#instead of having a conversation with someone

[inkskinned]

i'm still trying to piece together the truth of it. when you left, you said: feel free to spin this narrative however you want. i have no idea if you were being cruel or if you just genuinely don't remember what you've done to me.

it's hard because i'd done so much of the work for you. i had seen the parts that flaked off, the rust underneath. i started separating you into two people - the one i loved, and the one who hurt me. i had this fantasy version of you - my partner - and then i had this stranger, a third person who would show up randomly to shatter me. i am deliriously glad i'm no longer with "the stranger". i miss the gentle (unreal?) "other" you terribly.

at first, i was so strict about my boundaries. i remember telling you to get the fuck out of my house if you were going to talk to me like that. by the end: i would justify your behavior for you, accepting even your mistreatment as "my fault" in the grand scheme. i look back on the person i was before you - smart, independent, confident - and i feel a strange sense of detachment. i don't even recognize me.

even in one of our last conversations, you said: if you want a partner that always talks warmly to you, find someone else. there was a time that a comment like that would have made me leave. and instead, somehow, i just placidly accepted that kind of thing. you were literally telling me that i wasn't allowed to have a reaction to your cruelty - and i just took it, because you'd so fully turned things around on me.

when people are faced with irrationality, a rational brain tries to make sense of it. this is the trap. they're lovely in the morning, gentle and blue-eyed and sweet. like nothing even happened, they breeze around the house and kiss you on the mouth. but at night; who is that? they snap almost randomly; flying into an impotent rage about just-about-anything. it just doesn't make sense. so the problem must be me, and my brain, and how i think.

the traumatized brain just wants peace. so maybe i'm misremembering. maybe you were just having a bad day. maybe it's actually me.

you eventually would fully turn on me and start implying that i am the bad actor in our relationship. that's what happens, right? that's literally in the playbook. you went to therapy for all of a month, told her a half-truth, co-opted therapyspeak. you figured out how to reframe your actions as "seeking peace." any time i stood my ground, i was "gaslighting." when i asked you to be more gentle, you said i was "tone policing." you said, randomly, i had emotionally manipulated you - i still have no idea what that's even specifically referring to. maybe my consistent requests for calmness and empathy?

and while i literally know better, and i'm sitting here, trained by you, thinking: wait, fuck. was i actually the person you made me out to be?

and the thing that scares me is that i literally do not know if you ever actually saw what you were doing to me. when you'd tell me how you remember arguments, you'd always summarize them in a way where you come off as gentle and easy: "i was trying to set an important boundary." what had actually happened was 15 minutes of you shouting at me i know you did something shady, just admit it already. eventually you'd say my reaction to your shouting (when i finally reacted, which usually happened around hour three) was inevitably "disappointing" and "another way i'm silencing your feelings."

how many times did i ask you - beg you - to just take accountability? looking back, i don't think i ever heard you say: you're right. the way i talked to you was wrong of me.

i am trying to tie together the two people into a full version of you in my head. yes, you made my coffee and made me laugh and spent hours on the phone with me. and yes - you would scream at me until i had to run away and hide behind something.

i wish i did have a narrative i could pull out and shape to my whim. i wish i did have some semblance of reality. instead i just stand here, strange and vibrating, wondering: what the fuck just happened?

[solxamber]

Winner Takes It All

The one in which they're too late.

Characters: Ace - Deuce, Leona - Vil, Jamil - Kalim

Angst no comfort!

divider credits to @chocolatebearstrawberry i love you <3

Ace - Deuce

"So, uh..." Deuce's face is redder than Riddle's hair as he fidgets with the hem of his uniform jacket. "We wanted to tell you something."

Ace glances up from his phone, sprawled across his bed in their shared dorm room. "Yeah? Did you finally figure out that two plus two equals four, Juice?"

You elbow him lightly, but you're smiling—that soft, fond smile that makes something warm unfurl in Ace's chest every single time. The same smile he's been hoarding like treasure for months, telling himself he has all the time in the world to make it his.

"Be nice," you chide, and God, he loves when you do that. Loves the way you defend Deuce but still laugh at his jokes. Loves how you've somehow managed to make your chaotic trio work when by all rights, it should have fallen apart ages ago.

"We're dating now," Deuce blurts out, and the words hang in the air like a death sentence.

Ace's phone slips from his fingers.

For a moment, the room is so quiet he can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Can hear the way his breath catches in his throat like he's been sucker-punched. Can hear the world reshuffling itself around him, rearranging into a configuration where you belong to someone else.

Where you belong to Deuce.

"Oh," he says, and his voice sounds strange and distant even to his own ears. "Oh, cool."

You're watching him carefully, your expression uncertain. "Ace? Are you okay?"

And that—that breaks something in him. Because of course you'd be worried about him. Of course you'd care about his reaction even in your moment of happiness. You've always been like that, always putting everyone else first, always making sure no one gets left behind.

He should have known you'd fall for someone who does the same thing.

The laugh that bubbles up from his chest tastes like blood and sounds like broken glass. "Okay? I'm great! This is hilarious." He sits up, forcing that familiar cocky grin onto his face even though it feels like wearing a mask made of knives. "Deuce actually managed to get a partner before me? Man, I really am losing my touch."

Deuce flushes darker. "It's not a competition, Ace."

"Isn't it though?" The words slip out sharper than he intended, and he sees you flinch. Sees the hurt flash across your face, and he wants to take it back, wants to swallow the poison before it can spread. But it's too late. It's always too late with him.

"I mean," he continues, dialing back the venom and cranking up the trademark Ace Trappola charm, "someone had to win eventually, right? And hey, at least it wasn't some random guy from another dorm. That would've been embarrassing."

You and Deuce exchange a look—one of those silent conversations that couples have, and isn't that just perfect? You're already developing your own language, your own secret world that doesn't include him.

"We were worried about telling you," you admit quietly. "We didn't want things to be weird between us."

Things are already weird, he wants to scream. Things have been weird since the day I realized I was in love with my best friend and did absolutely nothing about it.

Instead, he shrugs. "Why would it be weird? You're both my friends. I'm happy for you."

The lies taste like ash in his mouth.

"Really?" Deuce asks, and there's something fragile in his voice. Something that makes Ace remember they're supposed to be best friends too. That he's supposed to care about Deuce's happiness.

And he does. That's the worst part. Even through the jealousy and the pain and the way his chest feels like it's caving in on itself, he genuinely cares about Deuce. Loves him like a brother. Which makes this whole situation feel like a betrayal and a tragedy all rolled into one.

