’s all.” You blink. Your mind blanks. Your heart is already in pieces, but that line cracks the rest of you open. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you ask, your voice trembling, not with fear, but with something deeper, more dangerous. Rage wrapped in heartbreak. Sakura falters. She opens her mouth, but no answer comes out. Dani shifts uncomfortably beside her. Their faces are pale now, eyes darting around, noticing for the first time how many people are starting to look. How many are pretending not to listen. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to undo every moment of vulnerability you ever gave them. But more than anything, you want to run. Because staying here, standing in this hallway, heart bared like a wound while the people you loved carve you apart, hurts more than anything you’ve ever felt. You shake your head slowly, backing away from them as the tears begin to fall in earnest. “I thought you were my friends,” you whisper, and then louder, “I trusted you.” Dani reaches out again, but this time you pull back. You don’t want her comfort. You don’t want her pity. You don’t want to hear another word. So you turn. And you walk.

You don’t care that people are watching. You don’t care that your shoulders are shaking, that your tears are spilling freely now, or that your bag keeps slipping down your arm. You walk faster, pushing through the crowd until the voices blur behind you, until the memory of their faces fades into the roar of everything breaking apart. And as you go, the thought haunts you, echoing over and over in your skull: They knew. They knew. They knew. And they never told you. 

The doors to the C building groan shut behind you, sealing away the voices, the stares, the wreckage. But the damage doesn’t stay inside. It clings to you, stitched into your skin like frostbite; cold, deep, and invisible to everyone else. The sting of betrayal coils inside your chest, twisting tighter with every step you take. Your breathing’s uneven. Not quite sobbing, but close. That awful in-between sound, caught in your throat like a scream that refuses to come out. The air outside is biting, too cold for early fall, but you hardly notice. It brushes your cheeks like ghost hands, cuts through your sweater, lifts the ends of your hair, nothing reaches you. Not really. You're numb in a way that feels permanent, like someone turned the volume of the world all the way down and you forgot how to turn it back up.

People pass by, some look, some don’t. A few recognize you, eyes flickering with half-curiosity, half-concern, but no one says anything. And thank god for that, because if anyone did, if even one person tried to ask if you were okay, you think you'd crumble. Right there on the sidewalk. Crumple like paper and never get back up again. The walk from the C building to your dorm stretches impossibly long. Every step is heavier than the last, as if the weight of Dani and Sakura’s words is dragging behind you, chained to your ankles. You replay it all, the glances, the hesitations, the way Dani looked away when you asked if they knew, the way Sakura's voice sounded too rehearsed, like she’d already decided what version of the truth you were allowed to hear.

“You could try harder.”

“You’re just not his type.”

Those words circle you like vultures. You can’t outrun them. You can’t out-walk what’s inside your chest. By the time you reach the dorm building, you’re shaking. Not from the cold, but from everything else. Rage. Shame. Heartbreak. All of it, bottled and clinking against your ribs like glass ready to shatter. Your key slips once in the door before you finally shove it in and turn, stumbling down the hall to your room like you’ve just escaped a storm only to find another waiting inside. You push the door open and don’t bother turning on the lights. You don’t take your shoes off. You don’t put your bag down. You don’t think. You just collapse.

Straight onto your bed, face-first, like gravity’s been waiting all day for you to break. The mattress groans under the weight of your body, the quiet rustle of blankets the only sound in the room. But even that silence feels loud. And then — finally — you scream. It’s muffled into your pillow, soaked into the cotton and foam, but it rips through you like it’s been building for years. A scream made of all the things you couldn’t say in that hallway. All the pain you swallowed down so no one would see you break. All the confusion, all the loneliness, all the self-doubt bubbling up into one long, raw, aching sound.

You scream because you thought they were your people. You scream because you believed, deeply, that you were loved. You scream because you didn’t know you were being pitied.

And when your voice finally gives out, when your throat goes raw and your breathing hitches in the dark, you don’t move. You just lie there, curled into yourself like something wounded, like you could shrink so small the world might forget you were ever here. Your pillow is damp now, tears soaking through it, hot and angry. You clutch it tighter like it might hold you together. For the first time in a long time, you feel completely and utterly alone. And the scariest part? You're not even sure who you can talk to anymore. Who’s left. Who actually sees you. Because the people you trusted the most already proved they never did.

The morning light is a pale, washed-out gray, soft and dull like an old photograph, like something that’s been wrung out of color and left to dry. You move through campus like a ghost, every step stiff and heavy, your limbs still echoing with the ache of yesterday’s unraveling. Sleep had barely kissed you the night before. It lingered at the edges of your consciousness but never quite arrived, chased away by looping memories, sharp-edged phrases, and the hollow ache in your chest where trust used to live. You’ve walked this path to Literature 204 a hundred times, maybe more. But today it feels different. The air around you feels thicker somehow, like it knows what happened, like the whole campus has been whispering about you while your back was turned. You keep your head low, hands shoved deep into the sleeves of your hoodie, as if retreating into yourself will make you smaller, less visible, less whatever-the-hell-you-are-now. The DUF. The outcast. The joke.

When you finally step into the lecture hall, it’s mostly empty, the way it always is ten minutes before class starts. The lights are half-dimmed, flickering in patches as if still waking up themselves. A few early birds have already staked their seats, nose-deep in books, airpods in, sipping lukewarm coffee out of dented thermoses. And then, of course, there’s him. Heeseung. You spot him near the front, standing beside Mr. Yoon’s desk. They’re speaking in hushed tones, but the words carry in this room where the ceilings are too high and silence feels sacred. You hadn’t meant to listen, you weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but your ears catch on the tension in their voices, the frustration curling at the edges of Heeseung’s sentences. You hear fragments. Tutor. Flunk. Drop out. Phrases that sound too final, too heavy for someone who always seemed so effortless. 

You tell yourself not to care. You’ve got your own storm to navigate. You slide into your usual seat halfway up the rows, far enough to disappear, close enough to hear, and drop your bag beside you with a sigh. Your heart still feels raw, your stomach still tied in knots. You’re exhausted in a way that no amount of sleep can fix. And then you hear his footsteps. Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t scan the room for alternatives. He just makes a beeline straight for you and drops into the seat beside yours like it’s his god-given right. His presence is large, like it always is, broad shoulders draped in a hoodie two sizes too big, the scent of citrus cologne and coffee trailing behind him like something you could trip on. Usually, there’s a quip on his lips, something smug and irritating and just a little too charming. But today he’s quiet. And so are you.

For a long moment, nothing passes between you but breath. The quiet around you folds in like a cocoon, the only sounds the low murmur of Mr. Yoon gathering his notes and the soft click of someone’s mechanical pencil two rows back. And then, Heeseung leans back with a sigh and says, “Quite the spectacle you had going for you yesterday.”

You groan before you can stop yourself, dragging a hand over your face like you could scrub the memory out of existence. Your eyes narrow as you turn to him, voice sharp with lingering humiliation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He’s already grinning, his mouth tilted up in that signature way that makes you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time, not that you’d ever admit that out loud. “Relax,” he says, stretching his arms lazily over his head. “I just mean, you, Sakura, and Dani? Everyone’s talking about it. It was, like, the hallway soap opera of the year.”

Your cheeks burn. You can feel the blood rising in your face like fire licking at your skin. Of course people were talking. Of course the entire goddamn campus probably had a front-row seat to your implosion. “Great,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest, “exactly what I needed, public humiliation on top of personal betrayal.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like it isn’t your entire world unraveling. But then, out of nowhere, he asks, “How long have you had a thing for Soobin?”

Your heart skips. Not in a cute, rom-com way. In a fuck, how does he know that kind of way. You blink, caught off guard, mouth fumbling for a denial that won’t sound like a lie. “I don’t, what are you even talking about?” He just smirks, eyes glinting with quiet mischief. “Come on. I’m not an idiot. The way you looked at him at that party? Like he was your last meal. It was kinda cute.” 

Your stomach turns, part mortification, part defensiveness. “Why do you even care?” Heeseung shrugs again, but this time there’s something more calculated behind his gaze. “Because I think I can help you.”

You raise a brow. “Help me?” 

“You like Soobin. Soobin doesn’t even know your name. I know what guys like him want, hell, I am guys like him,” he says, voice dipped in arrogance that somehow still doesn’t feel entirely cruel. “I could get you there. Make him see you. Want you.” You let out a sharp laugh, humorless and jagged. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not really in the mood to turn myself into a Barbie doll just to impress a guy.”

“Suit yourself,” Heeseung says easily, turning back toward the front of the room like he couldn’t care less. “But when Soobin’s off making out with someone like Yunjin behind the gym, don’t come crying to me.” That line strikes like lightning, quick, bright, and unmistakably true. Because you have seen Soobin talking to Yunjin lately. Smiling. Laughing. He held the door open for her last week and you felt like your heart was trying to crawl out of your throat. And now the thought of him kissing her, or anyone, while you’re still sitting on the sidelines hoping for a miracle? It makes something sharp twist in your chest. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, arms crossed tighter now, and Heeseung must sense your hesitation because he glances sideways again. “I’m just saying,” he murmurs, this time softer. “You help me pass lit, I help you not be invisible. Easy.” It’s insane. It’s humiliating. It’s kind of insulting, if you think about it long enough. But it’s also… tempting. Because what other option do you have? Soobin doesn’t know you exist. Your friends, the ones who were supposed to build you up, have already torn you down. And Heeseung, for all his cockiness, sees you. Maybe not the way you want to be seen. But still. 

Slowly, you turn your palm upward between you. He grins, all teeth and trouble, and slides his hand into yours. You shake. And just like that, the deal is struck. 

The evening sun sinks past the dorm window like a sigh, casting the whole room in the soft gold of a day exhaling. You’re curled up on your bed in an oversized hoodie, legs crossed, a nearly-empty takeout container of bulgogi balanced dangerously on your thigh. The smell of garlic and soy sauce clings to the air like a second blanket, and you don’t care. You’ve earned this. You’ve survived this week, barely, and now you’re self-soothing with salty meat and zero regrets. Your phone buzzes once against the sheets beside you. You ignore it at first. Probably Dani or Sakura again. Their texts have been coming in slow waves all day; apologies, explanations, questions that aren’t really questions. You’ve left them on read, unread, ignored altogether. You’re not ready. You don’t know when you will be. But the phone buzzes again. And then again. Finally, with a huff, you set your chopsticks down and snatch the device up. It’s not a contact you recognize, just a random number. But the message?

[Unknown Number]

what are you doing tomorrow?

You blink. Narrow your eyes. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, halfway to typing who is this when another text lands: 

[ heeseung ]

it’s heeseung

Duh. 

And wow. Of course he wouldn’t lead with an introduction. Or an ounce of normal human decorum. You don’t even remember giving him your number; maybe it was one of those group projects last semester or maybe he’s just unsettlingly resourceful. Either way, you're already rolling your eyes. You type back, begrudgingly.

[ you ] 

nothing. why? 

There’s barely a pause before the dots start dancing again. 

[ heeseung ] 

i’m taking you shopping and then we’re going to a party, you’ll wear what we buy and pretend to be hot for once. You nearly drop your phone into your bulgogi. You stare at the screen for a second too long, as if the sheer arrogance of his words might combust it in your hands. Shopping? Party? Pretend to be hot?

[ you ] 

what the hell does “pretend to be hot” mean???

[ heeseung ] 

it means we’re working with what we got. you’ll be fine. trust the process. 

You audibly groan and collapse backwards onto your pillow, phone pressed against your forehead as if it might somehow absorb the stress and return with divine wisdom. This was the deal, you remind yourself. You help him pass lit, he helps you with... what? Popularity? Style? Winning Soobin's attention through sorcery and strategic eyeliner? 

[ you ] 

i’m not “pretending” to be hot just to impress soobin. i have standards , and pride and a favorite hoodie that smells like detergent and self pity

[ heeseung ] 

noted. wear something that’s easy to take off tomorrow.

[ you ] 

HEY. phrasing.

[ heeseung ] 

relax. for the fitting room, nerd. I’ll be at your dorm at 1. and yes, soobin’s going to be at the party ;)

You stare at that last line for a beat too long. Something flutters, just faintly, in your stomach, uninvited.

[ you ] 

Fine. but if this party ends with me throwing up in a bush i’m holding you personally responsible.

[ heeseung ] 

deal. i’ll even hold your hair back. I'm generous like that.

You throw your phone onto the bed, face-down, like it’s suddenly on fire. You don’t know why you agreed. Maybe it’s the part of you that still wants Soobin to notice. Maybe it’s pride, or maybe it’s just the sheer inevitability of Heeseung’s energy, like trying to argue with a hurricane wearing a smug smirk. Whatever the reason, you’re already mentally preparing for tomorrow. Shopping. With Heeseung.  A party. With Soobin.  A new outfit. A new you. A new mistake waiting to happen. You look down at your empty bulgogi container, sigh, and mutter to no one: “…this is gonna be a disaster.”

The knock on your door comes precisely at 1PM. Not a second early, not a second late. You open it with one shoe half-on, your hoodie sleeve caught in the zipper of your jacket, and your face still half-moisturized. Heeseung is standing there, leaned casually against the doorframe like a page out of a campus fashion catalogue, black jeans, leather jacket, sunglasses perched on his head like he’s just so effortlessly cool it hurts. His hair is slightly tousled, like he either woke up like this or spent an hour pretending he did. “Took you long enough,” he says, not bothering to hide his smirk. 

You scowl and step out, slamming the door behind you. “I said ‘one second’ in the text.”

“Yeah, and I translated that from Girl to Human Time. So twenty minutes.” You roll your eyes, but you follow him anyway, because the deal has officially begun. Operation: Get Soobin to Notice You is in motion. Your dignity is already halfway out the window. Heeseung’s car is just what you expect, black, sleek, a little too clean, and filled with the faint scent of cologne, mint gum, and chaos. You barely get your seatbelt clicked in before he revs the engine and peels out of the dorm parking lot like he's in a race you didn’t know you entered. 

“Oh my god, slow down!” you yelp, clutching the side handle like it might keep your soul tethered to your body.

“Relax,” he says, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other already reaching for the radio. “You’re acting like I don’t drive this road every day.” 

“You drive it like you’re being chased, Heeseung.” He only grins in response, eyes still on the road, the picture of reckless confidence. “Maybe I like living on the edge.”

You’re about to fire back another sarcastic quip when the car fills, suddenly, gloriously, with the unmistakable sound of Taylor Swift. Specifically: Cruel Summer. And not the background kind of playing. The volume is up. Way up. Your eyes immediately dart to Heeseung, whose mouth is already moving, quietly at first, almost unconsciously, as he taps the steering wheel to the beat. “I’m drunk in the back of the car… and I cried like a baby coming home from the bar…” Your jaw drops slightly. Because he’s not just mouthing the words. He’s singing. And not in a “ha-ha this song is funny” way. In a felt that in his soul, this is on his heartbreak playlist, probably posted a breakup selfie to this in 2021 kind of way. You try. You really try to stifle the laugh bubbling in your throat. You press your lips together, you bite the inside of your cheek, you turn to the window in dramatic fashion. But it slips out anyway, a full, helpless giggle, light and sudden. 

Heeseung cuts his eyes toward you, still softly singing, and raises a brow. “What’s so funny?”

You blink at him innocently. “You like Taylor Swift?” There’s a moment, a beautiful, brief, perfectly humiliating pause, where Heeseung seems to glitch. His mouth opens, then closes, then he looks back at the road like he’s searching for an exit from this conversation. 

“I — well, I mean —” he clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “She’s… I mean, it’s just a good song, alright?”

Your laugh doubles, slipping out like sunlight through cracked blinds. “Cruel Summer, though?”

“She’s a lyrical genius,” he mutters, half-defensive, half-sincere. “That bridge? That’s literature.” 

You raise your brows, lips twitching. “Quoting T-Swift now? Is this what my tutoring is doing to you?” Heeseung flips you off with absolutely no hesitation, but there’s no heat behind it. He’s laughing now too, eyes squinting as he turns into the mall parking lot with a slightly-too-aggressive swerve.

“Fuck off,” he grins. “You wish you had taste this good.” You hold up your hands in surrender, still giggling. “Okay, okay. I’m not judging.”

“You are judging,” he says, putting the car in park. “But I’ll allow it. Because you’re clearly not emotionally evolved enough to appreciate her catalog yet.”

“Oh my god. Shut up.”

“Nope. We’re listening to Lover next. You’ve brought this upon yourself.” 

The mall greets you with its usual blend of too-loud pop music, screaming children, and the sweet, seductive scent of cinnamon pretzels. It’s packed with people, mothers pushing strollers, bored teenagers clinging to oversized shopping bags, couples holding hands like it’s an Olympic sport. You trail behind Heeseung, your feet already regretting your choice of shoes and your soul regretting this entire arrangement. “So what’s first?” you ask, trying not to bump into a mannequin dressed in denim overalls and heartbreak.

Heeseung doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps walking, purposeful, smug, like he’s on a mission from god. Then he abruptly turns left into a store that is suspiciously sleek and minimal. You blink. “Wait—this is…”

“An eyeglass store,” Heeseung finishes for you, already heading toward the back. “But more importantly, contact central.” You halt, crossing your arms. “Excuse me?”

“You’re getting contacts,” he says, matter-of-fact. “The glasses gotta go.”

You look genuinely scandalized. “Hey! I’ll have you know — I love my glasses.” He stops mid-step and slowly turns to face you, one brow arched so high it’s practically touching heaven. “Yes,” he says, voice dry. “Very librarian core. Sexy in a please return your books on time or I’ll gently scold you in a whisper kind of way.” 

You roll your eyes so hard you practically see your ancestors. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are. Following me into Lens & Style like it’s the promised land.” You’re about to argue more, but the woman behind the counter greets you both with a professional smile, and suddenly you’re being ushered into a little fitting room with sterile lighting and a mirror that shows way too much. A few minutes later, you’re handed a trial pair of contacts and instructed, gently, but firmly, to put them in. It’s harder than it looks. “What do you mean I can’t blink? My entire personality is blinking under pressure!” 

Outside the door, Heeseung snorts. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being annoying,” you grumble, poking yourself in the eye again.

After a full five minutes of internal screaming, finger fumbling, and probably some divine intervention, you finally get them in. You blink a few times, adjusting. The world sharpens around the edges. For the first time in forever, you can actually see without the weight of frames perched on your nose. You step out slowly, unsure, blinking into the bright lights of the shop. Heeseung looks up from his phone, his gaze flicking to yours. And then — He freezes. His smirk falters for the briefest of seconds. You see it. You feel it. 

“Huh,” he says, slower now. “They… actually look good.”