"Really," Ace says, and this time he almost means it. "You're good for each other. Deuce needs someone who'll keep him from running headfirst into traffic, and you need someone who actually listens when you talk."

Unlike me. The words hang unspoken in the air.

You beam at him, relief written all over your face, and lean over to hug him. For a moment, you're in his arms again—warm and familiar and perfect—and he lets himself pretend. Lets himself imagine this is you telling him you love him back, not you saying goodbye to whatever chance he never took.

"Thank you," you whisper against his shoulder. "This means everything."

You mean everything, he doesn't say. You meant everything, and I was too much of a coward to tell you.

Instead, he pats your back and grins when you pull away. "Yeah, yeah, don't get all sappy on me. Save that for lover boy over here."

Deuce groans and covers his face with his hands. "Please don't call me that."

"Oh, I'm absolutely calling you that. And Juicy. And honey bun. And—"

"Ace!" you and Deuce protest in unison, and the sound of your laughter mixing together is beautiful and terrible and everything he'll never have.

Later, after you've both left to go celebrate or whatever it is new couples do, Ace lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling. His phone buzzes with notifications—probably Cater posting something stupid on Magicam, or Grim demanding tuna.

He ignores it all.

The thing is, he'd always just assumed. Assumed you'd be there when he was ready. Assumed that someday, when he'd gotten his act together, when he'd figured out how to be the kind of guy who deserves someone like you—someday, you'd still be waiting.

He'd been building himself a fence, thinking he was being smart. Playing it cool. Not wanting to ruin the friendship if you didn't feel the same way. Too scared of rejection to risk it all.

But while he was busy protecting himself, Deuce was being brave. Deuce was showing up. Deuce was becoming everything Ace was too much of a coward to be.

And now Deuce gets to hold your hand in public. Gets to kiss you goodnight. Gets to wake up every day knowing he's the one you chose.

The winner takes it all.

Ace rolls over and buries his face in his pillow, finally letting the mask slip. Finally letting himself feel the full weight of what he's lost, what he never even tried to win.

His phone buzzes again. A text from you: Thanks for being so cool about this. Love you, Ace.

He stares at those three words until his vision blurs, knowing you'll never mean them the way he does when he types back: Love you too, loser.

The gods threw their dice, and someone way down here lost someone dear.

And all Ace can do is smile and pretend his heart isn't breaking.

Leona - Vil

The words hit him like a physical blow.

"Did you hear? They're dating now—officially."

Leona's grip tightens around his phone, knuckles going white as Ruggie's voice continues on the other end, oblivious to the way his housewarden's world just tilted off its axis.

"Vil and—"

He hangs up before he can hear your name spoken in the same breath as his. The phone clatters onto his desk, and Leona stares at it like it's personally offended him. Like it's the messenger he wants to shoot.

But the damage is done. The words are already echoing in his skull, bouncing around like shards of glass.

You're with him now.

Leona sinks back into his chair, one hand dragging down his face as something hot and vicious claws at his chest. It burns—Sevens, it burns like he's swallowed fire, like there's molten metal pooling in his lungs. He can't breathe around it.

He should have seen this coming. Should have known that someone like you wouldn't stay single forever. Should have known that when he let his pride and his fears drive you away, someone else would be there to catch what he'd been too much of a coward to hold onto.

And of course it had to be Vil.

Perfect, untouchable Vil Schoenheit. Everything Leona isn't and never will be. Where Leona is rough edges and lazy afternoons, Vil is polished perfection and ambition that burns brighter than the sun. Where Leona pushes people away with his sharp tongue and sharper truths, Vil draws them in with charm and grace.

The worst part? He can see it. Can see exactly why you'd choose Vil over the memory of what you had together. Vil won't make you feel like you're asking for too much when you want to hold his hand in public. Won't make you question if he actually cares when he gets distant and cold. Won't make you cry in empty hallways because he's too proud to say the words you needed to hear.

Leona's jaw clenches so hard it aches.

He wants you in his arms instead. And that's the thing that's killing him—you had belonged there. In his arms, in his space, in his life. You'd fit against him like you were made for it, like the universe had crafted you specifically to fill the hollow spaces he'd carried around his whole life. And for a while, a brief, shining while, he'd let himself believe it could last.

But he'd been a fool. Playing by rules he'd never understood, building walls when he should have been building bridges. Every time you'd reached for him, he'd pulled back. Every time you'd needed reassurance, he'd given you silence. Every time you'd tried to make it work, he'd found a new way to sabotage it.

Because that's what second sons are good for, right? Destroying things. Being the one who doesn't get the crown, doesn't get the happy ending.

The chair groans as he pushes back from his desk, stalking to the window. The sun is setting over the garden, painting everything gold and orange, and he wonders if you're watching it too. If you're watching it with him.

His reflection stares back at him from the glass—tired eyes, bitter smile, the face of someone who's lost everything that mattered and knows it's his own damn fault.

"The winner takes it all," he murmurs to his reflection, voice rough with something that might be tears if he were anyone else. If he were the kind of person who got to cry over lost love instead of just... enduring it.

But he's not. He's Leona Kingscholar, second prince of the Sunset Savanna, and he doesn't get to fall apart just because the best thing in his life chose someone better.

Even if it's ripping him apart from the inside out.

Even if he'd give anything—his pride, his title, his very soul—for one more chance to hold you and do it right this time.

Even if the thought of Vil's hands where his used to be makes him want to scream until his throat bleeds.

The sun disappears behind the horizon, and Leona closes his eyes.

Why should I complain?

Jamil - Kalim

"Jamil! Jamil, you'll never guess what happened!"

Kalim bursts through the door of Scarabia's lounge like a miniature sun, all bright smiles and boundless energy. He's practically vibrating with excitement, and Jamil doesn't need to guess what's put that particular glow in his eyes.

He already knows. Has known since he saw you and Kalim dancing together at last night's party, saw the way you laughed at something Kalim whispered in your ear, saw the way Kalim looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

"Let me guess," Jamil says, not looking up from the paperwork spread across the coffee table. His voice is perfectly level, perfectly controlled. Years of practice have made him an expert at hiding the cracks in his composure. "You asked them out."

"Yes! And they said yes!" Kalim spins around, arms spread wide like he wants to embrace the whole world. "Can you believe it? I was so nervous, but you know how you always tell me to just be honest about my feelings? So I did, and—Jamil, I think I'm in love."

The pen in Jamil's hand stops moving.