You raise a brow, tentative. “Yeah?” He shrugs, but there’s something unreadable in his expression now, something softer, quieter. “They make your eyes stand out more.” He pauses, then adds with zero fanfare: “You’ve got nice eyes.” It lands like a piano dropped from ten stories. Simple, direct, and impossible to ignore. You blink, stunned; not just by the words, but by the way he said them. Like it wasn’t a joke. Like he meant it. Before you can formulate an actual response, Heeseung clears his throat and looks away. “Alright, let’s go,” he says, already walking toward the exit. “You can thank me later when Soobin gets whiplash tonight.” 

It takes you a beat to follow. Just one. But it’s enough to register that your cheeks are suddenly warm. That your stomach did a weird, traitorous flip. That you hate how a single compliment from Lee freaking Heeseung just turned your brain into a puddle. You push the thought aside and jog to catch up, voice light. “You know, for someone who thinks I look like a librarian, you sure stare a lot.”

He doesn’t look at you, but his mouth twitches into a grin. “You wish.” You do not dignify that with an answer. Mostly because your brain is still back at You’ve got nice eyes. And just like that, with one step out of the eyeglass store and into the fluorescent madness of the mall, the first layer of the old you is left behind.

You’ve barely had time to blink, or process the fact that you’re now navigating the mall with 20/20 vision and a slightly compromised emotional state, when Heeseung is dragging you again. His grip on your wrist is light, but determined, like he’s got an agenda and you’re just a reluctant passenger in the Heeseung Express. You stumble to keep up. “Where are we going now? I need emotional closure before the next attack on my personality.”

He doesn’t even turn around. “Hair.”

“Hair what?”

“Hair cut. Hair styling. Hair lesson. Hair magic. Come on, keep up.” You dig your heels into the tile floor and jerk your arm back. “Heeseung, wait — I did not agree to this. My hair is fine!” 

He finally turns, a single amused brow arched in classic Heeseung fashion. “Fine,” he echoes flatly. “That’s the bar now? Fine?”

You cross your arms. “It’s my head.” He takes a step closer, voice dipping into that maddening blend of mockery and charm. He laughs — laughs, the audacity of him, and says, “Relax. It’s just a trim. Maybe some layers. She’s gonna show you how to actually style it too. You know, so it doesn’t look like you were electrocuted every morning before class.”

You gasp in betrayal. “I’m sorry?!”

“Respectfully,” he adds, as if that softens the blow, then gestures for you to follow. “Come on. She doesn’t bite.” You eye the interior of the salon like you’re being led to an altar, but against your better judgment, and possibly because you’re too tired to argue anymore, you follow him. 

The girl waiting for you is already at her station, brushing her long, glossy black hair behind one ear. She’s tall, unfairly pretty, and wearing jeans that should be illegal. Her name tag reads “Yuri” in bubble-letter cursive. She sees Heeseung and her entire face lights up like a rom-com montage in reverse. “Heeseung!” she squeals, standing to give him a hug. It’s the kind of hug that lasts exactly one second too long to be casual. “You didn’t say you were coming in today!”

“I didn’t,” he says coolly, his hand barely grazing her back. “Brought a friend.”

You watch the interaction with narrowed eyes. It doesn’t take a genius, or even a whole brain cell, to figure out that these two have history. Whether it was a one-night stand, a few steamy study sessions, or something more dangerous like feelings, you’re not sure. But based on the way Yuri’s eyes immediately slide past you and lock on Heeseung like you’re the invisible girl in the background of her fantasy novel? Yeah. They’ve definitely seen each other naked. 

“She’s gonna need a trim and a crash course in how not to commit hair crimes.” Heeseung says, throwing a smirk her way. You open your mouth to protest, again but suddenly Yuri’s hands are in your hair and you’re being guided toward a chair like it’s your fate and destiny. “Don’t worry,” she hums. “I’ll take care of her.” 

“She’s fragile,” Heeseung calls after her with a smirk as he saunters toward the waiting bench. “Mentally and emotionally.”

“I will throw a brush at you!” you yell back as he flops onto the bench with his phone. Yuri laughs under her breath and begins to run her fingers through your hair. Her nails are long, her movements graceful, and despite your stubbornness, something about the way she works is oddly calming. For the next half hour, you sit there as she snips and styles and explains how to curl and blow out and not look like you just woke up five minutes ago. 

“You’ve got good hair,” she says at one point, combing through a section with reverence. “You just don’t do anything with it.” You shrug in the mirror. “That’s kind of my thing.”

Yuri gets to work with practiced ease, fingers threading through your hair, sectioning, snipping. She hums to herself as she teaches you how to twist certain pieces, how to round-brush volume into your roots, how to flick the straightener just so to create an effortless bend. It’s overwhelming, but oddly empowering. Like you’re being handed the controls to your own spaceship. And somewhere beneath all the bitchy undertones, Yuri’s… actually pretty good at this. You glance toward the waiting bench. Heeseung is slouched with his legs sprawled out, scrolling on his phone like he’s not the reason this spiral of makeovers and feelings is happening at all. Every few minutes he glances up; quick, unassuming, but you catch him watching.

Finally, Yuri steps back. “Alright,” she says, tugging off the cape with a flourish. “Moment of truth.” You turn slowly toward the mirror. And okay, fine. You look… kind of amazing. Your hair isn’t drastically different, just sleeker. Softer around the edges. Effortlessly polished in that “I woke up like this but with money and a personal stylist” kind of way. It frames your face, brings out your eyes, makes you look like someone who chose to be seen instead of hiding behind glass and sarcasm. You stand, still a little dazed, and make your way over to Heeseung. He looks up just as you reach him, and something flickers in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything right away. 

But then — He grins. That slow, crooked, effortlessly smug grin. “She’s a miracle worker,” he says to Yuri, standing and pulling out his wallet. “Put it on my card.”

Yuri takes it with a wink. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks, Yuri. I’ll call you.” He says, with the offer a wink in her direction. 

She swoons. “You better.”

Once you’re outside, you finally say it, because someone has to. “You’re not going to call her.”

“Nope,” he replies, the ‘p’ popping off his lips like punctuation. 

You shake your head in disbelief. “You are such a menace.”

“I prefer charming rascal,” he says, holding the door open for you like a true gentleman-shaped disaster. “Besides, she’s into guys who ghost her. Keeps the fantasy alive.”

You groan. “You’re actually insane.” He only shrugs, hands in his pockets, strolling beside you with the ease of someone who has never questioned his place in the world. 

The moment your feet hit the tile floor of the clothing store, you know this is going to be a disaster. The air is thick with overpriced perfume and the walls are lined with mannequins posed like they’re judging you. Bright lights buzz overhead, harsh and clinical, and the racks seem to stretch into infinity, each one more chaotic than the last. There are sequin jackets tangled with pastel blouses, jeans with more holes than fabric, and crop tops that look like they were designed for dolls, not human beings. You glance around, disoriented. “There is… absolutely nothing here I’d wear.” 

Heeseung, of course, looks completely in his element. He’s already moving through the racks like a man on a mission, pulling shirts and skirts and things that glitter ominously. “That’s the point,” he says over his shoulder, tossing a fringed jacket onto the growing pile in his arms. “You’re not supposed to wear what you’d wear. We’re evolving.”

“Into what? A disco ball?” 

“No,” he replies seriously, “into the kind of girl Soobin stares at across the room and forgets how to blink.” You roll your eyes and reach for a flannel shirt, your comfort zone. Heeseung is there in half a second, gently slapping your hand away. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“But—”

He points toward the dressing room. “Try these first. And don’t come out until you’ve mentally committed to the bit.” You sigh, arms loaded with fabrics you didn’t even know existed. The dressing room is small and slightly claustrophobic, and the first outfit you try on feels like something a pop star would wear to confuse the paparazzi. You step out hesitantly, tugging at the edges of the bright green top that’s two sizes too tight. Heeseung blinks.

Then he bursts out laughing. “You look like a glow stick in crisis.”

You snort, your face burning. “Okay, rude.” The next outfit is worse: a ruffled floral monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an 1800s romance novel, if that novel had a comedic twist.

Heeseung cackles. “You’re one bonnet away from becoming Pride and Prejudice’s chaotic cousin.” You both descend into full-blown laughter, the kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water. It's ridiculous, how quickly the walls fall between you when you're in this bubble of absurdity, trying on outfits and exchanging insults like secrets. He calls you a fashion war crime. You call him a menace with too much confidence. He claims he’s got the eye of a stylist. You tell him that eye is clearly blind. But somewhere along the way, the laughter shifts. It softens. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, he starts watching you differently.

You don’t notice it at first, not until you slip into the last dress. It’s simple. No sequins, no plunging neckline, no look-at-me theatrics. Just soft black silk that clings gently to your frame, the neckline a graceful square that highlights your collarbones, the hem brushing just above your knees. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment, surprised. It’s not flashy. It’s not dramatic. But it feels like you, the version of you that’s always been hiding underneath. You take a breath, then step out of the dressing room.

Heeseung is on the bench, scrolling through his phone, completely unprepared. He glances up, probably ready with another quip, but the second he sees you, he stops. His phone lowers slowly in his hand. His mouth parts. And he just… stares. For the first time since this entire makeover madness began, Lee Heeseung is speechless. You shift awkwardly under his gaze, tugging at the hem of the dress. “Is it—do I look weird? Be honest.” He doesn’t answer.

You take a hesitant step forward, heart thudding. “Heeseung?”

He blinks, like you pulled him from a dream, and then, because he’s Heeseung, he smirks and shrugs. “That’ll do for tonight, I suppose.” 

You scoff and roll your eyes, but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. “Wow. High praise. I’m overwhelmed.” He grins, leaning back and resting one arm behind his head. “Don’t let it get to your head. We’re going for hot, not heart attack-inducing.”

You disappear back into the dressing room before he can see the stupid smile tugging at your lips. Your heart feels like it’s doing somersaults, and not because of Soobin. You shake the thought from your head, firmly, stubbornly, and change back into your jeans and hoodie. A few minutes later, you’re at the register, watching the cashier ring up the pile of clothes that feel like pieces of someone new. Someone a little braver. A little shinier. A little less invisible. Heeseung stands beside you, smug and satisfied, like he just built you in a lab. 

The cashier announces the total, and before you can even reach for your wallet, Heeseung slides his card across the counter. “On me.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Heeseung, what?”

He just winks. “Don’t worry. I’ll bill you in character development. The cashier bags the clothes, and you step back into the mall with your arms full of potential and your brain full of questions. 

After the last store spits you out, bags in hand, Heeseung’s wallet lighter, your soul slightly transformed, Heeseung glances at the clock on his phone and says, “Okay. Next stop: food court. I need carbs before I collapse.” 

You blink at him, momentarily stunned. “You eat pizza like the rest of us?”

He shoots you a look. “ I don’t just eat pizza. I inhale it. Come on.” Your stomach growls before your feet can move, and suddenly you realize that in all the chaos, makeup, mirrors, the emotionally unsettling event of someone finding you attractive, you forgot to eat. Now that he’s mentioned it, you’re starving. Practically feral. You follow him past vendors and kiosks, the scent of fried food and cinnamon sugar swirling through the air. The food court is loud and crowded, but there’s something strangely comforting about it, the normalcy of it, the fluorescent lights and orange booths, the chatter of families and teenagers and friends grabbing greasy comfort.

Heeseung gets in line beside you at the pizza place, his arms still casually swinging at his sides like this is just another day. “What’s your poison?”

You glance at the menu. “Uh… pepperoni. And a soda.” He nods and orders for you both, without asking, like he’s already memorized the way you talk, the things you like. You’re about to protest, but then he’s paying with that same black card he flashed earlier and nudging you toward a table like it’s no big deal. You settle into a booth across from him, the tray between you bearing two steaming slices and a pair of plastic cups filled to the brim with soda. The first bite is practically a religious experience, greasy, cheesy, absolutely glorious.

Heeseung watches you with mild amusement. “You eat like you’ve just returned from war.”

“I have,” you say, voice muffled around a bite. “Battlefield: retail.”

He snorts and takes a sip of his drink. Then, after a pause, his expression shifts. “So… have you ever actually spoken to Soobin?”

You freeze mid-bite, the cheese stretching between your lips and the slice. You blink. “Define spoken.”

He raises a brow. “Words. Sentences. Preferably involving two-way communication.”

You swallow and clear your throat. “I, uh, once held the computer lab door open for him.” He’s already laughing. You roll your eyes, cheeks flaming. “He said thank you!” 

Heeseung grins, eyes crinkling. “Wow. A whole conversation. Do you guys have an anniversary for that?”

You smack his arm lightly across the table. “Shut up.”

He rubs the spot like you wounded him. “Abuse. I’m calling my lawyer.” You giggle despite yourself, hiding it behind your soda. There’s something so stupidly easy about sitting here with him. You forget you’re supposed to be awkward and invisible. You forget that you’re the DUF. You’re just… you. Which is why the next thing he says nearly gives you whiplash. “Alright,” he declares, brushing crumbs off his hands. “I dare you to flirt with that guy and get his number.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Excuse me?” He gestures with a nod to a guy sitting alone across the food court, mid-twenties, dark hair, nose in his phone, clearly minding his own business.

“No way,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. This is training. You want Soobin, don’t you?” 

“Yes, but—”

“Then get off the bench and into the game.”

You narrow your eyes. “Easy for you to say. You flirt like it’s breathing.”

He smirks. “Because it is.”

And then — he stands up. Before you can even form a sentence, Heeseung is already strolling toward a girl seated at a table nearby, casual and charming, like this is something he does between errands. You watch, jaw slack, as he leans in and says something that makes her smile, tilt her head, laugh. He gestures to his phone, and she takes it without hesitation, tapping her number in and handing it back with a wink. Heeseung returns, smug as a cat, holding his phone out to you like a trophy. “See?” he says, displaying the fresh new contact with flourish. “Easy peasy.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “I hate you.”

He just shrugs. “Hate me from over there,” he says, pointing again at the guy with the phone. “Go on. Play dumb, but not that dumb. Guys love that shit.”

“I am dumb,” you hiss. “There is no playing.” 

“Perfect. Just be your beautiful, awkward self.” Muttering every curse you know, you stand up and start toward the guy. It’s awful. You clear your throat. He doesn’t look up.

You fidget, then say, “Hi!”

He blinks, surprised. “Um. Hi.”

You force a smile. “I like your… phone.” He blinks again. You want to die. “I mean — I like your case! It’s… very rectangular. Classic. Minimalist.”

He looks mildly alarmed. “Thanks?” You attempt a laugh that comes out sounding like a cough. “Sooo, um, are you… single?”

His eyes dart nervously around. “I… I have a boyfriend.”

“OH!” you blurt. “Oh, my bad. I totally support that. I’m not… you know. Homophobic. Or anything.” You want to crawl into a vent and disappear. He offers a small, polite smile. “Have a good day.” And he’s gone, up and out, food tray abandoned. You turn slowly, walking back to the table where Heeseung is laughing so hard he’s red in the face, wheezing into his pizza slice like it’s keeping him alive.

You slump into the seat. “That was a hate crime.”

“That,” he says between snorts, “was the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever.”

You glare at him. “I hope your soda spills on your lap.” Still grinning, he slides your tray toward you and raises his cup. “To improvement.” You clink your soda against his without smiling. But your heart’s laughing anyway. 

When Heeseung pulls up to your dorm, it’s with a dramatic screech of tires and the kind of recklessly confident parking job that screams I’ve never paid a meter in my life. He leans over the center console, smirking at you as you gather your bags of shopping and your still-wobbly self-esteem from the floor of his car. “Alright,” he says, eyes scanning the bags. “You have everything you need to socially destroy the night.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, fairy godmother.”

He winks. “I’m hotter than a fairy godmother. And taller.” You snort, slamming the car door behind you and flipping him off over your shoulder. He cackles, the sound following you up the stairs of your dorm and into the echoing silence of your room. Once you’re inside, the weight of the next few hours settles in your stomach like a boulder. You place the shopping bags carefully on your bed, smoothing the edges of the tissue paper like they might calm your nerves. Heeseung said he’d be back at 9 p.m. sharp to pick you up, which gives you a little over three hours to get ready. Three hours to transform. Three hours to convince yourself that you’re not the DUF anymore.

You spend the first half-hour just staring at yourself in the mirror. No makeup, hair messy, hoodie baggy and beloved. You look… like you. Regular. Quiet. Familiar.

You text Heeseung: “Okay so do I have to wear the mini skirt???”

His reply is instant. “Yes. And send pics. I’m the boss, remember?” You grumble, but slip into the skirt anyway and pair it with a halter top he claimed made your arms look “objectively illegal.” You take a mirror selfie, looking reluctant, and send it off. Within seconds, he replies: “Too ‘I work at a bar and hate my life.’”

You snort, throw the top across the room, and try again. Next outfit: jeans and a crop top. You pose. Click. Send “Cute. But it’s giving ‘we’re just friends.’” You flip him off through text “Try the dress. You know the one.”

You hesitate. That dress. The black silk one, the one that made his words stutter and his eyes flicker. The one that didn’t feel like you were trying to be anyone else, just a bolder version of yourself. You pull it out carefully, fingers gliding across the fabric like it might whisper back. Slowly, you slip it on. It fits like it did in the store. Soft, secure, like a secret. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and for a second… you see it. You see her. The girl who could walk into a party and turn heads. The girl who could maybe, just maybe, make Soobin notice. You send the picture. 

Heeseung replies: “Jesus.” Then, seconds later: “That’s the one.”

No teasing. No jokes. Just those three words that knock your heart off-balance. You set your phone down, exhale slowly. Then, the routine begins. You do your makeup with trembling hands, lashes curled, liner precise, lips tinted a soft rose. Your hair falls the way Yuri taught you, soft waves that frame your face and catch the light. You spray perfume on your wrists, your collarbones, the backs of your knees. A whisper of vanilla and hope. You put on your jewelry, simple earrings, the necklace that sits perfectly in the hollow of your throat. You take one last look in the mirror. You don’t recognize her, but you like her.

Then, your phone rings. The name “Heeseung 💀” flashes on the screen. You answer, voice caught somewhere between a smile and a scream. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says, casual and breezy like this isn’t the first time he’s hearing your voice dressed like this. “I’m outside.” Your stomach flips.

You grab your bag, give yourself one more desperate glance in the mirror, and whisper to your reflection, “Don’t trip. Don’t choke. Don’t die.” Then you’re out the door, the echo of your footsteps ringing down the hall, your heart doing somersaults in your chest.

The car is sleek and stupidly shiny, purring low like it knows it’s hot. You spot it the moment you step outside your dorm building, standing at the edge of the sidewalk like you’re on the brink of a red carpet. And standing against it, leaning like he was born to be the poster child for a Calvin Klein fragrance, is Heeseung. He looks up as you approach, and even in the dim lighting of campus streetlamps, his smile flickers into something that nearly knocks you over. He’s wearing all black, ripped jeans, a bomber jacket, his signature messy hair that probably took way too long to make look that effortless. You don’t want to say he looks good, because that feels too generous. He looks... unfair. Rude. And worse? He knows it. He gives you a once-over, slow and obvious. “Damn,” he says, like he’s complimenting you and mocking you in the same breath. “You clean up alright.” 

You roll your eyes, clutching your purse a little tighter. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a menace.”

He smirks and pops open the passenger door for you with an exaggerated flourish. “M’lady.” You roll your eyes again, but your heart skips a beat anyway as you slide into the seat, the cool leather against your thighs making you realize just how very real this is. You’re on your way to the party. With Lee Heeseung. In a black silk dress and mascara that took you 45 minutes to get right. Breathe. The drive is short, just a few blocks away in one of those off-campus houses you’ve only ever seen through the haze of Instagram stories and hearsay. But your nerves are anything but short. They’ve curled into your stomach, wound tight around your ribs, pressed against the back of your throat. You grip the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.

You’ve been to parties before, sure. But never without Dani and Sakura. Without their protective, familiar presence to anchor you in the sea of bodies and music and beer breath. Without their shared eye-rolls and whispered commentary and midnight giggles on the walk home. And now… now you don’t even know if they’ll be there. Scratch that. You know they will. You just don’t want to see them. Not tonight. Not when you're dressed like this. Not when you're trying so hard to become someone new.

You barely realize the car’s stopped until Heeseung throws it into park. You’re frozen, staring out the window at the glittering string lights draped across the porch, the thump of bass already vibrating through the concrete. There are people everywhere, laughing, shouting, spilling out onto the lawn like they’ve never had a quiet thought in their lives. You’re going to puke. Heeseung glances over, and; because he’s Heeseung, he notices immediately. “You good?” he asks, casual but careful. “You look like you’re about to get drafted into war.”

You force a laugh, but it’s brittle. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” You glance at him, cheeks hot. “Okay, I’m just… nervous.”

He nods like he gets it, and maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t. But his voice is soft when he says, “Hey. Look at me.” You do. “Everything’s gonna be cool,” he says, with a cocky grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look insane, by the way. Like, criminal levels of hot. If Soobin doesn’t fold tonight, he’s legally blind.”

That earns a weak laugh from you, and he nudges your shoulder gently. “Just remember who got you here when you’re famous on campus by Monday.”

You snort. “You mean when they put me in GroupMe memes for tripping over my heels and knocking over a keg?”

Heeseung grins. “Even better. Instant legend status.” You breathe out, shaky but a little more stable now. “Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s do this.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

He laughs, throwing open the door. “That’s the spirit.”

You step out onto the curb, your heels clicking against the pavement like you’re a contestant on America’s Next Nervous Breakdown. But still, you stand up straighter. Shoulders back. Head high. You smooth the hem of your dress and tell yourself this is what you came here for. To show them. To show yourself. Heeseung falls into step beside you, his hand brushing against yours, not quite touching, but close enough to anchor you. Together, you walk toward the house, the music growing louder with every step. Somewhere behind the front door, the party waits. Soobin waits. They might be waiting too. But for now; it’s just you. And Heeseung. And the version of you that’s ready to finally be seen.

The moment the front door swings open, you’re hit with a wall of noise and heat, thick and heady like you’ve just stepped into the center of a beating heart. The bass is thudding through the floorboards, lights pulsing with every drop of the music, and bodies are everywhere, moving, swaying, tangled up in each other, laughter and shouting and the occasional high-pitched squeal blending together like some chaotic symphony of college nightlife. It’s not your first party, not technically, but it’s your first this kind of party, this kind of entrance. Not as a background extra or the girl carrying everyone’s phones. No hoodie, no glasses, no fading into the wallpaper. 

Tonight, you’re a main character. And Heeseung is your entrance music. He walks in first, easy and smooth, like the world shifts to make room for him. His presence is magnetic, and it pulls eyes toward the doorway like gravity. The second you step through behind him, heels tapping softly, dress swishing around your thighs like smoke, there’s a ripple. You feel it. Heads turning. Conversations pausing. The hush of recognition so subtle you might miss it, if your nerves weren’t already on fire. 

You try not to look around too much. You try to look confident. Poised. Detached, even. You tilt your chin up like you belong, even though your hands are clammy and your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics. You’re hyper-aware of everything: the way the strap of your dress slides against your shoulder, the way your perfume clings to the heat of your skin, the soft creak of your heels on the hardwood floor. You catch flashes of recognition from familiar faces, faces that used to glance right through you, now blinking, staring, mouths parted, whispering behind their solo cups. And you? You just keep walking. Heeseung’s friends spot him in the far corner of the room, near a low couch littered with bags of chips and someone’s half-eaten box of pizza. The greetings are instant, shoulder claps, finger guns, head nods and booming “Yo!”s that feel like something out of a movie. Sunghoon practically lunges forward, clapping Heeseung on the back like he’s just returned from war. Beomgyu pulls him into one of those half-hugs that somehow involve three back slaps and an awkward shoulder bump. Jay and Jake both pipe up at once about someone from class asking for him earlier, their voices fighting over the music. And for a second, you’re forgotten. 

You stand a little off to the side, hands awkwardly clasped in front of you, smile hovering uncertainly on your lips. You’re not mad, they haven’t seen each other in a bit, and the reunion energy is real, but the awkward ache settles in your chest anyway, that old too-familiar feeling of being adjacent to the fun but not quite in it. Until Sunghoon finally turns toward you, and freezes. His eyebrows shoot up so far they practically disappear into his hairline. His eyes flick over you, slow and not particularly subtle, dragging from the hem of your dress to the curve of your collarbone to your lips like he’s trying to solve a riddle with his eyeballs. “Uh… who’s this?” 

Beomgyu leans in, squinting in your direction like he’s staring directly into the sun. “Wait. Are you new? Like, transfer student new? Heeseung, bro, you didn’t say you were bringing someone.” Heeseung, who is somehow already sipping a drink he didn’t have two seconds ago, sighs and smacks Beomgyu lightly on the back of the head.

“She’s not new,” Heeseung says casually. “You guys know her.”

Jay looks genuinely confused. “We do?”

ake leans sideways to get a better look at you. “Hold on…” Heeseung glances at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, with perfect comedic timing and just enough pride to make your knees wobble, he says your name like it was obvious. To them, it was not and for some reason that twisted you up inside. 

There is a silence. Then, chaos. “NO FREAKING WAY.” Sunghoon’s voice actually cracks. “Shut up. Shut UP.” Beomgyu’s mouth falls open. “You’re lying. This is not hoodie-and-sweatpants Y/N. This is, like — TikTok viral-level hot girl Y/N. You’re telling me it’s the same person?” You’re half-laughing, half-dying inside. You glance away, cheeks burning, unsure what to do with your hands or your face or your entire existence. This wasn’t supposed to feel like a scene from a teen makeover movie, but, well. Here you are.

“She’s always looked like this,” Heeseung says coolly, giving them a look that says don’t push it. “You just never paid attention.” The group stumbles over themselves with backpedaling compliments, Sunghoon muttering something about your eyes, Jake saying you look “like a star,” and Beomgyu still acting like he just saw a unicorn. You’re saved from having to respond by Heeseung, who, clearly reading your overwhelmed expression, tosses out casually, “You guys seen Soobin?” 

Jay shakes his head. “Not yet. Might be outside?” Heeseung nods, and without another word, he reaches down and grabs your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Either way, the contact is sudden and warm and firm, and you don’t even think, you just let him pull you through the crowd, dodging plastic cups and tangled limbs as he weaves toward the kitchen. Your hand stays in his the whole way. You don’t ask why. You don’t let yourself hope. When you reach the drink table, he finally lets go, only to pour you something in a red cup and hand it to you like a bartender with a mission. 

“You alive?” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

You take the cup, roll your eyes, and murmur, “Barely.”

Heeseung clinks his cup against yours, grin widening. “You’re killing it.”

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice just loud enough to cut through the bass thumping behind you. It’s gentler than you expect, free of teasing or sarcasm.

You nod automatically. “Yeah, I’m—”

“Y/N?!” The sound of your name rips through the music like a siren. You freeze. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You’d know those voices anywhere. They’re carved into your memory, every syllable, every cadence, familiar and aching in the way only ex-best friends can be. Still, you turn.

Dani and Sakura are standing there, half in disbelief, half in judgment. Their eyes rake down your body, from the sleek dress hugging your frame to the careful curls in your hair. Their mouths are parted like they can’t decide whether to gasp or laugh. Sakura tilts her head. “What… are you doing here?”

Dani crosses her arms. “And with him?” 

You glance back at Heeseung for half a second, who hasn’t said a word yet, just watching them with a slight furrow between his brows. Your stomach flips. You force a breath out of your nose and turn back to the girls, your grip tightening around your drink. You let out a laugh. It’s sharp and hollow and lined with every quiet insult they’ve ever made sound like a joke. “What?” you say, voice laced in dry amusement. “Surprised someone like Heeseung would want to hang out with me?” They flinch, barely, but you catch it. Dani opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You don’t wait.

You take a step closer, letting your voice drop, cold and brittle like breaking glass. “Why do you guys even care? Huh? You didn’t seem to care when you were calling me the DUF behind my back.”

Sakura’s expression twists. “We never—”

“This isn’t you, Y/N,” Dani cuts in, voice brittle. “The dress. The makeup. Hanging out with Heeseung? This isn’t who you are.” Your jaw clenches. The words burn, not because they’re true, but because they’re not. Because they’re laced with that same tired condescension, the same kind of backhanded care that always kept you two steps behind, like they wanted you close but never quite caught up. But before you can speak, a sudden warmth settles across your shoulders. Heeseung. His arm slips over you with ease, casual but claiming, protective but not possessive. His fingers brush the edge of your shoulder, and his voice is laced with syrupy sarcasm. 

“We’d love to stay and chit-chat,” he drawls, flashing the girls a lazy grin, “but we’ve got somewhere to be.” And just like that, he doesn’t give them another second. He tugs you away gently, steering you through the party with surprising precision, hand resting firmly on your upper back as he guides you toward the back of the house. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see their faces. You’re too stunned, too angry, too relieved. Your heart is racing and your pulse is pounding and your vision is a little too bright. He opens the back door, and the cooler night air hits you like a blessing. You step out onto the porch, the noise of the party muffled behind the closed door. Fairy lights are strung across the railing, casting a soft gold glow over the wooden planks and the few potted plants half-dead in their corners. It’s quieter here. Private. 

You suck in a breath and finally speak. “Thank you.”

Heeseung leans against the porch railing, glancing sideways at you. “For what?”

You give him a look. “For that. For getting me out of there.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking away. “It’s no big deal.”

You watch him for a moment, heart still unsteady. “It is, though.” He finally meets your gaze again, and for a moment, the cocky smile slips away. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but his voice is soft when he says, “They don’t get to make you feel like that. No one does.” You feel something twist in your chest. Something warm. Something dangerous. For a second, the two of you just… stand there. The silence stretches out, thick and humming with unspoken things. Heeseung’s hand is still in his pocket, but his shoulder is just barely touching yours now. Not quite close enough to be a statement, but close enough to feel like a promise.

The quiet of the back porch doesn’t last long. It breaks like glass, sharp and immediate, at the sound of stilettos clacking against the wood. You feel the shift before you see it. A cool draft. A wrongness. And then, the syrupy sweet voice that makes your spine stiffen and your heart drop. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” 

Wonyoung stood there, draped in a skin-tight red dress that clings like a threat, hair curled into perfect waves, and lips painted a venomous shade of cherry. She walks like the world’s her stage, and you’re just an extra lucky to be in the background. Her smile is the kind that cuts, sharp and gleaming, like she knows something you don’t. Your heart sinks because you remember. You remember her words last time: “Stay away from Heeseung.” You didn’t listen. Maybe you thought she wouldn’t notice. Maybe a part of you hoped she didn’t mean it. But she’s here now, and she’s looking at you like a hunter cornering something helpless. Heeseung straightens beside you, his entire body going taut like a wire pulled too tight. “What do you want, Wonyoung?” he says, voice clipped. 

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she saunters closer and, without warning, nudges you aside with the ease of someone who’s always taken up too much space. Her hand slides onto Heeseung’s shoulder like she owns it, like she’s done it a thousand times before. But Heeseung jerks away instantly, his jaw clenching as he shrugs her off like her touch burned. Still, Wonyoung smiles. “Hee… I miss you.” He doesn’t answer. Not at first. He just glances at you. And the look in his eyes, God, it’s something between apology and warning and please just trust me. But you don’t know how to read it, not really. Not when your stomach is twisting in knots and your voice is caught in your throat. 

“Hey, Wonyoung…” you manage, your tone so high and squeaky you want to slap yourself. Wonyoung turns, slow as a villain in a teen drama, and actually groans, like your existence is somehow the inconvenience of the century. She eyes you up and down with obvious disdain before deadpanning, “What do you want?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh—I was just—” But she’s already looking away, like you don’t matter. Like you’re nothing more than a gnat buzzing in her ear. It’s humiliating. It’s infuriating. But you don’t say anything. You just shrink a little smaller.

She turns back to Heeseung, pressing forward again like she hasn’t just made you feel two inches tall. “We’re playing spin the bottle,” she says brightly, batting her lashes. “Wanna join?”

Heeseung lets out a dry laugh. “What are we, high schoolers?” His voice is full of disbelief. “Isn’t that a kids game?”

Wonyoung just shrugs, undeterred. “Still works.”

Before he can argue again, she latches her fingers around his wrist and tugs. You don’t know if it’s the surprise or the fact that he’s clearly outnumbered, but he lets her drag him halfway across the porch. You don’t even realize you’re following until you’re inside again, the noise swallowing you whole. The crowd’s shifted, coalescing into a rough circle on the living room floor. The center of attention now: an empty bottle spinning slowly on the wood, the air buzzing with half-drunken laughter and anticipation. You spot Dani and Sakura immediately. They’re sitting between Jake and Sunghoon, giggling, whispering, stealing glances at you. But there’s something different now. Not amusement. Not judgment. Pity. It glimmers on their faces like a sheen of sweat, and it makes something cold spark in your chest. You hate it. You’d rather be ignored than pitied. You tear your gaze away. 

“Finally you’re here! Join us!” Wonyoung’s voice rings out, shrill and triumphant. Soobin. He was here, oh god. Your heart lurches at the sight of him. He’s dressed in a white tee and a leather jacket, hair falling perfectly across his forehead, the picture of cool detachment. He smiles slightly as he joins the circle, settling next to Beomgyu without much fanfare. He hasn’t even seen you yet. But suddenly the air in the room is thinner. The lights are harsher. Every breath feels like an effort. This is what you came for, isn’t it? The moment you’ve been chasing. The whole reason you let Heeseung drag you to the mall, to the salon, through an identity transformation that’s still barely settled on your shoulders. You should be thrilled. But instead, all you can feel is this strange, gnawing pressure. You glance at Heeseung, who’s already watching Soobin, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then his gaze shifts to you. There’s tension there. Tight. Heavy. Loaded. And it hits you: the game has started. And you’re no longer sure whose rules you’re playing by.

You watch as people had their turns with the bottle, watching as the glass spun round and round giving someone their fate for the night and finally after countless spins — it was your turn. The bottle spun with a nervous flick of your fingers, clinking softly against the scratched wood floor as it twirled, and you felt your stomach turn with it. Around you, drunken laughter swirled like smoke, the heat of the crowded living room pressing in from all sides. Someone let out a whistle, another person shouted encouragement, and Wonyoung was watching you with narrowed eyes, her arms crossed like she was waiting for you to fall flat on your face. But none of that mattered right now. None of it mattered because that damned bottle had chosen a direction, and it was pointing straight at Soobin. You could barely breathe.

Soobin tilted his head, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a soft, almost apologetic smile, the kind that made your lungs feel like they were filled with helium. His gaze was kind, nonjudgmental. Gentle, even. As if to say “It’s okay if you say no. I won’t be mad.” And God, did that make it worse. Because now the ball was in your court. Your palms were sweating. Your heart pounded so loudly you couldn’t hear the party anymore. Just the roar of blood in your ears. You’d dreamed of this. Fantasized about this exact moment for years. The idea of kissing Soobin had always seemed like something that belonged to a different version of you, a cooler, prettier, worthier version. And yet here you were. Inches from it. One lean forward and you'd touch lips. And still, panic dug into you like claws. 

Your mind spiraled in frantic loops. What if I mess it up? What if I bump noses with him? What if my breath smells like the pizza from earlier? What if my lipstick smudges? What if I suck at it and he tells everyone? And more than anything; do I even want my first kiss to be like this? In front of Wonyoung, Dani, Sakura, and twenty semi-drunk strangers? But before you could finish the spiral, Heeseung’s hand gently curled around your wrist. His fingers were warm, grounding. You turned your head slightly, and he leaned in, his voice brushing against the shell of your ear, low and sincere. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured. “We can leave. Right now.” 

You paused. That offer, so casual, so safe, it nearly undid you. You looked at him, and for a brief second the noise of the party dropped away. Just Heeseung and his eyes, steady and unreadable. Ready to walk you out of this chaos with zero judgment. But then your gaze flicked across the circle and found Wonyoung, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but unmistakably sharp. You couldn’t back down. Not now. Not in front of her. “I’m fine,” you whispered, offering Heeseung the tiniest smile, even if it felt wobbly and weak. “I got this.” Reluctantly, he let your wrist go. And so, heart pounding like a drumline, you leaned in. Soobin did too.

Your faces were so close now you could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the faint citrus of his cologne. You were trying not to close your eyes too soon, but you didn’t know the rules. Were there rules? Were you supposed to count to three? Tilt your head? Your brain screamed at you to stop, to run, to — “COPS!” The word cracked through the house like a gunshot.

In an instant, the entire room exploded. Screams. Shouting. Feet slamming against hardwood. Red solo cups hitting the floor and rolling away. Someone knocked over a lamp, plunging half the room into shadow. The panic was immediate and real, like someone had hit a switch that turned this party into a stampede. You didn’t even get a second to blink before Heeseung was yanking you to your feet. “Come on!” he yelled, wrapping his fingers around yours and hauling you after him through the chaos.

You barely had time to register what was happening before you were stumbling through the living room, dodging people vaulting over furniture and crawling through open windows. The entire party had turned feral. Shouting echoed off the walls, red and blue lights flickered from the front yard, and someone shouted something about hiding in the attic. Heeseung didn’t slow. His hand tightened on yours as he dragged you through the kitchen, shouldering past people, and out the back door. The backyard was even more chaotic. Students were climbing fences, squeezing through hedges, and ducking behind trash cans. You stared at the wooden fence in front of you, at least six feet high, and made a sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp. 