Be honest about your feelings.

Of course. Of course that's the advice that would come back to haunt him. How many times has he told Kalim exactly that? How many times has he watched him succeed simply by wearing his heart on his sleeve, by being brave in all the ways Jamil has never allowed himself to be?

Jamil clears his throat, forces the words out.

"I'm happy for you."

And the truly devastating part is that he means it. Even as his own heart is crumbling to dust in his chest, even as every breath feels like swallowing glass, he genuinely wants Kalim to be happy. Because that's what he's been trained to do his entire life—put Kalim's happiness above his own.

Even when it destroys him.

"I have to plan the perfect date," Kalim continues, oblivious to the way Jamil's world has just collapsed. "Maybe a carpet ride at sunset? Or we could have a picnic by the oasis! Oh, or—"

"The carpet ride," Jamil interrupts quietly. "They mentioned once that they'd always wanted to try flying."

You'd mentioned it to him. During one of those late-night conversations when it was just the two of them in the kitchen, when you'd help him prep for the next day's meals and talk about everything and nothing. You'd looked so wistful when you said it, so quietly longing, and Jamil had filed it away in his heart like every other precious detail about you.

He'd planned to take you himself. Had been working up the courage for weeks, crafting the perfect moment in his mind. After the next exam, he'd told himself. After Kalim's birthday celebration. After the inter-dorm tournament. Always after, always waiting for the perfect moment that would never come.

"Really?" Kalim's face lights up even brighter, if that's possible. "You always know exactly what people want, Jamil. You're the best!"

The praise feels like a knife between his ribs.

"I should go tell them now!" Kalim heads for the door, then pauses and turns back. "Actually, wait. You don't mind, do you? I know you two are friends, and I don't want things to be weird..."

Mind? Jamil wants to laugh, wants to scream, wants to grab Kalim by the shoulders and shake him until he understands that this isn't just friendship, that Jamil has been desperately, hopelessly in love with you for months.

But he can't. Because Kalim is looking at him with such genuine concern, such innocent worry about disrupting a friendship, and it's clear that Kalim has no idea. No clue that Jamil's feelings run deeper than casual companionship.

And why would he? Jamil has spent so long hiding, so long keeping every emotion locked behind layers of duty and propriety and fear. So long being the perfect servant who wants for nothing, who exists only to facilitate his master's happiness.

"Of course not," Jamil says, and his voice doesn't even waver. "Why would I mind? You're perfect for each other."

More perfect than we could ever be.

The thought tastes bitter as poison. Because it's true, isn't it? Kalim can offer you everything Jamil can't. Freedom. Adventure. A future without the weight of servitude hanging over every moment. Kalim can love you openly, publicly, without having to hide behind carefully constructed walls.

Kalim can give you the world. Jamil can barely give you an honest conversation about his feelings.

"Thanks, Jamil!" Kalim beams and rushes out, leaving Jamil alone with the wreckage of his carefully guarded heart.

The paperwork blurs in front of him. The numbers don't make sense anymore, each figure dissolving into meaningless shapes as something hot and desperate claws at his throat.

He'd been so careful. So cautious. Waiting for the right moment, the right words, the right everything. Terrified of rejection, yes, but more terrified of what acceptance might mean. How could he ask you to tie yourself to someone who isn't even free? Someone who can't promise you anything beyond stolen moments and hidden affection?

But while he was busy protecting himself, protecting you from the complications his feelings would bring, Kalim was simply... being Kalim. Open. Honest. Brave in the way that only someone who's never had to hide can be.

The winner takes it all, and the loser has to fall.

Jamil sets down his pen and buries his face in his hands, finally allowing himself this one moment of weakness. This one moment to mourn what never was and never could have been.

Tomorrow, he'll smile and congratulate you both. He'll help plan the perfect dates and give the perfect advice and be the perfect friend, because that's what's expected of him. That's what he's good at.

But tonight, in the silence of his own failure, Jamil lets himself grieve for the love he was too afraid to fight for.

Masterlist

[everest81]

Even if I'm fine with being called specifically "dude" I fucking dies inside seeing that happen once before I transitioned. I didn't even have Tumblr or really grasped how bad it was but I knew in my gut that it was just... Evil. You're denying a woman's identity for what? Not being able to stare at her boobs the whole conversation? Because you think it's some fucking fetish for others to be happy?

For those who are just on the cusp of grasping it, but can't, try imagining someone doing that to a cis person

This is Kathy. Kathy has been a woman since birth, born with specifically female genitalia and body parts, and has a conventionally effeminate body type by 9/10 normal standards. One day, she gets hired by a tech company that has her testing out websites and occasionally games that are very very early in development.

Around a month or two after she's gotten to know the general group of people she's had to and will work with, a new employee named Toby is hired and put into her group. She doesn't know anyone named Toby, nor does any of her friends or immediate family members. A nephew of hers would gladly tell you about Ticci Toby, his second-favorite creepypasta behind Sonic.exe, but nobody knows any IRL Tobys.

Toby completely refuses to call Kathy by her real name, instead insisting that she's referred to by names like Kyle, or Kevin, ECT, when anyone has to refer to her when talking to him. He acts like someone's joking with him, insulting him, or making up a fake employee when anyone else on their team mentions Kathy by her real name. Toby also consistently uses passive-aggressive language about Kathy —or, should he also be by or going to the bathroom, glares at her and matters things she can't quite catch— whenever she goes to the bathroom, insisting that she should be using the men's room.

On one frightening —and possibly dangerous— occasion Toby physically blocked her from the bathroom by standing in front of the doorway and pushing her away from it. It doesn't matter how gently he pushed her, he still pushed her away from a basic necessity. This was Toby's first strike, according to her boss, but if you asked Kathy, "I cannot tell you how many times I've wanted to fucking punch that guy. He's so fucking annoying — I can never get shit done when I have to work with him in any capacity! Got forbid we have to have a meeting! He's either saying anything about anything else to stall time, or taking my shit and telling everyone that some fuckin'.... Mystery member's been busting his ass off for me in the background, or something...! It's always some Kieth or Kurt or-... whoever the fuck he's made up this week."

Everyone, especially Kathy, is incredibly uncomfortable with how Toby acts. Lately he's been getting especially aggressive, as his passive-aggressive remarks about her and her body have been evolving into outright insults and remarks about how "he's slandering God's image of Adam and mankind". Kathy still to this very day has no idea what happened between them, nor does she have any clue why someone like him wanted to physically assault her, beating her behind her office building with a pocket knife —almost slitting her throat— and scarring both her face and her psyche for the rest of her life.

Toby might have been arrested for assault and attempted murder, but she refuses to walk behind any building that vaguely resembles where she was attacked and almost killed... Because she existed.

I am so sick and tired of seeing the trans women around me being slowly hot coaled into the closet and into essentially being forced back into "Men who would really love being women but Can't because they Aren't". It is so painful stop fucking doing this to our trans women. Stop forcing them to be "Fine" with being called dude bro man he and biologically male stop it stop it stop it you are killing her. You are killing her.

[fayes-fics]

An Indecent Proposal

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When your marriage is not what it seems, Viscount Bridgerton is more than willing to provide that which your husband does not.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, extramarital affair, loss of virginity, sex teaching, innocence kink, corruption kink. Nipple play, clitoral stimulation, hand job, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, orgasms, smidge of breeding kink. Background homosexual characters, period-typical attitudes to homosexuality.

Word Count: 6.3k

Author's Note: Long-awaited request fill for @daisfordaysstuff with Anthony corrupting a chaste newlywed who has unwittingly entered a lavender marriage. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading like a trooper. Enjoy! <3

As you wander into the splendour of Bridgerton House, part of you wishes your husband of just a few weeks, Baron Sanderton, were accompanying you. It feels odd to attend a ball alone. 

Now that you are a married lady, it is not really noted, unlike earlier in the season when you were a young debutante, and being unchaperoned would have been considered scandalous. What a difference a few short weeks and a ceremony make.

Earlier today, your new husband, feeling unwell, sent his apologies to the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton but insisted you should attend without him, to enjoy yourself and catch up with your friends. It was a lovely gesture, but also one that makes you sigh, even as you survey the beauty of the ballroom, resplendent with flower garlands wound around every rail and pillar. Your new husband is such a confounding man in many ways. Kind, considerate, thoughtful, never anything but a pure gentleman. Which, while courting, you had expected. It's since marriage that you have become more perplexed. 

Your mama gave you a speech on the morning of your wedding, clumsily explaining how your husband would visit your rooms and to allow him to do things to you. That if you are fortunate, what he does will result in you having beautiful children, and thus worth enduring. You did not dare tell her that you already knew some of what she speaks, having listened to the housemaids with a keen ear over the years. They inadvertently provided much more detail about marital acts that, frankly, you were eager to experience, their recounting so very contrasting to your mother’s version of events. A tingle between your legs when you eavesdropped on some of their more salacious conversations. 

And yet… not once in the intervening weeks since your wedding has your husband visited your bedchamber. Merely bidding you goodnight with an affectionate buss on your temple. Choosing instead to stay up late into the night with his good friend Baron Ledworth, a perennial bachelor, locked away in his wing of the house. Sometimes you wonder why he even married you, when he seems to prefer spending all of his spare time with his best friend; the fondness between them undeniable, especially behind closed doors.

And thus, to your chagrin, you find yourself a married lady but still a maiden, your union unconsummated. You grow, well, increasingly frustrated with every passing day that you do not get to experience that which you have overheard so much about. 

“Baroness Sanderton,” someone greets, breaking your reverie.

“A splendid evening, is it not?” You offer a polite response in return, not wanting to reveal that you don't recall their name, quickly moving on to seek champagne.

You perk up as you spy a whole table with glasses bubbling and grab one, downing it with alacrity. You watch the other guests pile in, craning your neck to see if any of your friends arrive with their mothers, many of whom are still seeking a match. As the minutes tick by and none of them yet appear, you grab a second glass, downing that too.

“Please do leave some champagne for the other guests, Baroness Sanderton,” a refined male voice rings out drolly.

You twist to find a bemused Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, the most eligible of eligible bachelors, by your side. You are instantly tongue-tied and contrite. Not only that your quaffing habits have been noted, but also by none other than the most handsome man in all of England.

For many a year, you had abstractly hoped that he may be the one to propose, fanciful of a notion though that may have been. You doubt anyone will be able to tame the rake that is Viscount Bridgerton. Still, now that you are a married lady, it appears he is much keener to converse with you than when you were an eligible Miss in want of a spouse.

“I am thirsty, Viscount Bridgerton,” you counter, aiming for nonchalance, even as your skin prickles hot as he continues to linger next to you.

“I thought the Baron sent his apologies,” Anthony’s brow knits.

“He did, but he insisted I attend as I wished to catch up with my friends,” you explain, twirling your empty glass between your thumb and finger, desiring another but not any accompanying judgment. 

“How novel,” he chuckles. “I would have thought you both inseparable in the first flush of marriage. Almost certain you would have caught whatever ails him, with so much time spent in close, intimate proximity.” 

The way his voice drops an octave, hinting at things which should not be discussed in public, has a frisson skittering down your spine. And yet the champagne already has a hold of your tongue.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” you riposte quietly, then instantly are flooded with regret as to what you have let slip, your cheeks heating rapidly. 

Anthony’s whole demeanour changes: surprise and intrigue claiming his handsome face as he grabs the empty flute from your hand and replaces it with another, rounding in front of you now, blocking your view of arriving guests.

“Baroness Sanderton, take my arm,” he enunciates crisply, in a volume you suspect is for other ears. “It would be remiss of me as host not to accompany you tonight, seeing as your husband is unwell.”

Looping your hand into his proffered crooked elbow, you allow him to lead you around the ballroom, still unsure why, but unable to resist the opportunity to be in his presence. Once you have completed a full circuit, acknowledging all and sundry in attendance, you are taken aback when he keeps moving towards a side door. Choosing the moment his mother steps onto a raised platform to welcome everyone, drawing the attention of the whole crowd, to guide you through said exit, unmarked by any other guests.

In the blink of an eye, you are out of the hubbub and being nearly dragged down a deserted hallway as his pace increases.

“Where on earth are we going, Viscount Bridgerton?” you frown, having to take quick, practically skipped steps to keep up, struggling not to spill any of your drink.

“Call me Anthony,” he responds, not remotely answering your question.

He glances around, then tugs you into a room, rapidly closing the door behind you, releasing his hold on your arm as he flicks a key in the lock. A vault in your stomach as you realise this appears to be his private office. A sizeable mahogany desk takes pride of place in a room lined with bookshelves, a plush reading chaise and a fire roaring under a portrait of a good-looking man you assume is his father.

“What did you mean, back there?” he fires rapidly, looking at you expectantly, an energy seeming to be rolling off him in waves as he ushers you further into the room.