“You want me to jump that?” you cried.

“Unless you want your mugshot posted in tomorrow’s student newsletter — yes!” With an ungraceful huff, you hiked up your dress and clambered over the fence, scraping your knee on the way down and landing hard in someone’s overgrown backyard. Heeseung followed right after, barely phased, landing beside you with an effortless thud.

“This way!” so you ran. Breath tearing out of your lungs, dress flapping around your legs, adrenaline pounding through your veins, you ran like your life depended on it. You didn’t stop until Heeseung’s car was in view, parked two blocks down. You practically dove into the passenger seat as he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. He turned the key, the engine roared to life, and the tires screamed against the pavement as he peeled off into the street like a getaway driver in a movie.

You didn’t even speak for the first few seconds, just sat there panting, adrenaline still racing through your bloodstream, chest heaving as the lights and shouting faded behind you. Then, you looked at each other. And burst out laughing. Full, uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. The kind that curled your stomach and left tears in your eyes. You laughed until your lungs hurt. Heeseung clutched the steering wheel with one hand, his other wiping tears from his face. “I almost kissed Soobin,” you gasped out between wheezes.

“And then almost got arrested,” he choked out. “Honestly? 10/10 night.”

You threw your head back, still laughing. “That was insane.”

He grinned at you, cheeks flushed, hair a mess from the mad dash. “You’re kinda fun when you’re not busy hating me, you know that?”

You smiled, your heart slowing in your chest. Outside, the streets blurred past your window. Inside, something was starting to settle. Shift. Change. “I don’t hate you.” You whisper.  You were supposed to kiss Soobin tonight. Instead… you ran away with Heeseung. The laughter between you and Heeseung had started to quiet, settling into the thick silence that sometimes follows a shared moment, like the tide pulling back after a crash of waves. It lingered in the air, warm and easy, the kind of laughter that left your chest aching in the best way. You wiped at the corners of your eyes, breath still uneven from giggling so hard, and turned to look at Heeseung.

He was already watching you. His eyes sparkled under the dim glow of the car’s interior lights, lips curled into a half-smile, like he was still amused by the chaos you both narrowly escaped. Then, he tilted his head, that boyish grin deepening. “You were really going to kiss Soobin just now,” he said, like he still couldn’t believe it. You tried to smile back, to laugh it off, but something in your chest twisted unexpectedly. The corners of your mouth dipped, your gaze fell to your lap, and your fingers began nervously toying with your fingers.

Heeseung noticed immediately. The smile on his face slipped, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in annoyance, but concern. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning just a bit closer. “What’s wrong? I thought this is what you wanted?” You swallowed. The words caught in your throat, all scrambled and fragile. You didn’t want to say it. You hadn’t said it out loud to anyone. It was too revealing, too… vulnerable. But something about Heeseung, the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet way he was looking at you now like you mattered, made you trust him in a way that startled you. So you said it. 

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” It came out softer than you intended. Barely above a whisper. But it landed between you with the weight of something unspoken for too long. Heeseung didn’t react right away. He didn’t laugh or make a teasing comment. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes searched yours for something, you weren’t sure what, maybe the why of it, or maybe just the simple truth. But whatever it was, he found it, because after a moment, he nodded, his voice quiet and sincere. “I can teach you.”

You blinked. “What?” 

He nodded again, slower this time. No smirk. No hint of mischief. Just quiet seriousness. “I can teach you,” he repeated, “so you’re not inexperienced when you finally get Soobin.” The words felt… strange. Like something cold and sharp and warm all at once. You weren’t sure what to say, your heart skipping beats like it couldn’t keep up. “You’d really do that?” you asked, voice barely audible.

Heeseung leaned back just enough to look at you fully. “Yeah,” he said. “If you want.” And you did. You didn’t know why. You didn’t know what it meant. But you wanted to. So you nodded. “Okay.” He leaned over the center console, his arm brushing against yours, and suddenly the space between you shrank to something small and intimate. You felt the electricity buzz in the air like static clinging to skin, your pulse racing louder than your thoughts.

You swallowed. “What if I’m bad at it?”

He smiled softly, not in a mocking way but like someone offering reassurance. “That’s why I’m teaching you,” he said. Then, his hand lifted, slow and steady, brushing your hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear. His touch was featherlight, the pad of his thumb just grazing your cheek. “You want to set the tone,” he murmured. “Don’t just dive right in.” You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your chest and lips, and then — He kissed you. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rough or overwhelming. It was soft. Intentional. Like he was holding the moment between his hands and molding it into something gentle. His lips were warm, firm but cautious, and he kissed you like he was afraid to scare you off. Like you were something rare. Precious. Fragile.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your hand lifting without thinking to rest gently against his arm. You melted, leaned into him. The world slowed down. The roar in your head dulled to a soft hum. The nervous energy in your chest unwound, slowly replaced by a kind of comfort that made your skin hum. When he pulled away, it was only by inches. His forehead almost rested against yours. His breathing matched yours, shaky and a little uneven. His voice was barely a whisper. “Did you learn anything?”

You blinked at him, dazed, lips still tingling. “I  —I think I need another lesson.” He grinned, something sparking behind his eyes, and then nodded. “I think so too.” The second kiss was different. Gone was the careful, tentative pace. This time, his mouth found yours with a hunger that startled you, like he’d been waiting for permission and now that he had it, he wasn’t going to waste a second. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Your hands, unsure at first, found their way to his shoulders, gripping lightly as your lips moved against his. It was fire and silk and all-consuming. His mouth moved with confidence, coaxing you, guiding you, his kiss deeper now, filled with something unspoken. You kissed him back with everything you had, wanting, needing, trying to remember everything, to feel everything.

When he finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. The windows were fogged, your hearts thundering. He looked at you with wide eyes and a half-laugh in his voice. “Let’s get you back to the dorms before I forget this is supposed to be educational.” You blinked at him, flustered and floating somewhere between disbelief and bliss. You nodded, cheeks burning, and didn’t say a word.

The morning sun crept in through the slats of your blinds like a quiet promise, painting golden stripes across your sheets and the cluttered floor of your dorm. You stirred slowly, a little dazed, blinking against the light and the memory of last night that came flooding back all at once. Lee Heeseung kissed you. Correction: you kissed Lee Heeseung. Twice, you never thought you would see the day. Your cheeks burned as you sat up, the remnants of sleep falling off your body like petals, replaced with a rush of electricity that made you want to scream into your pillow. It wasn’t just that it was your first kiss, it was the way it happened. Soft. Gentle. Focused. Like he’d been waiting to kiss you and didn’t know it until the moment your lips touched. You padded across the dorm floor, slipping into your morning routine with a weird sort of buzz in your chest. Toothbrush. Face wash. Outfit. Breakfast bar you didn’t feel like eating. But everything felt brighter. Softer around the edges. You were still you, but something inside of you had shifted just a little to the left. Your phone buzzed.

[ heeseung ] 

Studying tonight? Meet me at the campus cafe. 6pm sharp.

Your breath caught, and for the briefest second you just stared at the screen, heart kicking up a beat like it remembered the feeling of his mouth on yours.

[ You: ] 

Is this a date or is Mr. Yoon threatening your scholarship again?

Three dots danced on your screen before his reply popped up: 

[ heeseung ] 

Can’t it be both? 😏

You let out a snort and shook your head, fingers tapping against the glass.

[ You ] 

Fine. But I’m only coming for the lattes. And the pity.

 [ Heeseung ]  

You love me for my academic desperation.

The audacity of how quickly your fingers typed out “maybe I do” and how fast you deleted it made your heart skip. You settled on a safer: 

[ You ] 

6pm sharp. Don’t be late, loser.

He didn’t respond right away, and that was probably for the best. Your head was still spinning with thoughts you didn’t know what to do with. Because despite the fact that this whole arrangement started as a carefully crafted plan to get Soobin to notice you, Heeseung had crept under your skin in a way you hadn’t expected. You were supposed to tutor him, he was supposed to help you get a makeover and gain confidence. You were not supposed to like the way he looked at you. Or the way he laughed at your jokes, like they were the funniest thing he’d heard all day. Or the way he kissed you like kissing you was something he’d been waiting to do forever. And yet…You shook your head and tried to push the thoughts down as you threw your backpack over your shoulder. There wasn’t time to obsess. You had a class to get to and a very smug, stupidly attractive boy to study with tonight. Still, as you stepped out into the cool morning breeze, you caught yourself smiling. That soft, barely-there kind of smile that made your cheeks warm and your chest float.

The clock on the café wall ticked toward six with the dramatics of a heartbeat, each second heavier than the last. You stood outside the door for a moment longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. It was just a study session. Nothing more. Just like it had been every time you’d met with him to talk about literature, syntax, metaphor, only now, every word he spoke felt double-edged. Heeseung had kissed you. Twice. You had kissed him back. And now here you were, stepping into the soft glow of the campus café, with your heart tucked somewhere beneath your collarbone and trying desperately not to show itself. Heeseung was already there, lounging in the corner booth like it was made for him. One long leg stretched out in front of him, a cup of iced coffee sweating on the table beside a half-opened notebook. His face lit up when he saw you, that easy grin sliding onto his lips as if it belonged there. You hated how your stomach flipped.

“You’re late,” he teased, gesturing at the seat across from him.

You scoffed, sliding into the booth and unzipping your bag. “It’s 5:59. Maybe your watch is just as bad as your syntax.”

He let out a sharp laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Touché.” You started with the basics, flipping through your annotated copy of Frankenstein, pointing out literary devices with the kind of precision you were proud of. Heeseung listened. Really listened. His brow furrowed when he was concentrating, and his eyes flicked back and forth between you and the book like he was trying to stitch your words to the page in real time. He asked questions, good ones, and when he got something right, his grin was so smug you almost threw your pencil at him. But then, somewhere between explaining tragic irony and discussing the gothic atmosphere, his focus started to slip. You were mid-sentence when you felt it, his fingers poking at your side, soft and quick like a spark.

You jumped, letting out a startled laugh. “What the hell?”

Heeseung smirked, clearly proud of himself. “You were monologuing. I had to bring you back to earth.”

“You’re such a child.” You quip. 

“A cute child,” he said, wiggling his brows. You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly with your foot under the table, but there was no bite behind it. There never was anymore. Then, he leaned back in the booth, his voice lowering just enough to signal a shift. “I have an idea, by the way. About how you can actually talk to Soobin.”

You blinked, momentarily derailed. “You mean… like a conversation that doesn’t involve holding a door open and whispering thanks?”

He smirked. “Exactly like that.”

 “Well? I’m listening.” Heeseung’s gaze flicked over your face before he continued. “Sunghoon’s hosting a get-together tomorrow night. It’s not a huge thing, more like a casual hangout. Pizza, soda, football on the TV, the works. Soobin’s gonna be there.”

You hesitated, twirling your pen between your fingers. “I mean, yeah, that sounds okay but…” You tilted your head. “Is it going to be weird if I’m the only girl there?” Heeseung paused. That pause said more than he probably meant it to. He scratched the back of his neck, like he was bracing himself. 

You narrowed your eyes. “What? What is it?”

He sighed. “Sakura, Dani, and… Wonyoung are going to be there too.” Your heart dropped straight to your feet. You leaned back against the booth, head tilted toward the ceiling in a dramatic groan. “Of course they are.”

“I get it if you don’t want to come,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

But you shook your head, jaw tightening with something that tasted like defiance. “No. I’m going.”

Heeseung blinked. “Really?” his shock, palpable. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be. “I’m not going to let them ruin this. I’m not going to let her ruin this.” You didn’t have to say her name. He knew. Still, you couldn’t help yourself from asking, quieter now. “Why is Wonyoung even going to something like that? I thought you two were… done.”

“We are,” he said. “But she’s still friends with the guys. She shows up to stuff. It’s… whatever.” It wasn’t whatever to you, but you nodded anyway. Because you knew if you let your thoughts go too far, you’d unravel right there over your half-drunk latte. Heeseung shifted again, this time leaning in closer. “Hey. If anything happens, if anyone says something, or makes you uncomfortable, I’ve got you. Okay?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment the din of the café faded behind the weight of that promise. “Okay,” you said. And just like that, it was settled. Tomorrow night, you’d walk into a room where your ex-best friends and your accidental nemesis would be seated on one side, your crush would be on the other, and Heeseung would be somewhere in between. You had no idea what would happen. But you weren’t going to back down.

It was barely past six when you heard the knock on your dorm doo, three quick raps followed by a familiar “Let’s go, loser” muffled through the wood. You smoothed down your shirt, did a quick breath check (because you were just being cautious, not because you were thinking about kissing him again), and opened the door. Heeseung stood there, smug as ever, but there was something different in his eyes, an excitement that made him bounce a little on the balls of his feet. “You’re early,” you said, raising a brow.

“I’m prompt,” he corrected with a wink. “Besides, I couldn’t wait to show you this.”

He brought his hands out from behind his back, and there, held like a treasure map or some kind of sacred scroll, was a single sheet of paper. You blinked, confused, until your eyes scanned the header and the bold black print across the middle. Literature 206 – Midterm Grade: 85% Your gasp was dramatic, theatrical, the kind of sound that would’ve made someone down the hall poke their head out in concern if it hadn’t immediately been followed by your delighted squeal.

“Shut. Up!” you shouted, grabbing the paper from his hands and spinning to look at it closer. “Heeseung, you passed! You didn’t just pass; you did amazing!” He grinned like a fool, the kind of smile that made your chest feel too tight, and before you could even think about it, you launched yourself forward and hugged him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and his arms instinctively caught you around the waist, the paper crushed between your bodies. He laughed, that soft, deep sound you were starting to crave more than you should. And when you pulled back, just barely, your faces were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“Told you I was a genius,” he murmured. You rolled your eyes, still beaming. “No. I’m the genius. You’re just the pretty face riding my coattails.”

He shrugged, smug. “Well, now that I’m officially a scholar,” he plucked the paper from your hand, “it’s time to cash in on your prize.”

You tilted your head. “Prize?” He held the door open for you, gesturing dramatically. “Tonight, you talk to Soobin. It’s finally your moment, superstar.” Your smile faltered, just a hair. Because somewhere, buried beneath all your excited nerves and fresh lip gloss, there it was. That voice. Small. Soft. Inconvenient. What if I don’t want Soobin anymore? You blinked, shoved it down. Laughed, even, like it wasn’t true. But it was. Or at least…it was becoming true. Every second you spent with Heeseung, that voice got louder. The boy who was once just a cocky annoyance was now a constant in your thoughts. He made you laugh. Made you feel seen. Kissed you like you were the only girl in the universe.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you slipped past him into the hallway and said, “Well, let’s not keep my prize waiting.” The drive to Sunghoon’s house was familiar now, the same twisty roads and flashing streetlights. Heeseung’s music was loud, upbeat, something with too much bass and a beat that rattled your bones, but you didn’t mind. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, occasionally tapping along to lyrics, and every so often he’d glance at you out of the corner of his eye and smirk like he knew something you didn’t.

Maybe he did. You watched the world blur outside the window, trying not to think too hard about anything. Not the party. Not Soobin. Not the fact that Heeseung’s cologne was now recognizable by scent alone, or the way your hands had fit so naturally around the nape of his neck just moments ago. When he pulled into Sunghoon’s driveway, the house was already glowing, warm lights, windows open, the soft buzz of voices filtering out to the street. You took a breath.

“Ready?” he asked, not moving to get out just yet. You turned to look at him, heart thudding somewhere between nervous and expectant. “Let’s do it,” you said.

You weren’t sure when your heart had started beating so hard, only that you could feel it in the soles of your feet and the tips of your ears. From the moment you stepped out of Heeseung’s car and followed him to Sunghoon’s front door, your nerves had been steadily building, like pressure in a shaken soda can. The lights inside were warm, the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses casual, but nothing about this night felt easy. You stepped through the threshold like you owned the place, chin high, spine straight, masking your spiraling thoughts with the practiced poise of someone who’d watched one too many confidence tutorials on YouTube. Heeseung’s hand hovered protectively at the small of your back, just barely touching, but grounding you all the same. That slight pressure said, I’m here, and for a moment, you could almost breathe.

The living room was full already. Jake sat cross-legged on the floor, waving a slice of pizza around mid-story, while Jay and Beomgyu were in the middle of a mock argument about what toppings were superior. Sunghoon looked up from where he was grabbing drinks and offered a casual grin. And then, your eyes caught them. Dani and Sakura, tucked on one side of the couch, their laughter too forced, their eyes on you too long. But, Wonyoung. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Her gaze zeroed in on Heeseung’s hand still lingering on your back like it was a personal offense, her perfectly glossed lips curling into something sour. “What is she doing here?” she said finally, her voice louder than it needed to be, slicing through the room like a knife dressed in perfume. You froze, but Heeseung didn’t. 

“She’s here because I want her here,” he said smoothly, not even looking at her. His tone was so offhand it made Wonyoung’s eye twitch. She scoffed, turning back to Jay with an exaggerated sigh, tossing her hair like she hadn’t just tried to publicly shame you. You swallowed hard. The room shifted again, the center of gravity pulling you straight toward the boy you hadn’t seen since the party. Soobin. He was seated on the couch, drink in hand, wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, his soft smile as warm as you remembered. He looked up when you approached, a flash of recognition lighting his expression. 

“Hey — Y/N, right?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded, tucking hair behind your ear. “Yeah, that’s me.” He patted the cushion next to him, and you sat, acutely aware of the way Dani and Sakura were watching, and more intensely, the weight of Heeseung’s eyes on the side of your face. But for a moment, none of that mattered. You and Soobin fell into conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world. He asked about your classes, your major, if you were enjoying campus life. His smile never left his face, and yours slowly returned to yours. You laughed at something he said, something dorky and sweet about how he got locked out of his dorm last week, and your hand brushed his arm without thinking. And then your eyes darted up, Heeseung, across the room, sprawled in a chair like he wasn’t watching. But you could feel his attention. Like it was tethered to your pulse.

Before you could dwell too long, a sharp clink of a glass brought everyone’s attention back to the group. Wonyoung, placing her drink with a flourish, said, “We should definitely play Never Have I Ever.” Heeseung groaned immediately. “Are we really doing every high school game in the book this week?”

She shrugged, all innocent smile and lethal intentions. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” A chorus of agreement echoed around the room, and you knew, there was no getting out of this one. Someone dimmed the lights slightly as everyone started moving toward the center of the room, sitting in a loose circle with half-finished pizza slices and soda cans in hand. You sat between Soobin and Heeseung, though the space between you and the latter felt a little too electric, like if you moved even an inch, you might get burned. The game began light, as they always do.