“What do you mean?” 

You suspect, but do not wish to jump to any incorrect conclusions, mostly captivated by his animated demeanour.

“Has the Baron not fulfilled his duties as your husband?” he queries, his voice again in that lower register that has goosebumps breaking out across your arms.

“I am uncertain that I understand,” you feign ignorance.

Anthony fixes you with a stare so intense you feel frozen in an invisible spotlight. 

“Has your husband not attended to your needs, in the bedroom?" he rumbles, closing in on you, his hand cupping the bottom of your champagne flute, encouraging you to bring it to your lips.

You take a large sip, unable to look anywhere but into his eyes, pupils glittering, the reflection of the fireplace dancing there as you swallow the fizz. He awaits your answer, seeming very keen.

“He has not,” you confess quietly, your voice near cracking, your throat suddenly dry despite the drink you just took.

Anthony’s face looks like thunder. “How dare he!” he snarls indignant. “I knew he had a reputation, but I was hoping it erroneous.”

“A reputation for what?”

Anthony’s lips twist as if reticent to reveal what he knows. “To put it plainly, the Baron has never shown interest in female company. Until, that is, two months ago when his father threatened disinheritance unless he got married.”

You are suddenly reeling and slump back against Anthony’s desk. So much of what Anthony says makes the puzzle pieces fall into place. How out of the blue your husband’s interest and proposal were. How everyone seemed to whisper their surprise that he would so quickly take a wife so early in the season. But he was so very charming when courting you, part of you dismissed it as jealousy of those not chosen.

“He spends most nights with his friend,” you mumble absentmindedly. 

“Baron Ledworth?” Anthony guesses, and you nod. “Yes, he has never shown an interest in taking a wife either,” he adds pointedly.

“Are they…” Your voice falters, reluctant to say the next word, gulping champagne instead.

“I suspect so,” he affirms sagely. “Scandalous indeed, but it does happen, in secret.”

So I will be forever chaste, you lament silently. 

There is a sharp breath from Anthony, and suddenly you realise you must have muttered your thoughts aloud under your breath.

“Your husband may have neglected his duties. But that does not preclude you from finding what you need elsewhere, discreetly. It is surprisingly commonplace for women who find themselves in marriages such as yours,” Anthony advises, a kindling in your belly as he speaks of such.

“Have you ever been party to such an arrangement?” You murmur, curiosity getting the better of you.

He smirks and takes a half step closer, plucking the now-empty flute from your hand and placing it aside on his desk, which you are still perched on.

“I have had no need to,” he shrugs, “but my brother has in the past and found it most… fulfilling. And I am not adverse to such a proposal, should there be one….”

It’s a knife-edge moment of potential and tension. The hissing of logs on the fire is the only noise in the room, save your slightly laboured breath as he draws closer, leaning into you. Your fingers curling into the desk on either side of your hips, certain you would not still be upright if it were not there, your legs suddenly turning to jelly, a roiling in your belly.

“Do you have anything you wish to say to me, Baroness Sanderton?” he inquiries, his breath hot on your face, his damp lips mere inches from yours.

Heart in your throat, you take a deep breath, then begin the boldest request you have ever made. 

“Viscount Bridgerton, would you be willing to…” 

But you do not even get to finish the sentence. For the rest is swallowed by Anthony’s lips, landing squarely on yours, a low, throaty noise as he opens your mouth and kisses you like a wild storm.

Nothing could prepare you for this. Your husband’s kisses have been chaste, pecks on your lips or your face, designed as much for those who observed them as for you. This is wholly different: an invasion. Hands grasp around your waist, hoisting you off the desk and hauling you against his body as his tongue rolls over yours, your heartbeat erratic, a strong, slick pulse between your legs as he crowds into you, enveloping you in his embrace.

“Anthony,” you exhale his given name shakily as your lips part, taking a heaving breath.

It has a primal effect on him, his grip tightening, hands sliding low on your back, cupping your bottom and surging himself into you, a hard mass pressed into your belly. He breathes your name in return, before diving in for more, robbing you of every shred of sense. You are drowning in him, in his spicy amber scent, as you learn to mirror his actions, his approving noise is the very best sound you could swallow.

“How much do you know?” he asks as you resurface for air, his lips skating over your cheek. 

“Of?” 

“Relations between a man and a woman,” he clarifies as he sucks your earlobe lightly, gusting loudly into your ear.

“I have heard ladies' maids talking,” you admit, hands running up his biceps on instinct, a latent power lurking under the structured wool of his jacket.

“So then you know it to be the very best pleasure there is to be found on this earth,” he provokes, mouthing the sensitive skin of your neck, causing shivers to race down your limbs.

“I have not heard them say quite that,” you gasp, eyes fluttering closed.

“Then they have not been with the right man,” Anthony asserts in that low register, an arrogance laced in his tone, yet enchanting when it is focused on you. “That door is locked, and no one will notice our absence for hours,” he declares categorically, nodding towards the entry. “Just how much you would like to learn today is entirely up to you, y/n…” 

The power of choice he bestows upon you in this moment is near dizzying, a tremble in your being at the thought of the pleasures that may await. You are once more tongue-tied, unsure even what you are asking of him.

“Take your time,” he murmurs, relinquishing his hold and swaggering over to the windows, making a show of pulling the internal shutters over the lower half of the pane, so that no one who may be wandering the gardens later during the ball would be able to see in. This space is entirely private, just for the two of you.

Knowing he has your full attention, he then performatively plucks at the buttons on his jacket, dropping it from his shoulders onto the back of the plush-looking reading chaise, his dark grey brocade waistcoat following suit, causing you to stutter a breath as each button pops open. Then he is prowling back towards you, rolling the loose sleeves of his white shirt up around his elbows, his toned forearms flexing delightfully as he does so.

“What did you decide y/n?” He teases as he draws close, his scent stronger now. That same cologne, but also something else that is all Anthony: his skin, his essence. It makes your mouth water.

“I do not know,” you offer honestly, as he tilts his head to one side as if assessing you.

“Hmmm, I suppose ‘tis too much to ask someone unfamiliar with what awaits them to know what they need,” he concedes, pulling you back into his arms, the press of his musculature so much more pronounced with fewer layers between you now. “I propose I try some things and you shall tell me if you dislike them?”

You nod enthused, and his responding smile has your insides melting.

“Good. Now turn your back to me,” Anthony orders, swirling a finger in the air, a subtle clip to his tone that has you obeying before you even realise it.

You jolt as warm fingertips trail down the notches of your bare spine above your dress, goosebumps erupting in their wake. Then his breath is warm in the tendrils of your hair, held in an elegant updo, as he slowly unbuttons the little pearls holding your dress together. You have only ever had a lady's maid undress you before. A quivering in your belly as his fingers instead pluck at the fabric, a singular knuckle tracing each notch between the lacing of your stays underneath. 

You have to lock your knees when two warm hands sweep up to your shoulders and push the fabric from them, your gauzy dress fluttering away and pooling in a circle around your ankles. Grateful for the fire, you now stand before him in just your stays and thin chemise; still, your shiver has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

You ache for him to touch your skin, pull you into another confounding kiss. But instead, you stay still, squirming slightly in your silken ballet shoes as Anthony’s deft fingers start to pluck at the criss-crossed lacing of your stays. You breath in short pants as your breasts bounce with each tug, the structure soon falling from your torso and discarded upon the floor.

“Turn around, my sweet,” he murmurs duskily in your ear, bestowing a term of affection upon you that liquefies a hot mass behind your ribs.

You do as asked, a tremble in your skin as he rests a knuckle upon your clavicle. 

“Do you know your own body?” he asks, your faint frown causing him to expound: “Have you touched yourself?” 

That knuckle slips lower, skating the top of your breast now.

“T-t-touch myself where?” You garble out, your mind scarcely able to keep pace with his questions.

“For starters… here.”

You inhale raggedly a featherlight brush over your nipple, like a live wire, even through your cotton chemise.

“I have not,” you stumble, tongue heavy, a tingle where he lingers. 

His fingers unfurl, and he lightly pinches your nub between them. You gasp and sway towards him, a sudden lightning bolt zipping between your legs.

“Oh my sweet, the things I could teach you….” he sighs sinfully, and it sounds like the very best threat in the world.

His touch gets heavier, the pinch more pronounced, your mouth slackening. But just as you think it may slip into an unpleasant ache, he smirks predatoryly and releases his grip. Your whole being throbs with need, a sudden pulse of blood to your nipple, amplifying the molten heat deep inside. It makes you want to hurl yourself upon him. Experience everything he has to offer.

And so, throwing caution to the wind, you tug the neckline of your chemise open, widening it until it slips over your shoulders and falls to the floor under his hooded gaze. 

“Teach me, Anthony,” you implore, standing naked before him, save your knee-high silk stockings and slippers.

There is a growl, and suddenly you are picked up in his arms, bridal style, him carrying you across the room, your shoes slipping from your toes with his movement.

He lays you down upon the chaise, its soft tufted velvet tickling your naked shoulder blades as he stares down at you, as if laid out as a delicious buffet. Your eyes are drawn to a bulge in his trousers that makes you swallow hard, clamping your legs together. That is likely his ‘cock’ you have heard talk of.

“Do you wish to know how a man can pleasure a woman? Or do you wish to learn a man’s body more intimately, how to please him?” he pitches, noting where your gaze has wandered, a shrewd quirk to his lips.

“Both,” you splutter, and he chuckles richly.

“Oh, you are the very best kind of innocent,” he asserts, looming over you. “So very keen. Your husband is an utter fool.”

His fingers are back on your breast, this time on your bare skin, sliding to capture your nipple again, pebbling hard under his touch, all-consuming, making your spine arch off the sofa.

“But all the better for me,” he opines, a smugness to his tone as he swaps to your other nipple, seeming so pleased at your responsiveness. Your lips tingle, wanting more of his heartstopping kisses, knowing it will sweep you into a riptide you do not want to be rescued from.

And he seems to intuit such, bending down to capture your lips, a moan bubbling up from within you and vibrating over your tongue as it parries with his. Lowering his whole body, his shirt chafing your darkened nipples, the rough wool of his trousers as he insinuates his legs between yours. You cling to him, the muscle under the thin material, unable to form words as you catalogue all the splendours of a man lying atop you.

He breaks the kiss, his lips sliding hot down your throat then lower still, sucking upon your clavicle, shuffling lower, his cock a hot press into your mid thigh as he traps your right teet in his mouth, and again you cant upwards, so much heat and suction, a beeline for that engorged slick ache between your legs.

You softly call his name, your hand flying reflexively into his thick, lush head of hair, scraping your fingernails over his scalp as he feasts upon you, moving to your left breast, his saliva cooling on your right puckered areola.

“You will tell me if there is something you dislike, will you not?” he quips, his brown eyes shining as he tilts to observe your slack-jawed expression.

“Do not stop!” You beseech, tilting your breast back towards his lips as he laughs carefree and goes back to teasing you so resoundingly.

His hands trail down your flank, to the flare of your hips, squeezing your flesh, the noises he makes as he feasts upon you just ratcheting you higher, a need burning brightly between your legs.

“I am burning between my legs, Anthony…” 

You don't mean to voice it, but you cannot censure your mouth from your tumbling thoughts.

“Good,” he growls, surging his hips so the contour of his cock is unmistakable, the wool abrading the softness of your inner thigh.

“Will you be removing your clothes too?” Your query is tinged with hopeful curiosity, a yearning to see a man, this man in particular, without clothing.

“I could bring you untold realms without removing a stitch,” Anthony asserts, tone dripping with that conceit which is so attractive. “Just my fingers and tongue … “ he adds, licking a wide stripe up your sternum, before moving back up to your lips, one of his hands sliding between your bodies.

You cry out into his mouth as his fingers slip between your thighs, the slightest touch on the swollen nub nestling there making you buck up.

“See?” he smirks, staring down at you possessively, as he unhurriedly flicks a mere fingernail over that bundle of nerves.

“What is that?” Your wide-eyed question makes his laugh echo into your ribs.

“That, my sweet girl, is what you should have been playing with. Every time you felt that odd fizzling low in your belly when you looked upon a man? This is what you should have done,” he intones, his touch getting firmer as you moan and writhe under him. “Gone home and touched yourself here. But then, if they taught you ladies as such, I doubt we would ever see you out in polite society again…”

He looks inordinately pleased with what he is doing to you and his own witty assessment, as all you can do is bite your lip and ride his fingers, a slick, wet sound growing louder as he plays with your body. 

“So delectable,” he murmurs, kissing you more, all open mouths and teeth, you moaning into him wantonly now, something building inside you that feels almost perilous, a feverishness that makes you rash, impetuous, your hands plucking at his shirt, needing his skin upon yours.