The circle had started off innocent enough, plastic soda bottles sweating on the table, crusted pizza boxes pushed aside, the living room heavy with the low hum of music and the occasional pop of laughter. Someone asked something dumb about stealing candy from a gas station. Another person confessed to cheating on a test in tenth grade. It was stupid, harmless, the kind of thing you could brush off with a smirk and a sip of your drink. But there was something in Wonyoung’s gaze that made the back of your neck prickle before she even opened her mouth. She was perched on the edge of the couch like a queen on her throne, manicured fingers curled delicately around her cup, eyes glittering with something sharp and venomous. She turned her head slowly, deliberately, and locked her eyes on you with a smile that didn’t touch her lips.

“Never have I ever…” she began, the silence prickling around her, “been a loser virgin that no man wants to touch.” The room froze. The words landed like shrapnel, hot and slicing through whatever warmth had existed just moments before. Your chest constricted instantly, the oxygen leaving your lungs in one swift rush. You could feel every pair of eyes in the room shift to you, some wide with shock, others downcast, uncomfortable. You sat rigid, your cup trembling in your fingers, your pulse thudding like thunder in your ears. And then Wonyoung, as if to twist the knife, tilted her head and said, sweetly venomous, “Y/N, that means you have to put your hand up.” Your throat tightened so fast it hurt. You blinked quickly, trying to swallow it down, trying to pretend you hadn’t heard her right. But Heeseung stood up then, voice sharp and cold in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Knock it off, Wonyoung.”

She gave a lighthearted shrug, still smiling like this was all some twisted joke. “I mean…it’s just a game, Heeseung. No need to get snappy.”

Dani scoffed, disgust heavy in her voice. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Cut it out.”

But the damage had already been done. Your vision blurred as a tear slipped down your cheek without permission, hot with embarrassment, with shame, with the kind of humiliation that clings to your skin like ash. The silence was worse than the laughter could’ve been, everyone staring, no one speaking. Just the sound of your shaky breath and the trembling rattle of your heart in your chest. You couldn’t stay. You wouldn’t. Without a word, you stood up on wobbly legs, grabbing your bag with clumsy fingers and bolting for the front door. You didn’t hear who called your name, didn’t wait to see who stood or who stayed behind. You just ran, your face burning and your lungs struggling to catch up to your heartbreak. Outside, the air was cold and biting, but not cold enough to numb the pain in your chest. You didn’t get far before you felt a hand gently catch your wrist, not rough, not demanding. Just there. Just him.

“Hey; hey, look at me,” Heeseung said softly, turning you to face him. The night was quiet except for your breaths, short and uneven. He reached up, brushing your tear-streaked cheek with his thumb, the gesture so tender you nearly fell apart all over again. “Don’t listen to her,” he whispered. “She’s miserable and she wanted to take it out on someone. That’s all this is.”

“I’m fine,” you choked out, even though you weren’t.

“No, you’re not.” His voice cracked slightly, and he gave a soft shake of his head. “And I should’ve never brought you here. I knew she was going to be here. That’s on me.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you whispered, your voice raw. “You’re not the one who humiliated me.” Still, his face was drawn with guilt, his brow furrowed. He opened the car door for you and you slid in, heart still pounding, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. He got in after you, but didn’t start the engine right away. The silence filled the cabin again, but this time it wasn’t awkward, it was heavy. Dense with something unspoken.

You stared at your lap, thinking of Wonyoung’s words again. Loser virgin. No man wants to touch you. It echoed in your head, bouncing around until it started to stick. Was she right? Was that why Soobin had never looked at you twice? Why you were always the girl just outside the circle? Before you could overthink it, before the voice of doubt could talk you down, you turned to Heeseung.  “I want you to take my virginity.”

He blinked like he hadn’t heard you. “What?” You met his eyes this time, steady despite the tremble in your chest. “I want you to take my virginity.” The silence was immediate. Then sharp. His eyes widened, lips parting, trying to find something to say, some script, some defense. But nothing came. Just silence and the sound of your breath coming quicker than before. “I just…” you began, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “What Wonyoung said. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Soobin wouldn’t want someone like me. Someone who’s never—” 

“That’s not true—”

“Please.” Your voice cracked then, raw and soft, but full of something else too. Desperation, maybe. Maybe hope. Heeseung looked at you then, really looked. And something shifted in his gaze, his expression folding into something more serious, more solemn. There wasn’t any cocky grin, no teasing smirk. Just… sincerity.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.” Relief washed over you slowly, curling around the fear that had taken root in your belly. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, something like gratitude spilling from your chest.

“Tonight?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate. “Tonight.”

And then he turned the key in the ignition, the engine humming to life as the two of you slipped into the dark, quiet night, no longer running away, but heading toward something that neither of you could quite name yet. But you could feel it, in the beat of your heart, the warmth in your chest, and the hand that rested gently over yours on the console.

The streets outside were washed in amber, the streetlights spilling honey-colored light onto the hood of Heeseung’s car as he pulled up to the quiet curb outside a low-rise campus apartment building. You recognized it, vaguely,  though you’d never had a reason to be this far from your dorm before. He eased the car into park, the soft click of the gear shift cutting through the otherwise silent cabin. For a moment, neither of you moved. You were both suspended in this fragile, private space, like the world outside had hit pause just to give you this breath of stillness. He turned to you, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the console like he might take your hand but thinking better of it. His gaze flickered to your face, warm and searching, not demanding. Not expectant. Just careful. Just him.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low but steady. And you nodded. Without hesitation. Without the voice of Wonyoung echoing in your ears. Without thinking about Soobin or the plan or the stupid game that led you here. You nodded because it was Heeseung and somehow, in the softest, strangest way, you’d never been more certain about anything in your life.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure.” That was all it took. Heeseung stepped out of the car, jogged around to your side, and opened the door for you, offering a hand as you slid out. The air between you pulsed with unspoken tension, not the bad kind, not the kind that makes you want to flee, but the kind that hums beneath your skin like a quiet, rising tide. Neither of you spoke on the short walk to the building. You could feel the beat of your own pulse in your throat, your palms, your knees. Every footstep up the stairwell echoed like a question you were still answering with every breath. When he unlocked the door to the apartment, you stepped into a place that somehow felt like him , even if it wasn’t entirely his. The living room was tidy but lived-in: a half-empty water bottle on the counter, a sweatshirt slung over the back of the couch, a flickering neon sign in the shape of a guitar hanging above the TV. There was a faint scent of cologne and fabric softener in the air , something warm and clean and utterly disarming.

You glanced around, instinctively nervous. “Are you sure no one’s—?”

“I live with Jake,” Heeseung said, gently tugging you further inside. “But he’s out for the weekend. Swear.” Jake was obviously still at Sunghoon’s house. So, you nodded, cheeks warm as he guided you toward the hallway. Every step felt louder now, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You could feel the shift happening between you,  something solemn, something sacred as he led you into his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind you. His room was dimly lit, the overhead light off, only the glow from a desk lamp in the corner casting soft shadows along the walls. Posters of concerts and bands you half-recognized were pinned above his bed. His guitar leaned against the corner, pick still nestled in the strings. The bed was made, barely and a hoodie lay crumpled on the chair by his desk. You turned to him again, breath caught somewhere in your chest. Heeseung was standing just a few feet away now, hands at his sides, gaze never leaving yours.

“Are you still sure?” he asked again, quiet and reverent. And again, you said yes. The word had barely left your mouth before he was stepping toward you, not fast, never fast , just sure, just gentle. His hand reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real. Then he was kissing you, slow and careful, lips warm and familiar now. The kiss wasn’t like the one in the car, not teasing, not frantic. This one was patient, intentional. Like he was asking permission with every soft press of his mouth, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your yes. 

The rest happened slowly. Clothes were shed like old skins, your nerves still there, still fluttering like moths in your stomach, but softened by the way he touched you. Every brush of his fingers was careful, every motion deliberate. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t teasing. He just was warm and present, grounding you with the weight of his hands and the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred. He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The hollow behind your ear. He held you like you were something breakable and beautiful. When it finally happened, he was looking into your eyes, his hand laced with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles to calm you. It hurt at first, of course it did, but it wasn’t scary. Not with him. And eventually the pain faded into something else entirely, something you couldn’t name, only feel.

His hands caressed your body like you were made of porcelain. His breathing hard groans falling from his lips with the severance of a melody you’d never want to forget. “Fuck” He grunted, his hips meetings yours. His forehead sheen with sweat fell against your naked shoulder, lining the skin with searing hot kisses. 

“You feel so good.” His grip on your hips tightened as he allowed himself to go faster, rougher. The sound of skin, mixing with your breathy moans and Heeseung groans were the only sound in the room. 

“Harder.” You choked, letting your head fall against the pillow, your hair creating a halo on the satin pillow case. “Please, Heeseung, harder.” You were begging, pleading for me. It felt too good, better than anything you’ve ever experienced and you just couldn’t get enough. 

Heeseung groaned, a low groan that rumbled deep within his belly all the way up his throat. “You want it harder?” He asks, His eyes locked onto yours as you send him a frantic nod. 

“Yes!” Your voice was almost shrill. “Please.” Your hands found his back, racking your nails up and down the skin — certainly leaving red marks in their wake. Heeseung’s hips pushed harder, the force of his thirst sending your body jerking upwards. 

“Oh my god.” You hissed. “Oh my fucking–” Your voice was cut off with his lips falling to yours, his mouth swallowing the sound of your pleasure. He broke away from the kiss with a low moan and a shaky breath. Your breath caught as you tilted your head back, overwhelmed and undone in the best way. Heeseung murmured quiet things into your skin, not jokes, not one-liners, just your name. Just reassurance. Just closeness. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fireworks. It was better than that. It was real. 

When it was over, he didn’t roll away or laugh or ask how it was. He just stayed there beside you, your bodies tangled beneath his sheets, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hipbone. You rested your cheek on his shoulder, skin still tingling, your heart finally slowing. And for a long time, neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to. Soon, you got up — put your clothing back on and thank Heeseung for all he did that night. You went to your dorm with an even bigger smile on your face. 

Morning sunlight seeps through the cracks in your dorm blinds, painting golden stripes across your duvet and the delicate curve of your shoulder. You stir slowly, not with the usual groggy resistance of a school day, but with something like ease, something light. Your limbs feel loose beneath your sheets, your chest warm, your lips tingling with memories. Last night plays on a soft reel behind your eyelids: Heeseung’s hands, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing worth seeing, the way his voice trembled when he asked if you were sure. You smile before your eyes are even open. It wasn’t just physical , it was something else entirely. Something safe. Something soft. You don’t know what it means yet, or what it should mean,  but right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is the way you feel in this moment. Like maybe, for once, you’re not the DUF. Maybe, for once, you’re the girl someone actually wanted.

You get dressed slowly, pulling on your favorite jeans and a simple top that fits you right, a new confidence buzzing just beneath your skin. Your fingers hover over your phone more than once, tempted to text him, something casual, something teasing, but you stop yourself. You’ll see him in Lit anyway. And God, you can’t even begin to guess what that’s going to be like now. The walk to class is a blur of humming thoughts and overplayed memories, your heart skipping each time you think about him. You wonder if he’ll say something. You wonder if you should. You wonder if this is the start of something... more.

When you arrive at the building, the usual crowd of students loiters by the lecture hall, but your eyes find him immediately. Heeseung is leaning against the wall near the door, black hoodie pulled over his head despite the early morning sun, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He’s looking down at his shoes, but as if sensing you, his head lifts, and there it is. That smile. Soft and crooked and just for you. “Look who finally made it,” you call as you approach, your tone light and teasing, the banter slipping into place like a well-worn jacket. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again after last night.”

Heeseung chuckles, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you. “Please. You think you’d get rid of me that easy?” 

You roll your eyes, a grin curling at your mouth. “You’re relentless.”

“Persistent,” he corrects with a grin of his own. “There’s a difference.” The air between you hums with something more than your usual back-and-forth, a soft awareness, a shared secret, the ghost of his hands still lingering on your waist. Heeseung’s eyes flick over your face for a moment longer than they usually would, like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, as you’re about to reach for the classroom door, he says your name, softly, tentatively. You pause, looking up at him. His expression has shifted, and it’s not teasing now. It’s serious. Vulnerable, almost. Like there’s a weight on his chest and he’s finally ready to let it tumble out.

“Hey, I—” Heeseung starts, but he doesn’t get far.

“HEESEUNG!” Beomgyu’s voice barrels down the hallway like a wrecking ball, all volume and chaos, and before either of you can react, an arm is slung around Heeseung’s shoulder. “Dude! Party tonight. Sunghoon’s place again. It’s gonna be chill this time, no cops, I swear. You’re coming, right? And you,” Beomgyu points to you with a grin, “you better come too. You’re the new fan favorite.” You let out a laugh, caught off guard, but Heeseung just gives Beomgyu a playful shove. “Yeah, alright. We’ll be there.”

“We?” Beomgyu raises an eyebrow, smirking as he wiggles his brows. “Noted.”

And just like that, Beomgyu is disappearing down the hallway, already off to deliver his invite to the next unsuspecting soul. You glance back at Heeseung, your brows furrowed just slightly. “What were you gonna say? Before Beomgyu... you know.”

Heeseung looks at you for a beat, quiet. And in that silence, something shifts again, but this time it doesn’t rise to the surface. Instead, he just shrugs, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “Nothing,” he says casually, a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Forgot what I was gonna say.”

You want to press,  there’s something in the way he says it, the way his eyes flick away from yours for half a second too long, but you don’t. Not here, not now. So instead, you just nod, falling into step beside him as you both walk into the lecture hall. You’re still smiling. But this time, your heart is wrapped a little tighter in wonder. 

The air tonight feels heavier, not unpleasant, just weightier, charged in a way that isn’t quite like the other parties. The crowd buzzes with the usual electricity, the low thump of bass vibrating through the floorboards, bodies weaving and pressing in rhythm to a beat no one truly hears. But you do. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, in the skin of your arms where goosebumps rise as you and Heeseung step through the doorway into Sunghoon’s house. He walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours, laughter spilling from his lips as he says something teasing about your outfit. It’s familiar, the way he leans in a little closer than necessary, the way he always seems to find something to comment on, from the way you wear your hair to how your drink tastes like battery acid. He’s still the same. But you’re not. Not exactly. 

Because now you know what his breath sounds like when it trembles. You know how he looks when he’s above you, eyes full of questions and reverence like you were a poem he wasn’t sure he was allowed to read. You know what it’s like to be wanted,  not by anyone, but by him. And that knowledge sits in your chest like a small fire, curling smoke and heat into your thoughts as you walk beside him. You make your way to the drink table where Beomgyu and Jay are pouring vodka into plastic cups with reckless enthusiasm, laughing at something Jake said. It’s all easy, the familiar chaos of a college party,  but something inside you feels less swayed by the glitter of it now. Like you’ve seen what matters more, in the quiet hush of a dorm room when all the noise falls away and someone holds you like you're worth the wait. 

You glance toward Heeseung, catching sight of him joining in a game of beer pong with Sunghoon. His laugh is loud, tilted back in his throat, his hair flopping into his eyes as he lines up a shot. He’s magnetic like this, full of life, a little too much, and always just enough. You don’t even notice the tap on your shoulder until you feel it. You turn around to see Soobin. Your stomach doesn’t flutter. Your pulse doesn’t spike. You don’t feel weak in the knees or dizzy in the way you once imagined you would. All you feel is... calm.

His smile is soft, almost sheepish, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Hey,” he says, voice raised slightly over the music. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry. For what happened the other night. Wonyoung was out of line, and honestly? Everyone knew it.” You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes dipping away as if afraid to meet yours fully.

“That… that does make me feel better,” you say after a pause, offering him a genuine smile. It’s small but sincere, the kind of smile you give someone when you’ve outgrown the pedestal they used to stand on. He brightens at that. “Good. You didn’t deserve that.” The conversation unfolds easily, light, harmless. He asks about class, about your professor’s weird rant last week, and you laugh with him, grateful that it’s not awkward or strange. For a few minutes, it’s like nothing ever changed. But every now and then, your gaze slides across the room, to where Heeseung is, to the way his hand gestures wildly in the air after making a perfect shot, the way his eyes scan the crowd and catch on you. You feel it each time, that invisible thread tugging between you both, fragile but undeniable.

Soobin leans closer, tipping his head toward you. “Hey, the music’s kind of loud down here. Do you wanna go upstairs to talk?” You hesitate, only for a moment. This is what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? Alone time with Soobin. This moment; the intimacy, the possibility of something real with him, it used to be the end goal. It was the prize at the finish line. You look back toward the beer pong table. Heeseung isn’t there anymore. You swallow, forcing a smile as you nod. “Sure. Upstairs sounds good.” Soobin leads the way, and you follow,  but there’s a hollow tug in your chest, a low ache that whispers: something’s different now. Something’s shifted. And you can’t quite tell if you’re walking toward what you want… or away from it.

The upstairs hall is quieter, hushed like a cathedral built out of creaking floorboards and dim lighting. Soobin’s footsteps are steady ahead of you, confident, calm. You follow him down the hallway, the thump of bass from the party below now muffled by layers of drywall and closed doors. He opens one at the end, someone’s bedroom, likely Sunghoon’s spare guest room and steps inside without hesitation. You enter, arms crossing over your chest instinctively. The room is sparsely decorated: a bed, a desk, a dresser with a dusty mirror. A single lamp glows faintly in the corner, casting everything in warm amber light. The kind of soft hue that makes everything feel a little too intimate. 

You sit down on the edge of the bed, hands fidgeting in your lap. Soobin stands near the dresser, one hand running through his hair like he’s searching for the right words, the right entry point into something he’s been building toward. You try not to think about how your heartbeat doesn’t pick up like it used to. How your stomach doesn’t flutter. How the moment you used to dream about, you and Soobin alone in a room, about to have that talk, feels just a little off-center now. He turns to you, expression unreadable. “Can I ask you something?” You nod.

He gives a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Do you… have a crush on me?”

The question hits you like cold water to the face. You blink. “What?”

“I mean,” he shrugs, “you’re here with me. Alone. Talking like this. And I’ve noticed you kind of… watching me sometimes. Not in a bad way, I just — I figured maybe you liked me.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out right away. You weren’t expecting this — not so directly, not right now. But wasn’t this the whole plan? The makeover, the party, the studying with Heeseung, the kiss that didn’t happen, wasn’t this what you’d wanted from the beginning? So you say it. Quietly, like you’re repeating a line in a play. “Yes. I think I do.” Soobin smiles softly, like that was the answer he expected. He walks over, taking the spot next to you on the bed. There’s a small silence, not quite awkward but definitely unsure. Then, without another word, he leans in. And kisses you. It’s gentle. Thoughtful. His lips press to yours with an easy kind of care. But instead of feeling sparks or butterflies or that dizzy, swept-away sensation you thought would come,  all you feel is stillness. Like kissing someone underwater. The moment suspended. Weightless. Hollow.