He withdraws his hand, and you whine at its loss, but stare transfixed as he brings those now glistening fingers up to his lips. So close you can almost smell your scent upon them, honeyed yet tart. You gasp as he plunges them into his mouth, his eyes closing as he sucks his own fingers. You are quite sure this is not what ordinary men do; so debauched, untamed in his enjoyment of your flavour.

Releasing his digits with a wet pop, he suddenly rears up and, crossing his arms, tugs his shirt up and off, it sailing away in an arc as your eyes feast upon his physique. You have seen artwork of shirtless men, mostly in religious contexts, but none seem quite to compare to Anthony Bridgerton. A fuzz of hair over his torso thickest in the indent between his pectorals, but fanning out across his broad slab of chest. A line also runs down the centre of his tapered waist, disappearing temptingly into his trousers. You ache to know how far it goes, wanting to trace it with your fingers.

“Go ahead,” he goads, as if intuiting where your thoughts have gone, courage seizes your hands. 

Your fingers plough into the thatch, surprised by how soft it is, tracing all the lines under his rapt attention.

“Soft…” you mutter, petting him, letting your touch slide brazenly down over his belly button, sweeping the top of his trousers. 

“Keen, I see…” he smirks, but you can't help but match his smile as he starts to undo the buttons at his hip, more than willing to show you that which you are curious to see.

He athletically jumps up to standing, towering over you as the buttons relent and his trousers hit the floor. You suck in a breath. There, nestling at the end of that trail of hair, is his cock. Much larger than you had expected, the solid cylindrical mass curved up towards his washboard stomach, tapering at the tip where it is flushed with a darker hue. Beneath it, a twin sac that droops. An instinct to touch has you making to sit upright, but a quelling hand on your shoulder halts you.

“Lie back, my sweet, just watch,” he murmurs, his other hand circling a fist around his cock and moving the skin there up and back down with one swipe as he groans. You observe, fascinated as he repeats the motion a few times. “This is how you handle it, do you follow?” he checks, and you affirm, keen to be allowed to copy his actions.

He crawls over you again, seizing your wrist and guiding it towards his cock. His lips ghost yours as you grab hold of him unseen, his face filling your entire field of vision. Velvety smooth skin over a stiff mass, your fingertips just touching your thumb as you encircle him.

“That it…” he encourages, his eyes intent on yours as he huffs delightful little noises over your lips, you slowly pumping his cock in your hand, getting used to its dimensions, its shape. The warmth and weight are wonderful; you cannot help but speed up a touch, his approving groan your guide. You pause as a substance drips onto the side of your fingers as your hand travels up to his tip. 

“‘Tis normal,” he rapidly assures, but he whimpers when you pull your hand away.

Bringing your fingers up to your mouth, much as he had previously, he makes a noise of garbled surprise as you follow his lead. Your tongue darts out to lick the substance from your fingers, intrigued as to what it might be like. The singular flavour makes you pause, uncertain if you particularly like it. Not bad, but not as sweet as that which you could taste in his mouth from your own body.

He mutters a curse at your actions, you unaware of the effect they have upon him. Suddenly, with a snarl, he tugs your fingers from your lips, diving down for a kiss that is more desperate than any previous, lowering his entire being flush to yours once more, so much naked skin-on-skin contact as he plunders your mouth.

“Are you entirely certain you want this?” He checks, his voice changed to a touching sincerity—such a tender contrast to his ferocious kiss.

“Yes I am more than certain,” you confirm, running your nails down the play of back his muscles to emphasise your point, his cock searing against your throbbing clit.

“Are you aware of what happens next?”

“Your cock goes inside my quim,” you sate, parroting words you have overheard.

“Well, yes, but not quite yet, my sweet,” he advises over a warm chuckle. “For I have not yet prepared you for me. I should, as this is to be your very first time.”

Anthony’s touch glides between your legs, but this time, he barely brushes your clit. Instead, he sweeps lower, and you startle at the novel sensation of a finger pressing into you, a trickle of wetness leaking onto your bottom as he does so.

You are certain your face is a picture as he slowly rocks into you, going a fraction deeper each time, your slick juices easing his way, your vice-like grip on the rounds of his shoulders, the anchor you need. Your gaze pings between his face, watching you closely, and down your body to where his toned, hair-dusted forearm curls between your thighs, tendons flexing with each gentle push.

“You have just enough of an opening for me to do this, my sweet,” he tutors softly. Then a different finger presses lightly on a spot that causes a little twinge to tug inside. “But this barrier shall soon be broken… by me,” his voice turning a touch gravelly. “Only me,” it's throaty and possessive, leaning down to capture your lips bitingly.

He adds another finger alongside the one buried within you, making you moan over his teeth with how full you feel. The motion of his hand speeds up, cleaving your walls open over and over, your pussy clinging tightly to his knuckles.

“That’s it, you take me so well,” he lauds breathily, a faint quake in his being, holding back from being too rough. 

“I… I am ready for you, Anthony,” you appeal, bowing yourself upwards into him to underline your message.

You mewl as his fingers retreat from your pussy. An odd bereftness, as if something is missing without him inside you.

“Am I so very glad your husband is otherwise persuaded,” he declares, but gives you no time to respond, for he kisses you so many times that you lose count, almost light-headed as he barely allows you time to draw breath. 

Then his hips move, pulling your legs wider apart and, as your tongues meet, you stutter loudly at a sudden blunt, hot pressure between your legs that can only be his cockhead.

“This may hurt a little,” he counsels, pulling up to stare into your eyes, his pupils utterly blown.

You bite your bottom lip, but give him a look that permits him to continue, gasping as the pressure builds. There is a stab of pain that is momentarily searing before he groans and slides deeper. Your eyes go wide at the persistent stretch, magnitudes more than his fingers, your channel forced open by his cock. Every inch you are certain is more overwhelming than the last, seeming to take forever until he halts, a warm sac resting upon your bottom.

“How is that, my sweet?” His ask is soft and he drops a delicate kiss on your cheek.

So many sensations in your being at once: the throb in your distended clit mashed hard against his pubic bone, a light burn in your tendons from your thighs being pinned so very wide open, the heat radiating from his body cloaking yours, that insistent pressure inside; entirely alien but so very enthralling.

“I-I-I feel very full,” you profess, haltingly.

Your choice of words seems to make him puff with pride. “I am going to move now,” he explains, cupping your jaw gently.