You don’t know how long it lasts, but eventually, your hand moves to his chest and you pull away, slow and apologetic. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes avoiding his. Your heart pounds for all the wrong reasons. “I… I don’t think I feel what I thought I felt.”

Soobin tilts his head slightly, studying your face. “What do you mean?” You look down at your hands, twisting your fingers in your lap. “I thought I liked you. I really did. But it doesn’t feel… right. Not like I thought it would. Not like…” You trail off, not daring to finish the sentence. Soobin hums thoughtfully, like he’s already solved the puzzle. 

“Ah,” he says, nodding once. “I get it.”

Your eyes lift, hopeful. “You do?”

A soft chuckle escapes him. “You like Heeseung.” It’s not a question. It’s a truth laid bare between you. You pause, breath catching in your throat. Then you nod. Slowly. “I think I’m in love with him.” There’s a moment of quiet. Not heavy. Not tense. Just the shared acknowledgment of something that’s been true for a while now,  you just hadn’t let yourself name it. 

To your surprise, Soobin smiles. Not bitter or wounded, just warm. Maybe even relieved. “I think you should tell him,” he says.

You swallow. “You think I should?” He nods, leaning back on his hands. “I think you’d regret it if you didn’t.”

Your heart flutters with something different this time,  not nerves, not fear. Hope. You stand up, legs shaky beneath you, but your decision anchors you. As you move toward the door, Soobin calls out softly, just before your hand touches the knob. “He loves you back, you know.”

You turn your head, eyes wide. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he says, simple and sure. You nod once, lips parting just slightly. “I hope you’re right.” And then you step into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind you. The music is still thudding below. The party still rages. But you’ve never felt more clear. Never more certain of who, or what, you want. It’s not about proving anything anymore. Not about being experienced or wanted by anyone. It’s about him. And tonight, you’re going to tell him.

You step down the creaky stairs, the bass from the party still thumping like a distant pulse beneath your skin. Your breath catches, a subtle panic fluttering in your chest as you scan the crowded living room for Heeseung’s familiar face. Your eyes dart past groups of laughing friends, clusters of conversations, and neon lights that blur faces into hazy outlines. But he’s nowhere to be found. Heart pounding in your throat, you veer toward the kitchen, hoping for some sign, a whisper, a clue. There, leaning casually against the counter, is Jake. His usual smirk falters when he notices your searching gaze. “Hey,” you say, voice barely steady. “Have you seen Heeseung?”

Jake shrugs, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Last I saw, he was in the living room with a bunch of people. Why? You looking for him?” You nod and push past him, a fragile thread of hope knitting itself between your ribs. The living room comes into view, and your steps slow, the air thickening in your lungs like smoke. And then you see him. There, framed by a cluster of familiar faces, is Heeseung. But he isn’t alone. Wonyoung stands close beside him, her body pressed against his in a way that twists something cold and sharp through your heart. His arm snakes possessively around her waist, fingers resting lightly but surely on the curve of her hip. She leans in, lips ghosting across his neck and jaw, a soft, intoxicating murmur escaping her mouth as he whispers back.

The scene unfolds like a cruel play, one you wish you could close your eyes to, but you can’t look away. Your chest caves inward, a hollow ache blossoming beneath your ribs. Your stomach churns, bile rising bitterly as you struggle to breathe through the sudden swell of nausea and heartbreak. You try to wrench your gaze away, but the sight sears into your vision, branding itself onto your soul. You can’t watch. Turning on your heel, you stumble toward the door, desperate to escape the cruel tableau. The room blurs around you, faces, laughter, music,  all fading behind the tight clamour of your ragged breaths and pounding heartbeat. Tears spill unbidden from your eyes, tracing warm, salty rivers down your cheeks. Each step away from the party feels heavier than the last, like you’re sinking deeper into a pool of your own shattered dreams.

You reach the night air, the cold biting at your skin but failing to soothe the ache inside. Pulling your phone from your pocket with trembling fingers, you summon an Uber. The glow of the screen feels alien in your hands, like a lifeline thrown across an endless chasm. Inside the car, the world outside dissolves into a blur of streetlights and shadows, but your tears keep falling, a steady cascade that no driver’s small talk or cityscape can interrupt. Your hands grip the seat, knuckles white, as the distance between you and the party grows with every passing mile. You are utterly broken. Stupid, you think bitterly. Stupid for believing, even for a moment, that someone like Lee Heeseung, with his easy charm and dazzling smile, could fall for someone like you. The DUF. The girl who blends into the background. The girl no one notices, the girl no one wants. You were chasing a dream painted in stardust and whispered promises, but it was always just that, a dream. And now, all that’s left is the ache of reality settling cold and hard in your chest.

The days bleed into each other like a slow, endless ache. You find yourself cocooned in your dorm, wrapped in the faded threads of your favorite hoodie, the one that swallows you whole and carries the scent of safety and solitude. The glasses sit perched on your nose, a barrier between the world and the girl who once believed she could be someone else. The weight of silence presses down, heavier than the thick blankets you pull up to your chin. Your phone lies discarded across the bed, buzzing and blinking with countless unanswered texts and missed calls from Heeseung, each one a fresh pang of regret and confusion you’re too scared to confront. You don’t know how to face him. How to face the truth that your heart still aches for the boy who chose someone else, who wrapped his arms around Wonyoung like you were a ghost in the room. You feel like you’ve been stripped bare, every hope unraveling thread by fragile thread. The girl who dreamed of being seen, of being wanted, it’s hard to find her beneath the rubble of broken promises and whispered lies.

Night falls again, the shadows gathering in the corners of your room as if to hold you close in your loneliness. The quiet hum of the city outside is distant and indifferent. You lie there, heart heavy, tears tracing silent rivers down your cheeks, when suddenly there’s a knock at your door. Sharp. Insistent. You don’t want to move, but something in the rhythm of that knock stirs you, a fragile hope tangled with dread. With aching limbs, you pull yourself from the bed, the cold floor a harsh reminder of the world beyond your blankets. You open the door slowly, and there he is, Heeseung. His presence fills the doorway, that familiar, impossible beauty that twists your heart in the best and worst ways. It makes your head spin, your breath catch in your throat.

His eyes search yours, deep pools filled with worry and something you can’t quite name. “Why haven’t you been answering?” he asks softly, voice low, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. “I saw you go upstairs with Soobin the night of the party…” Your throat tightens, the words choking you before you can even think. You take a shaky breath, then whisper, “The deal’s off. You don’t need to worry about making me ‘hot and popular’ anymore.”

His brow furrows, concern deepening. “What happened? Did Soobin hurt you?”

You shake your head, voice trembling but firm. “No. Just… go, Heeseung. Please.”

You reach out, beginning to close the door, but before it shuts, his foot slides gently into the frame, stopping it with quiet insistence. The space between you is charged, a fragile tension stretched thin. His voice is almost a plea. “What’s going on?” The walls you’ve built so carefully around your heart begin to crumble. You swallow hard, biting back the tears that burn your eyes, and say the words you’ve been holding in for too long. “I’m tired. Tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. Tired of playing a role, like I can be that girl, the one everyone notices, the one guys actually want.”

Your voice falters, breaking with raw, aching honesty. “Guys don’t want me. Not really. Not like I am. This was an experiment... and it worked for you, but it didn’t work for me. So… can you just go?” The silence hangs between you like a thick fog. You hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, loud and ragged. This time, your hand moves with quiet finality, closing the door with a definitive click. The sound echoes in the sudden, crushing emptiness of your room. And then, the floodgates break.

You lean back against the door, knees buckling as the tears you held back spill free. The sobs come unbidden, shaking your body, hot and wrenching and real. Each tear a silent confession of heartbreak, loneliness, and the aching desire to be seen, not as a mask, but as the fragile, imperfect soul beneath. In this moment, the girl you tried so hard to hide is raw and vulnerable and fiercely alive. And though it hurts more than words can say, it’s the first step toward something real, toward healing, toward finding the strength to be exactly who you are.

The morning light feels colder somehow, less forgiving as you step out of your dorm room and into the brisk hum of campus life. Today, you wear your armor: a soft, oversized hoodie pulled low over your frame, the familiar weight of your glasses perched on your nose, and leggings that carry no pretense, no flash, no glamour, just you. The girl who sought to dazzle and command attention has quietly slipped away, replaced by someone quieter, more raw, but undeniably real. As you make your way across campus, the chatter and footsteps of other students blur into a dull roar, a soundtrack to your internal storm. The air is thick with the ghosts of last night’s heartache, the sting of broken trust still simmering just beneath your skin. You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re okay. You’ve got this.

The lecture hall door creaks open, and you slip inside, hoping to be invisible, hoping to blend into the shadowy back rows where no one will notice your retreat from the world. But no one really goes unnoticed, especially not in a room charged with unspoken tensions. And then, just as your foot finds the seat furthest from the usual spot beside Heeseung, you hear it, a snide, low comment slicing through the hum of settling students Wonyoung’s voice, sharp and dripping with that familiar edge, echoes just enough for you to catch it. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s aimed right at you. But this time, something’s different. The bite of her words doesn’t sting. The heat of embarrassment doesn’t flush your cheeks. You simply keep walking, your stride steady and unyielding, heart quietly defiant beneath the soft fabric of your hoodie. 

You settle into your seat at the very back, far away from the usual orbit of Heeseung’s presence. And yet, even from there, you feel the weight of his gaze, like a hawk circling above, watching, waiting. His eyes flicker toward you in stolen moments, cautious and curious, as if trying to read the new lines etched into your silence. But you refuse to meet his gaze. You bury yourself deeper into your solitude, the words of the lecture washing over you like distant thunder, barely registered by a mind that’s a million miles away. Minutes stretch on, the clock ticking with relentless indifference. You notice the way Heeseung’s fingers tap lightly against the notebook in his lap, his eyes darting toward you in quick, nervous glances. It’s as if he’s searching for a way back in, a crack in the armor you’ve so carefully constructed. But today, you are a fortress, quiet and impenetrable.

When the final bell rings, a sharp and liberating sound, you rise without hesitation, stuffing your books into your bag with brisk efficiency. Heeseung’s voice trails behind you, soft, hopeful, “Hey, wait—Y/n!” but you don’t stop. You don’t turn. The hall swallows your footsteps as you push through the doors, leaving the echoes of his call behind you.

The evening wrapped itself around your dorm room like a velvet shroud, the dim light casting soft shadows over your tangled sheets and the quiet ache that clung to your chest. You lay there, cocooned in your own solitude, the weight of recent nights pressing down like a relentless tide. The world felt heavy and distant, and the thought of moving, speaking, or facing anything at all felt like a mountain too steep to climb. Then, a sharp knock echoed through the silence, jolting you from your quiet reverie. “Please go away, Heeseung,” you mutter, voice thick with exhaustion and guarded pain, already bracing yourself for the storm you didn’t want to weather again.

But the voice that answered wasn’t his. Soft, hesitant, and tinged with something almost vulnerable, Dani’s words floated through the door: “It’s not Heeseung… please, just open up.” Your heart stutters, surprise and a flicker of warmth breaking through the cold shell you’d built. With a weary sigh, you push yourself up, the weight of days pressing down on your limbs, and unlock the door. There, standing in the dim hallway, were Dani and Sakura, faces soft, eyes sincere, their usual confident air replaced with something tender and remorseful. They step inside without hesitation, their presence gentle like a balm, the space between you shrinking as they settle beside your bed.

“We’re so sorry,” Dani begins, voice low and earnest. “For everything. For not being better friends, for not being there when you needed us.” Sakura nods, her eyes shimmering with an unspoken apology. “We love you, Y/n. We do. And we’re sorry for making you feel anything less than amazing.”

Their words settle over you like a gentle rain, the unexpected kindness dissolving some of the walls you didn’t even realize you’d built so high. They smile, shy but genuine, and Dani confesses, “Sometimes, we’re even jealous of you. You make everything seem so effortless, being smart, funny, just... you. We try so hard, but you just shine naturally.” A quiet laugh escapes you, the sound rusty but honest. You joke back, teasing them for their dramatic flattery, and in the warmth of shared laughter, the tension unravels. The three of you fold into a comforting embrace, a hug woven with forgiveness and the promise of mended bonds.

After the moment lingers, Sakura’s voice breaks through, gentle but curious. “So, what about Heeseung? What’s really going on?” Your chest tightens as you recount the complicated arrangement, the late-night talks, and then, the confession that trembles on your lips. “I lost my virginity to him,” you say quietly, the words both heavy and liberating. “And in all of that... I fell in love with him.”

Their faces flicker between surprise and understanding. Sakura’s eyes soften as she speaks, “The way he looks at you... he loves you too, Y/n.” You shake your head, doubt gnawing at you like a silent ache. “But Wonyoung—”

Dani cuts in gently, firm and unwavering. “He doesn’t care about her anymore. And he never looked at Wonyoung the way he looks at you.” For the first time in what feels like forever, you want to believe them. You nod slowly, the weight of hope settling lightly in your chest. They urge you to hear Heeseung out, to let him speak and show you what’s truly there. But before the conversation can spiral further, they shift the mood, inviting you to a get-together at Sunghoon’s happening just minutes away.

At first, you hesitate, the memory of Heeseung and Wonyoung still stinging fresh. “Heeseung and Wonyoung—” you begin. Sakura cuts you off with a firm shake of her head. “They won’t be there. We promise.” That promise, fragile and shimmering with possibility, nudges you forward. You breathe in, steadying your heart, and then you say yes. Together, the three of you leave your room, stepping out into the night with tentative smiles and the fragile threads of renewed friendship and maybe, just maybe, a second chance at love waiting to bloom.

When you pull up to Sunghoon’s house that night, you’re half-expecting the pit in your stomach to grow teeth and chew you alive. But instead, you’re met with the warm, familiar glow of porch lights, the echo of laughter spilling from inside, and the voices of boys you’ve somehow come to know like brothers. Sunghoon, Jake, Jay, and Beomgyu greet you at the door like you’re royalty, like nothing in the world is out of place. They offer you sodas and cheesy jokes, Beomgyu pulling you into a dramatic bow while Jake salutes like you're being welcomed home from war. And for a flicker of a second, you forget it all, the ache, the shame, the heartbreak. You laugh. You actually laugh. You let your shoulders drop. You exist again.

Sakura appears at your side like she’s always belonged there and gives you a little nudge. “Hey,” she says, smiling with all her teeth, “Can you go grab the extra cooler outside? It’s on the deck.”

You squint at her. “You have legs.”

“Yes,” she says sweetly, “but you have main character energy tonight. So scoot.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, pushing through the backdoor into the backyard. And that’s when it happens.

Twinkling fairy lights string above you like constellations pulled down from the sky, wrapped through the branches of Sunghoon’s backyard trees. They blink softly around the bonfire, flames low and lazy, casting shadows across the grass. And there, seated on a log bench near the fire, is Heeseung. His head is bowed, fingers locked together like he’s praying or maybe bracing himself from falling apart. The moment he hears your footsteps, his head jerks up. His eyes meet yours, wide and uncertain. Time hiccups. You stare. He stares. And then, slowly, shakily, he stands.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what I was going to say to you when I saw you again,” he says, voice low but trembling with everything he’s been holding in. “And now… now that you’re actually here, looking like that…”

You blink. “Looking like what? Like a girl who’s no longer hot?” He shakes his head so fast and so fiercely that a laugh escapes your throat without permission. 

“No,” he says, stepping toward you. “Looking like you. Just — you. Glasses, hoodie, stubborn scowl and all. You're beautiful.” Your breath stutters. The world sways. You try to speak, to make a joke, to do anything, but your lips don’t work. He fills the silence. “You’re so beautiful,” he says again, his voice stronger now. “And I love you.” You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You’re too stunned. Too overwhelmed. So he continues, and thank God he does.

“When I saw you go upstairs with Soobin that night… I thought I was gonna be sick. I’ve never felt anything like that. Not anger. Not sadness. Jealousy. Like I was losing something that wasn’t even mine to lose.” Your chest aches. You take a step closer, barely breathing. “Wonyoung came up to me after that,” he says, voice rougher now. “Told me she heard you and Soobin hooking up. She tried to kiss me. Said I should get over it. But I didn’t care what she said. Even if you were with Soobin, I didn’t want her. I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.” 

You want to cry. You want to melt. But mostly, you want to run to him.

“I was never going to get in the way of you and him if that’s what you really wanted,” Heeseung continues. “But then, when you told me outside your dorm that it wasn’t going to work out… I knew. I had to tell you how I felt.” His eyes lock on yours with full, unwavering honesty.

“I love you. Just the way you are. And I think I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at Sunghoon’s party. When you insulted my G.P.A and spilled that drink all over yourself.”  He laughs, almost breathless. “That’s when I knew I was doomed.”

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, wet and cracked but real. You take one step closer, then another, until the distance is gone. “I kissed Soobin,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “Upstairs, that night. And it was... fine. But while it was happening, all I could think about was you. That stupid smile of yours, your dumb little jokes, the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand like you're in an action movie... I realized something.” 

Heeseung holds his breath.

“I realized that I love you. Your charm, your goofiness, the way you never let me walk on the outside of the sidewalk. I love you, even the parts I think I hate, because it’s you. And I want you.” His mouth opens like he might say something witty, but he doesn't. He just crashes forward and kisses you, fierce, certain, heart-shaking. His hands come to your face, cradling you like you’re something sacred. It’s not gentle, not this time. It’s messy and passionate and breathless, like a whole novel written in one kiss. Like everything unspoken finally found its voice.

When you finally part, foreheads touching, breath mingling, he murmurs, “You’re it for me, Y/n.” You smile, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“And you’re the dumbest genius I’ve ever met,” you say softly, kissing him again.

Somewhere behind you, from the house, you hear Beomgyu shout, “ARE THEY FINALLY MAKING OUT?!” And then Jake yells, “SUNGHOON OWES ME FIFTY BUCKS!”

You both break apart laughing, and Heeseung groans. “God, they’re never gonna let us live this down.” 

You grin, cheeks flushed. “Worth it.” Because it is. It always was.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox @firstclassjaylee @teddybeartaetae @hoonjayke @princesstiti14 @seokjinthescientist @lillotus17 @yeonmuse @hoonieyun @s1rawb3rry

[kenzdolls]

RUMI RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS . [KPDH]

``✶ pairing: [k-pop demon hunters] rumi × fan! reader

``✶ trigger warnings: before-movie timeline, some ooc, fluff, mentions of violence, mentions of demons, identity concealment, mild stalking behavior, protective/possessive tendencies, anxiety/panic attacks

``✶ a/n: trying out a new layout how we feeling?? (tell me if it looks good or not in the comments/reblogs pleaseeee..)

⌗1 ⌇ FIRST TIME MEETING ！

▹ rumi literally trips over her own feet when she first spots you in the crowd at a huntr/x meet-and-greet because wow okay you're really cute and she was NOT prepared for this (zoey and mira are immediately like "why is our composed leader suddenly a mess??")

▹ she tries to play it cool when you approach for autographs but her demon-enhanced hearing picks up your heartbeat and she's like "oh no they're nervous" which makes HER nervous because what if you can sense something's off about her like the fact that she's literally half the thing her and her friends are supposed to be hunting that their loyal fans don’t even know about!

▹ you mention how huntr/x's music helped you through a tough time and rumi's chest does this weird fluttery thing that has nothing to do with her demon side and everything to do with how genuine you sound

▹ she finds herself lingering during your interaction, asking about your favorite songs and actually listening (not just the polite celebrity listening) while zoey gives her subtle "hurry up" gestures from behind you

▹ rumi slips and mentions a tiny detail about the song's creation that wasn't in any interviews before catching herself like "i mean… that's what i imagine the creative process was like haha" (you don't notice but she's internally screaming)

▹ when you leave, she realizes she forgot to actually sign your album because she was too busy memorizing your smile and definitely not thinking about how you smell really good in a way that makes her demon instincts go haywire

▹ she spends the next week checking the group's social media religiously hoping you'll post the selfie you took together (she screenshots it immediately when you do and may or may not have it as her lock screen now)

▹ rumi starts frequenting the coffee shop you mentioned loving, ordering the same drink you said was your favorite and sitting in the corner booth hoping to "accidentally" run into you (mira catches her doing this and is like "since when do you drink oat milk lattes??" and rumi's like "i'm… expanding my palate")

▹ when you finally show up, she knocks over her drink in excitement and you rush over to help clean it up, laughing about how clumsy you both are (if only you knew she tripped because your scent made her demon side recognize you instantly)

▹ she gives you her number "in case you ever want to talk about music or… anything really" and immediately panics about whether that was too forward (zoey finds her pacing their living room later muttering "what if they think i'm weird what if they can tell something's different about me")

⌗2⌇ FALLING IN LOVE ！

▹ rumi becomes the WORST at hiding her crush like she'll be in the middle of talking to reporters and suddenly zone out because she got a text from you (zoey has to elbow her back to reality while mira covers with some joke about rumi being "deep in artistic thought")

▹ she starts writing song lyrics about you but they're all weirdly specific like "your laugh sounds like sunlight through coffee shop windows" and the girls are like "who is this about??" and rumi's like "it's… metaphorical" (it's not)

▹ her demon side makes her ridiculously protective so when you mention someone at work being rude to you, she has to physically restrain herself from asking for their full name and address definitely not so she can pay them a friendly visit with her demon strength

▹ she memorizes your schedule without meaning to (enhanced memory is both a blessing and a curse) and starts timing her coffee runs for when you'll be there, then acts surprised every time like "oh wow what a coincidence!"

▹ rumi gets irrationally jealous when you mention hanging out with other people and has to excuse herself to go scream into a pillow because what right does she have to be jealous when she's literally lying about her entire existence??

▹ she starts buying two of everything "just in case" - two coffees, two pastries, two movie tickets - and when zoey asks why she's like "i just… like having options" (mira: "since when?")

▹ rumi becomes weirdly knowledgeable about your interests like you mention liking astronomy once and suddenly she's an expert on constellations (she definitely didn't spend her entire weekend reading about stars just to impress you)

▹ she starts having dreams about telling you the truth about what she is and they always end with you running away scared, so she wakes up in cold sweats and texts you good morning messages to make sure you're still talking to her

▹ when you compliment her outfit she literally glows (not metaphorically, like actually glows a little bit) and has to quickly excuse herself to the bathroom to get her demon side under control

▹ rumi writes your name in her notebook margins during meetings and draws little hearts around it, then scribbles them out in panic when mira tries to peek (mira definitely still saw and is filing this information away for later)

⌗3⌇ AS A SIGNIFICANT OTHER ！

▹ the first time you kiss her, rumi's demon side reacts and her eyes flash a different color for just a second (you think it's a trick of the light but she spends the next hour convinced she's ruined everything)

▹ she becomes the most attentive girlfriend ever because her enhanced senses mean she notices everything - when you're getting sick before you do, when you're stressed, when you haven't eaten enough (you think she's just really observant)

▹ rumi starts keeping human snacks in her bag at all times because she learned you get cranky when hungry and her demon side cannot handle you being upset (zoey's like "since when do you eat this much?" and rumi's like "i'm… bulking")

▹ she has to be really careful during physical affection because her demon strength means she could accidentally hurt you, so she's always super gentle and you think it's just because she's naturally tender (it is, but also she's terrified of losing control)

▹ movie nights are hilarious because rumi's enhanced hearing means she can hear jump scares coming from a mile away, so she always warns you right before they happen by suddenly hugging you "tighter" (you think she's just scared too)

▹ rumi becomes obsessed with protecting you but has to find normal ways to do it, like insisting on walking you home (definitely not because she can smell if anyone dangerous has been in the area) and giving you her jacket (totally not because it carries her scent and will deter any supernatural threats)

▹ she starts having mini panic attacks when you're late texting back because her demon side assumes the worst, but she has to play it cool and not seem clingy (zoey finds her refreshing her phone every thirty seconds like "maybe their battery died maybe they're just busy maybe they got kidnapped by demons and need me to save them")

▹ the first time you stay over, rumi doesn't sleep at all because she's terrified she'll shift in her sleep or accidentally hurt you, so she just watches you sleep with the softest expression (when you wake up and catch her she's like "you just looked so peaceful!")

▹ she starts leaving little protective charms around your apartment disguised as cute decorations you think she just bought because she has good taste (that succulent is actually warding off evil spirits but you don't need to know that)

▹ rumi becomes fluent in your love language almost immediately because her demon instincts are all about caring for her mate not that she can ever tell you that's what you are to her and you're amazed at how she always knows exactly what you need

▹ she starts planning your future together in her head but then remembers she's literally living a lie and has to excuse herself to go cry in the bathroom while zoey and mira are like "why has rumi been so emotional lately??"

▹ the day you tell her you love her, rumi's demon side purrs (she quickly covers it with a cough) and she says it back so fast she almost trips over the words because she's been feeling it for months but didn't know if it was too soon

▹ she keeps a secret folder on her phone of all your pictures together labeled "reasons to keep fighting" because being with you makes her want to be better at balancing both sides of herself and maybe someday she'll be brave enough to tell you the truth, and maybe, get rid of this side of herself for good after restoring the honmoon.

⌗ taglist: @idexmids @siriuslyginnychase @eleteo125 @st4r-dustx @corpsebridenightamare @boreaswrites @bakugouswaif [OPEN]

⌗ mutuals: @haikyuubby @va-3 @tulippanes @luvseraphh @miss-indigen0us @cupkiki @par4disee [OPEN]

✦ REQUESTS ARE OPEN [CLOSING SOON]! ✦

© KENZDOLLS 2025 . do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work in anyway including the use of ai onto any other social media platforms or it will permit an instant block on all platforms.

[ovaryacted]

─ Jack Abbot ; Charlie Reid ; Andrew Cody x reader || WC: 1.5k

CW: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Talks of children & pregnancy. Character analysis mostly. Brief talks of how the men have sex (mostly Charlie cause duh). Birth control tampering & manipulation w/Charlie. Ableist language w/Pope (from what he's been told by Baz, Smurf, & others). Trauma & angst throughout. Possible spoilers mentioned (for Animal Kingdom).

I was super inspired by this post done by @robbyrobinavitch and initially had this on a reblog of that post but decided to separate it since I ended up writing much more than I expected. I just wanted to talk about these three guys and them thinking about having or not having kids is all. Hope y'all like my thoughts. Proofread by moi. <3 Reblogs, comments, and likes are always greatly appreciated. (I haven't written in a while, I just typed this out in 45 mins before bed so yeah).

JACK ABBOT - He’s always wanted a family of his own deep down, even if he doesn’t say it outright. He initially had a 5 year plan when he finished his medical training, he’d get out of the military and buy a nice big house for him and his wife with a couple of bedrooms, a white picket fence, and a nice backyard. He imagined it all once before: the nursery, the faded markings of height measurements on the wall, the swingset in the yard. He saw it all so clearly he blindly believed he was destined to have it.

That dream was quickly ripped away from him when his wife passed away, and with her, he mourned the fantasy of having kids to call his own. He went on for years thinking he would never get that chance, so he forgot about it and moved on from that ambition, put whatever energy he had left into his job, and used it as a distraction from the horrors that kept him up at night. There was nothing to come home to anymore, no reason for him to keep going, and his life consisted of listening to the police scanner and finding purpose in saving the lives he could.

Despite Jack's attempts to refrain from wanting more, he miraculously finds himself in love for a second time later in life. He’d almost call himself greedy for being blessed in such a way, but his therapist told him once or twice to consider it an apology from God after prolonging his suffering to this extent. After some time, the suppressed desire Jack had buried deep in the locked vault of his mind escapes into the open, and though he doesn’t want to push his luck, he thinks he might have a second chance at trying for one of the things he’s always wanted: a baby of his own.

Once you’re both on the same page, Jack is hopeful, to say the least, giving you vitamin supplements, prepping specific meals to tailor your diet, and using the right positions in the bedroom based on his own research to make sure you both have the best chance possible. It doesn’t take long to happen either; those two lines on one of the four pregnancy tests you took show up clear as day, and Jack’s the happiest he’s been in a long time. A part of you, a part of him, meshed together in flesh and blood, and it’ll only be nine months before he gets to see your creation in person and know this reality isn’t just a dream. It’s all he could’ve ever dreamed of and more.

CHARLIE REID - He’s an asshole to say the least and gravely in denial. He knew from the jump he didn’t want kids, didn’t want any part of him walking around Chicago, or frankly, anywhere without him knowing. In the past, he’s always been in control of what he did with whom, pulled out every single time, and would get Plan B preemptively to give to his partners for insurance. No loose ends, no ties he couldn’t account for. That was his motto, his standard, and for the longest time that was how he operated. He’s been lucky enough to avoid any surprises, and despite constantly saying he didn’t want kids nor making any life plans to include them, that wasn’t entirely true.

Charlie will fuck you like he’s trying to leave his mark on any part of you he can get, purposely leaving a piece of him festering inside your body and ruining you for anybody else. He refuses to use condoms, says it just gets in the way, and you don’t fight him on it either because you know he’s right. Don’t even bother asking him for a vasectomy, that’s not an option, he doesn’t want any part of his body being messed with or having to possibly change the way he wants to be with you. He tampers with your birth control and makes you forget to take your pills on time, convinces you that you don’t really need it, that it’s been fucking with your hormones and making you behave irrationally. He hides the satisfied grin on his face when you tell him you’re no longer taking your pills and you’re going on a detox, figuring you could do without the hormones and give your body a much needed break.

He’ll keep treading the line of fire and test how far he can get before his actions finally catch up with him. Charlie will cum everywhere but inside you, where he knew he belonged, where he wanted to be, where he was needed. He dodges it for a while, relishing in the way you clench and pulse around his cock before drawing his hips back at the last second and spilling over your tummy. Though he doesn’t stop you when you wrap your shaking legs around his waist and keep him tucked inside, listening to your petulant whines begging to have him fill you up like you’ve always wanted him to.

Charlie tries very hard to ignore the flare of possession that shudders over him when you tell him your period’s late by a few weeks and show him a positive pregnancy test to be more convincing. Every single bone in his body is telling him to reject this, reject you, and he decides against it. Because it’s not necessarily the thought of having a kid in general that changes his mind; it’s the control it gives him that does. The fact that from here on out you’re forever tied to him; you’ll always have some attachment to him no matter what happens; you're now intertwined and you’ll have a piece of him for the rest of your life. That to him is all that matters.

ANDREW "POPE" CODY - Pope and children are a mixed bag, at least to him. He knows the baggage he comes with, the family he comes from, the trauma that burdens him and shackles him to the skeletons in his closet. Pope is tainted; he’s damaged goods, he’s fucked up to the highest degree, and a lost cause in the eyes of society. Not to mention, everyone around him has made it so blatantly clear that he was the last person on Earth that should procreate, that if he were to bring another living thing into this world with all of the fucked-up shit he carries, the rapture would be upon them. Baz reminded him nobody would consciously want to have a family with him. Smurf and her subsequent partners beat that message into him long before Baz came along. The other inmates and police guards back at Folsom made sure over the course of three years, he’d know that everyone would be better off if he was dead.

For most of his life, Pope accepted that his bloodline starts and ends with him.

Then Lena came along and opened something that Pope thought no longer existed, forgotten and buried with the grains of sand in his hourglass that had long stopped running. She saw him as human, as a person, as her uncle Pope that still managed to fight for her, to hold her and tuck her in with steady hands and hushed words only reserved for her. She reminded him that innocence was still attainable, that he wasn't entirely ruined, even if he was partially the reason why Lena became an orphan.

But when it comes to thinking about having any kids of his own, of extending the Cody dynasty on his own accord, bile creeps up to his throat. Not out of disgust, but because he doesn’t think he should want it. Would the world really end if there was one more Cody walking around? Would it be so bad if he had a family that actually wanted him?

It’s shocking when you break the news to him that you were expecting, all of his knowledge of the birds and the bees coming to the forefront and his stoic facade crumbles, the hardened edges of his face soften when he glances down to your belly. You weren’t showing, and you won’t for a while, but Pope brings a large palm over the front of your body and caresses your navel with his thumb as if he can already see the precious cargo you have growing inside you. You know he needs a moment to process, to acknowledge how both of your lives will change, hopefully for the better, how it’s not just you two but a household unit of three. He doesn’t know much; frankly he doesn’t know anything about being a parent or a good dad, regardless of how many times you tell him he’s been so good with Lena and shown her a kindness the rest of her family could care less about giving her.

And after a couple of minutes, that’s when you see it. A smile, both ends of his face lighting up and his cheeks creasing at the revelation brought before him. For once, Andrew was chosen, wanted, and now he’ll have something, someone, who will love and accept all of him the same way you have.

©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[hcvney]

“ friend’s do this, right? ”

a/n: this fic is inspired by this post ! :)

You and your best friend Dae-ho—decide to share the bed for the night after dinner. what starts as teasing — turns into tension.

Rating: 18+ (explicit, nsfw)

Pairing: kang dae-ho / player 388 x f!reader

Setting: modern setting

Warnings: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, praise kink, soft dom dae ho, sub reader, oral m receiving, back shots, missionary, aftercare, bed sharing

The plates clinked gently as you stacked them by the sink, full from the cozy dinner you and Dae-ho made together. Pasta, garlic bread, and a salad that somehow turned into a competition of who could chop veggies better. He won. Barely.

He was still in your kitchen, wiping down the counter like he owned the place—like he hadn’t just crashed at your house after insisting, “No way you’re spending the night alone after such a long week.”

You glanced at the clock. “It’s late… I think I’m gonna head to bed.”

Dae-ho looked up, tossing the dish towel over his shoulder. “Yeah? You’re not gonna make me sleep on that lumpy couch again, right?”

You smirked. “You chose the couch last time.”

“Only ’cause you said your bed was off-limits.”

You turned off the kitchen light, letting the soft glow of the hallway lamps guide you both toward your room. “Well… yeah. I mean—best friends don’t sleep together.”

He gave you a look. One brow raised, mouth twitching like he was holding back a smirk. “Who says that?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered. “It just feels… intimate.”

“It’s just sleeping,” he teased, trailing behind you. “Come on. Head to head. Face to face. I won’t even breathe weird.”

You paused in the doorway of your bedroom, hesitating. “…Seriously?”

“Seriously. We’ve fallen asleep on the couch together before.”

“That was during a movie.”

“Exactly. This is like… extended movie cuddles. Deluxe edition.”

You rolled your eyes but walked in, pulling back the covers. He followed, tugging his hoodie off and tossing it on the chair. You caught yourself staring a little too long at the way his shirt lifted slightly—just enough to flash toned skin and that faint line that always made your stomach flutter.

You turned away, cheeks warm. You hated how your best friend made you feel like that without even trying.

He climbed in after you, laying on his side to face you, his head propped up slightly. “This isn’t weird, is it?”

“…Maybe a little,” you whispered, facing him too.

But he smiled—warm, boyish, with that hint of mischief that always got under your skin. “Then let’s make it weirder.”

He nudged your forehead with his finger. “Boop.”

You scowled, swatting his hand. “Stop.”

“But you’re so boopable.”

You covered your face with your hand. “I knew this was a mistake.”

He laughed under his breath and shifted closer, his voice soft now. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.” His tone dropped an octave. “I can see it even in the dark.”

You huffed and turned over, giving him your back. “You’re so annoying sometimes.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, in a mock-offended whisper, “Wow. And you’re turning away from me. Cold.”

You snorted, muffling your laugh into the pillow. “Shut up, Dae-ho.”

You felt the bed shift—he scooted just slightly closer, enough for his breath to fan the back of your neck.

“I mean, I guess I’ll just stare at the wall and cry.”

“Dramatic.”

You rolled your eyes but stayed turned. “You want me to face you that bad?”

He leaned in, whispering right by your ear, “I like when you look at me.”

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t the teasing tone this time. That landed softer. Lower. More real.

You stayed still, unsure if you should flip back around or pretend you didn’t feel that ache low in your stomach from just those five words.

But then his hand brushed your arm under the blanket. Light. Barely there.

You turned slowly to face him again.

He was already watching you—smile gone, eyes searching yours like he was trying to figure out if he’d crossed a line.

“Friends do this, right?” you whispered.

His gaze dipped to your lips. “We’re… really close friends.”

You blinked slowly. His face was so near now, your noses nearly brushing. You felt your pulse in your throat, in your fingertips.

“I won’t kiss you,” he said softly, “…unless you want me to.”

Your fingers curled into the sheets, heart pounding.

Maybe friends didn’t do this.

But you wanted to.

And that changed everything.

he leaned in and kissed you.

Soft at first. Slow. Careful.

Like he’d been thinking about this for far too long and didn’t want to ruin it. His lips moved against yours with gentle intention, but there was something deeper simmering beneath—something hungry, restrained.

And the moment you kissed him back—really kissed him back—he made a quiet noise in the back of his throat and pulled you closer.

The kiss deepened. His hand found your waist under the blanket. And just as you adjusted your body to shift closer, you felt—

…Something.

Right against your thigh.

You froze for a second.

Then slowly pulled back, your face flushed, eyes darting to his.

He was already panicking internally—his ears turning bright red, his gaze dropping in embarrassment.

“…Sorry,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not—I wasn’t trying to…”

Your heart fluttered at how shy he suddenly became. “Was that because of me?”

He looked away, jaw clenching a bit before whispering, “…Yeah.”

“…Because you’re pretty,” he said quietly. Then, after a beat: “And because you’re you. And I’ve wanted to kiss you like that for a long time.”

Your breath caught.

“I thought I could keep being just your friend. But the way you look at me sometimes, the way you talk to me, how soft you are in bed—” he blinked, flustered. “I mean like literally, when you lie next to me—”

You giggled into his chest, your fingers dragging along his side as you pressed closer again. Bold now. Needing more.

And he felt it.

You grinding gently against his hip—like your body wanted an answer your mind hadn’t found words for yet.

His eyes fluttered shut for a second before he caught your gaze again. “…You’re doing that on purpose.”

You bit your lip. “Maybe.”

His hand slipped along your waist. His voice dropped to a low murmur. “You ever wanna… try something we’ve never done before?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He smiled, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“I’ll just show you,” he whispered.

And then he kissed you again.

Deeper this time. No hesitation.

His hands slid under your shirt—not rushed, not greedy, just curious and warm. Exploring slowly. Learning you.

And you let him.

He sat up slightly, helping you tug your shirt over your head. His hands were warm, fingertips brushing reverently over your skin like you were something precious—like he wasn’t just undressing you, but memorizing you.

When he lifted his own shirt, you finally got to take him in—his toned frame, his flushed chest rising and falling, eyes dark but full of something gentle.

You stared.

He noticed.

And then he smirked just a little and said, voice low, “You like what you’re seeing?”

You swallowed, cheeks burning. “…Yeah.”

He leaned back in, kissing you again, slower now. More confident.

Clothes were discarded with care, lips never parting for long. When you finally laid back against the pillows, he was hovering above you—his hand trailing down your stomach, eyes flicking to yours for permission.

You nodded.

He lined himself up and eased in just a little.

Just enough to make you both gasp.

He cursed softly, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he held still for a second.

“Damn… you feel—” he swallowed. “So good already. I don’t even know how I’m gonna last.”

You clenched around him, whispering his name like it was a secret.

He groaned and pushed deeper, slow and steady. Letting you adjust. Letting himself adjust.

Your fingers laced in his hair as your hips met his halfway, both of you building rhythm—your bodies finding a pace as natural as breathing. Moans mixed with breathy laughter and soft gasps, the two of you completely tangled in each other, finally doing what your bodies had been aching for since that first look turned into something more.

But then—midway through—he pulled out slowly and flipped you gently onto your stomach.

His voice came quiet but rough behind you. “I wanna try it like this…”

He took his time repositioning you—hands on your hips, tugging them up just enough to arch your back. Then you felt him again—sliding back in from behind. It was deeper this way. More intense. Your fingers curled into the sheets.

You whined into the pillow, back arching, body pulsing around him.

“God, you feel even tighter like this,” he breathed, gripping your waist.

He thrust deeper, harder now—but still controlled, still focused on you. His hand stayed on your lower back as he murmured your name, worshipped you under his breath, until your body gave out with a trembling moan.

He leaned forward, chest brushing your back, breath hot by your ear. “Want me to go quicker, pretty girl?”

he whispered. “Want it rougher?”

Your answer was a muffled gasp.

He moved—slow at first, teasing, driving you insane with every inch. But then he leaned closer, his hand slipping under your stomach to feel the way your body tensed with every slow thrust.

“Then beg for it,” he whispered right into your ear, voice rough. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

You whimpered, too turned on to be embarrassed.

“Please,” you breathed. “Please, Dae-ho… I want it—I need it—”

“Say it louder.” He pulled almost all the way out and just stayed there, motionless, hovering.

You arched your hips back, desperate. “Dae-ho, please go faster—I need you.”

He slammed back in—all the way this time—deep and rough, sending a loud gasp tumbling from your mouth. He gripped your waist tighter, his pace picking up hard and fast, your body jolting forward with every thrust.

“You’re so good like this,” he gritted out. “Taking me so well. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

You could barely speak—only nod, mouth parted as his name kept falling out of you.

His is chest slick with sweat against your back, his breath hot and ragged.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice rough. “Say you like being my good girl.”

“I—I like it,” you gasped. “I like being your good girl—”

He let out a dark groan, fucking into you harder, the pace relentless now. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, along with your soft, desperate whimpers

“Gonna finish like this?” he muttered, hips snapping into you. “Want me to keep going till you fall apart?”

Your fingers clawed into the sheets.

“Dae-ho—don’t stop—don’t—!”

And you shattered.

Your body went limp, legs shaking as you collapsed into the mattress. But he stayed inside for a second longer, catching his own breath, barely holding it together.

Then he pulled out slowly, panting hard behind you.

Still aching. Still throbbing.

He leaned over again, kissing your shoulder gently, voice breathless.

“You did so good, baby…”

And then came the low question:

He asked, panting, “Where do you want it, baby?”

You turned your head toward him, still breathless. “My mouth…”

His expression broke into something between lust and awe.

“Come here, then. Let me see those lips.”

You rolled over, He moved toward you as you shifted, taking him gently in your hand before your lips wrapped around him.

His hand tangled in your hair, his other bracing himself above the headboard.

He moaned your name, whispering, “Just like that… good girl…”

You heard him whisper your name, over and over like a prayer until he came—breath caught, body trembling, barely holding himself up.

You swallowed quietly and looked up at him with flushed cheeks.

He was still watching you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, then leaned down to kiss your forehead, your cheek, your lips.

“…You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, and he smiled—tired but in awe.

He cleaned you both up gently, pulling the blanket over you and wrapping himself around you from behind.

“You’re still my best friend,” he whispered against your neck, pressing one last kiss there. “But now you’re also kind of everything.”

You smiled into the pillow, fingers lacing with his under the blanket.

Nothing else needed to be said.

[beatlblog]

#i love how its universally known that if john was alive now he'd be on twitter being awful#so sad he lived before the invention of a website where he can call people slurs and watch femboy porn all day. he would have loved it#sean lennon#(my beloathed. manifesting seans downfall yet again tonight) (via sword-swallower-pin)

#i mean he sang the word with his whole chest#he wouldnt last a minute on twitter (via thiss-isnt-me)

From what I understand of Lennon as a father, he'd be disappointed in his son no matter what the kid did. (via eversoslightlybitter)

#show him his own giant asscrack (via livepoultryfreshkilled)

#I can't for the life of me tell whether this post implies he would be for or against gay marriage (via angels-in-overcoats)

#i think john lennon would have been a cryptobro if we’d have given him the chance (via laurelier)

#I do love that the fandom universally agrees that John on Twitter would be like dril + Elon (but nicer) + pre-breakdown Kanye (via drivenalphabitchpaulmccartney)

#i legit think john would be too fascinated by beatles erotica to give a shit about crypto (via bambi-kinos)

#too busy sending paul the surprise bitch gif to bother listening#and twitter beefing with liam gallagher (via commoncrisis)

^#i think we're all bisexual. we're not but also maybe we all are. i still wish yoko would call me back (via stewy)

#1. you have to specify which son they're both into that shit#2. he'd probably be into it even without the environmental impact#3. pretty sure he'd be into ivermectin like one of his sons too. I'm sure of it. (via david-watts)

#john lennon would be friends with elon musk i think#he'd make an imagine nft collection (via windewehn)

#i think all Edward Cullen's memes would apply to JL#don't ask me why#effervescent..... (via marigtan)

#I'm pretty sure julian is into nfts so like... a disappointment raised two disappointments (via brltpop)

#i love this post so much#grey if you see this. i need to tell you that this post was one of the reasons that made me follow you#or it was why i didnt unfollow you idk i cant remember.#i just know i saw it and thought Yep. i need to keep this person close. (via tweeterwilbury)

#julian is a cryptobro too#family of disapointements (via keenbugg)

#I think he would take up the cause of planet activism but not care that his son is into crypto#This is the *imagine no possessions* *closet full of furs* guy (via scary-ivy)

#anyway if this was real I would rickroll the bastard in his twitter replies. get ricked idiot (via david-watts)

#the post evrer . thank you grey#e obrigado lila por reblogar! (via tweeterwilbury)

#I LOVE YOU JOHN LENNON: GAY MARRIAGE LEGALIZED....................... (via tweeterwilbury)

^#gay marriage legalized............................ (via schmilsson)

#not saying i condone his murder BUT he could never have been trusted with social media the way ringo is (via whitealbum)

#i can so perfectly envision the words “gay marriage legalised...........” (ellipses included) in johns voice its insane (via oneflydude)

#he should have been on twitlonger era twitter. i mean he shouldn’t have been but it would’ve been entertaining (via oxfordcommalover666)

#wish I could see john lennon get cancelled repeatedly for his actions on social media 😔 (via bluecowgirl)

#oh god... hed be just like liam gallagher wouldnt he... (via kirbyluvr63)

#John would be inviting Paul and Ringo to his gooning server#Nigel Whalley's house in Woolton (via scavengedluxury)

#nah he'd probably be doing nfts as well as lennoncoin#probably would also have done the imagine song during the 2020 lockdown#all while selling essential oils and hating vaccines#funnily enough i think this would as apply to steve jobs (via shad0whunt3r)

#sadly John Lennon was a rich weirdo first and foremost so would likely be doing crypto as well if alive#it’s either that or he would be selling blood art (via xenamorphe)

#John is already sending hole to paul before you can even finish explaining chat gpt (via valend)

^#<- yes exactly#that sums it up#oh btw gay marriage is le- *bolts out leaving a cloud of dust behind* (via univer-salll)

#he would have an account for less than a day before someone decides it’s better if it’s run on his behalf instead lmfao (via yaminerua)

do you think john lennon would be disappointed to learn that his son is a cryptobro

[i-monster-no-trucks]

He gives me cuteness aggression

[delilahsturniolo]

˗ˏˋ @DELILAHSTURNIOLO’S ONE YEAR SPECIAL! ˎˊ˗

𝜗᭪ going undercover with secret agent!chris turns into something more . . .

⤷ warnings . . . very suggestive but no smut, reader grinding on chris, teasing, dirty talk.

⤷ written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

⤷ view one year special here!

the lights are low and filthy gold, painting everything in a haze of smoke and sweat. the club is pulsing with bass and bad intentions. men with suits too expensive for their souls sit around half-empty bottles and women they think they own. you’re one of them now.

a dancer. stage name iris. fishnets. heels tall enough to snap your ankle. red glitter smudged across your cheekbones. the boss likes you—a little too much. the club owner is watching tonight. testing your loyalty. testing your control. but little does he know, it’s all an act to gain his trust and get closer to intel. except, he is watching you closely. he’s skeptical of you.

and you have to sell it. every inch of it. chris is sitting in the vip booth. dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fake tattoo snaking up his forearm. jaw tight. eyes darker than usual. acting as your “boyfriend,” freshly hired to work security.

he’s not acting very well. not when his hands are clenched into fists. not when his eyes follow every hand that reaches for you. you slide onto his lap without a word, straddling him smoothly. one arm drapes over his shoulder, the other trailing down his chest. the club owner watches from across the room. eyes sharp. calculating.

you start to move your hips. slow. deliberate.

chris tenses instantly. “sunshine—what—“ he hisses under his breath. “shut up and play along,” you whisper in his ear. your lips brush the shell of it. your hips rock again, a little harder. his hands stay frozen at his sides.

“act like you love me, chris. touch me more.” you murmur. “they’re watching.”

he hesitates. he wanted to scream and tell you that he didn’t need to act. but he doesn’t. you drag his hands to your thighs, forcing them to grip the skin just beneath your skirt. “now.” he lets out a soft breath, hands squeezing tighter. “fuck. okay.”

you keep moving against him, grinding slow, small circles. the friction between your bodies starts to spark—too much heat for a performance. then you lean in closer. lips ghosting over his ear. “kiss me.” he doesn’t question it. he grabs your waist with both hands and crashes his mouth against yours. it’s rough at first—angry, but it changes. deepens. your teeth scrape his bottom lip. your hand tangles in the back of his hair.

his lips break from yours, breath hot against your neck. “you’re enjoying this too much,” he whispers, smirking. “you’re supposed to be acting, sunshine.” you grind down harder, deliberately. moaning just soft enough to make his breath hitch. “then act with me,” you whisper. “put your hand under my skirt.”

his jaw clenches.

“what? you sure?” his voice is low. dangerous. teasing. you nod, your nose brushing his. “they’re watching. make it look real.” he slides one hand beneath your skirt slowly, palm warm against your thigh. fingers trailing up—close, but not quite. just enough to make your breathing stutter. his mouth finds your ear again. “fuck, sunshine… you’re soaking through these already.”

you let out a real moan this time. not for the mission. not for the act. and he knows it. he smiles darkly, nipping your earlobe. “not pretending anymore, are we?” he murmurs, voice like velvet and gasoline. “not as innocent as i thought you were.” you gasp softly, trembling. “chris…”

he presses you closer, hand sliding up further. but you don’t get to answer. the boss stands up, gives chris a look before he walks away. you blink, breathless, chest heaving against chris’s. he nods once, forcing a cocky smile. “i think it worked, we don’t look so suspicious anymore.” the music swells again. the lights dim just slightly. but the air between you and chris doesn’t settle. you’re still straddling him. his hand’s still under your skirt. and now, neither of you are acting.

© delilahsturniolo

one year special taglist: 💌 @mattscoquette @mattsdiva @mattsstarlet @tits4matt @mattsangelbaby @courta13 @rriverscuomo @ifwdominicfike @conspiracy-ash @heartsonlyforchris @cayleeuhithinknott @littlefreak-liz @oopsiedaisydeer @anilaasturns @lunasturns @sophsturns @pix3lsturniolo @heartsforsturniolo567 @loverboysturn @mivogjk @obedientdoll77 @izzylovesmatt @ariieeesworld

[revelboo]

"entertained a storyline for him just because of that line" The way I was absolutely awed at that line cuz wdym you were able to conjure up a cinema worthy storyline from ONE LINE.

omg I envy a writers creativity in a unhealthy/good way, I strive to achieve this, also being able to singlehandly balence numerous storylines from different characters, and the different shows/movies they're from, AND posting many daily is one hell of a skill.

Just wanted to let off my appreciatation rant, have a good day/night!

🤣 my brain’s a bit weird is all, but I’m glad you like my nonsense! I’ve said it before, but write the things if it makes you happy. I avoided fandom writing for ten years before saying meh and coming back. Apparently you guys like Nitro Zeus… I woke up to six asks for him…

Possessive Pt 2

Nitro Zeus x Reader

• You’re mostly numb as you’re dragged into an office and bombarded with questions. Made to write out an incident report and busted all the way down to janitorial duty. Which is marginally better than being outright fired as you keep going over what had happened for them. Glossing over the fact that Nitro Zeus had freed you instead of gutting you, because there’s no reason why he should have done that. They’d showed you the footage, Nitro’s bulk had blocked you completely from the camera so it’s not apparent that he helped you. You’re not sure why you lie and say you tore free on your own before he could touch you, except that any familiarity with the prisoners is frowned upon.

• So you settle into your new duties, pushing a cart and emptying waste bins and trying to figure out why Nitro hadn’t killed you. You know other wardens have gotten friendly with their captives before, but you also know how those incidents had ended. You’d gotten to clean up the aftermath of someone thinking Berserker was their bestie and accidentally crossing the kill line. You’d been talking to the guy about his kid’s softball game in the rec room that morning and scrubbing up brains that afternoon after he’d dropped something that rolled across the line and darted in to retrieve it without thinking. Know that just because they can play nice when they’re bored doesn’t mean they’re safe. So why hadn’t he killed you?

• Rumbling as the guy who was with you last rotation comes in with a stranger, his plating flares. “Where’s my fucking wife?” He growls, optic narrowing as the trolley overhead squeaks when he starts pacing. And they ignore him. New guy taking his readings and then loading a drum on the pusher. “I know you can hear me. My wife brings me dinner, not your ugly ass.” Where are you? Did they take you away? Fire you? Fuck, no. They’re going to bring you back and he gets louder, hissing a warning that’s also ignored. Alright, then.

• Dragging the cart, you hear boots in the corridor ahead and freeze. Seeing the director headed right for you and you wonder if he changed his mind about firing you. “Walk with me,” he says, turning and striding away. And he gives you a look when you start to pull the cart with you. “Leave it. When you didn’t show up, Nitro Zeus chose to kick his drum of fuel at his new handler. The man’s got a broken jaw, collarbone, and ribs. Your Decepticon then started demanding his wife.” Oh. Wilting slightly as the older man stares at you, you shrug weakly. ‘He just thinks it’s funny to call me that.’ You’re so fired.

• Head turning as his chains rattle, he leans into them to make the hydraulics hiss to hold him back. And there you are with another strange human. Something in him settling when you meet his single optic and he doesn’t quite understand it. He’d flirted and messed with you out of boredom and to his surprise, you’d teased right back instead of ignoring him like the rest of the humans do. Smiled up at him and pretended like he didn’t scare you. It’s boring here, monotonous. He’s pretty sure that’s part of the punishment, trying to break him down psychologically. But you’d given him something to focus on, to amuse himself with. “There you are. Tell these bastards I want my music,” he growls and your lips press into a thin line as the other human frowns at you. “Don’t look at my wife, you wrinkled fuck.”

• Why? Wanting to cringe straight through the floor when the director inhales sharply, you can’t meet the man’s eyes as Nitro’s mandibles flex. ‘You’re reassigned under probation,’ the director says, staring at you hard. ‘Your pay cut will remain in effect.’ Of course, it will. Staring up at the massive Decepticon as he finally backs off from straining against his chains, you can only really breathe once the director is gone. And you cross over to find the little speaker tucked into a cubby and turn it on, dialing up the rap the big mech likes. And he chuckles darkly, dancing lazily. Making you realize that right now, you’re alone with him. You’ve never been completely alone with him before. ‘Why didn’t you-?’ Can’t even say it as his head tips, wing panels flicking. Optic flaring brighter as his head bobs to the thump of the bass, his mandibles flex. “Murder you? Soon as I break out of here, I’m wifing you up,” he growls and you’re not sure if that’s a promise or a threat. Or how you feel about it. Especially as he dances, hips rolling and your mind blanks. Watching him slide a big hand down to cup his modesty plating as his hips rock.

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