Without breaking the intense eye contact, he draws back until just his tip remains inside you, then ploughs back in, you moaning loudly as your breath stolen from the potency of it all, your pussy pushed wide by his invasion. No longer any trace of discomfort, just a zing of pleasure that races from your core all the way to the top of your scalp. A cloying need for him to crash into you repeatedly, curling your fingertips into his bottom to telegraph your desires.

He more than takes your hint, initiating a rhythm that has you moaning loudly. He wraps around you, his lips on your neck as he fucks into you in a wave, a squeak of protest from the chaise as he does so.

“Be as loud as you wish,” he murmurs hotly into your skin, “no one shall hear us above the sounds of the ball.”

Indeed, only as he utters such, do you become cognisant of a muffled cacophony leaking through the thick door for the first time since you entered the room—music in the ballroom, and chattering voices in the grand hallway competing with each other. 

And so you do, unfettered, vociferous, letting him know how much pleasure you feel coursing through your entire being as he surges into you, each noise you make seeming to catalyse him further. A growing looped call and response between you. You never expected the marital act to be this all-encompassing. How people talk of anything else seems impossible to you. You want to shout from the rooftops, want always to be entwined naked with this man, your body alive, a symphony racing under your skin, as he takes you somewhere truly magical.

“Do not stop…” You repeat, this time through clenched teeth, greedily grabbing at his shapely rear as it flexes. 

“I will not, not until you come apart,” he attests, his chest hair mashed into your pebbled nipples, as he moves over you. A pressure building far inside, your pussy leaking copiously around him, onto the velvet beneath you. But both of you pay no heed, only chasing pleasure.

Your hand flies up to the chaise back behind your head, needing an anchor, to match him halfway, force him deeper than he has ever been, a primal desire for him to leave an impression within you. He groans as you meet his thrusts, looking upon you with seeming disbelief, such wild abandon in your choices. 

A trickle of sweat tracks down from his hairline over the curve of his cheekbone, and you push up to seal your lips first to that salty track, then clumsily to his lips, needing more of his intoxicating kisses, skating an edge that makes your lungs restrict, all your muscles taut.

“What is happening to me, Anthony?” you gulp, a tide rising throughout your being.

“You are so, so close, my sweet,” he rasps, his voice low, scratchy. “I can feel you fluttering around me, just a little while longer, and you will know true bliss…” 

His silky promise makes you more determined, your pussy rippling around his cock, his tip seemingly steely as he ploughs deep, speeding up even more, an erratic desperation behind his moves that suggest he is similarly afflicted.

A hand worms between your bodies and you scream as his fingers strum your clit, so very swollen and coated in slippery juices. Your fingernails dig into his back as your entire being snaps into a technicoloured synesthesia, nudged into an oblivion, breath stolen, pulse racing, eyes clamped shut. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock as he howls into your ear from the pressure you exert. You whine at the sudden loss of him withdrawing rapidly, a slick tide following him as he splashes warm ropes of fluid onto your folds, barely pulling out in time.

“Fuckkkkkkkkk” he pants, collapsing over you in a manner that is almost suffocating, your bodies both tacky with sweat and cum, your lungs fighting for air under his mass.

“Anthony…” you croak.

He comes to his senses, rearranging your pliant, exhausted body on the oversized chaise so that he is curled around you, your spine pressed into his chest. 

“That was magnificent,” he opines, his lips crushing into your messy hair, your updo now entirely worked loose by the repeated jolts into the velvet.

You hum in agreement, hazily attempting to file away so many wondrous things about this seismic experience. Your combined fluids are tacky between your inner thighs as you snuggle back into Anthony, finally returning to yourself enough to make a query.

“What was that? That came out of your cock?” 

“That is my seed, my sweet. That which makes you with child.”

“Ohhh!” you exclaim, suddenly piecing together what your mother had said.

“You are a married lady and still they do not tell you such?!” He scoffs.  

“Not in any detail. I was told to endure what my husband may do to me, for that will give me a child,” you shrug.

He laughs incredulously, then twists you under him, hovering over you, a teasing quirk tugging at his lips. “Was that such a terrible experience to endure?” Anthony jests.

You can't help but grin impishly. “Utterly dreadful, my lord,” you volley back, a newfound confidence bubbling within, something profound about your womanhood. “And you did not even have the courtesy to leave me with child…”

Something dangerously feral ripples over his handsome features.

“Do not tempt me, Baroness….” he cautions, his baritone vibrating into your ribcage.

“If my husband will not, perhaps you can…” You goad, knowing you are playing with fire for all concerned; such a scandalous, almost indecent, proposal.

“If he continues to abandon his duties, I shall have words with him.” Anthony proclaims fiercely.

You suck in a surprised breath. “You shall speak with the Baron yourself?”

“Why should I not? This provides the cover he needs to continue his dalliances as he sees fit, while to the outside world, the Barony line will continue. And it also allows for us to be intimate, for as much as you wish…” He reasons, nuzzling your jaw.

“But what of your duties?” You counter. “A Viscount cannot evade his need to marry any more than a Baron can.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes, then fixes you with a blistering look. “But until that day….” 

His lips seize yours, and any other thoughts scatter to the wind. And before you know it, he is teaching you something else new, this time parting your thighs with his broad shoulders and burying his face into your folds, you screaming to the chandelier above as all around Bridgerton House the festivities continue.

masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)

Anthony taglist pt 1 : @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor @hanji-emo-blog @y0ur-favgerman @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @cinnamoodles @blackdxggr @alexandrainlove @witty-wallflower

[zulashi-the-writer]

This time, can I get the yandere Saja boys with a metal head reader (and they hate Kpop)?

Yandere Saja Boys 👹

Yan Saja Boys: you met when they performed 'soda pop' in the streets they saw your cover your ears with a disgusted look on your face which Abby was not happy about how dare you pull such a face towards him, they'd definitely follow you after the show to figure out what your problem is and soon as baby heard someone call your name he started to search up all your socials, stalking you because 'they have to get you to become their fan' he reasoned but as soon as he got further and further down your internet footprint he just got more frustratingly intrigued how can someone hate them? They were made to be obsessed over so what made you different?

Yan Saja Boys: Mystery was the one to find out your taste in music, baby just stopped looking for the reason and started to just look at your photos instead, mystery followed you home and sat on your roof as your music blasted over the speakers, soon the group started to watch your around the house as you rocked to the music, the music drove them insane (except baby and Abby they actually kinda like it but they'd never admit to it), they'd soon follow you to concerts and your rock meets, planning a way to 'save' you from this terrible music.

Yan Saja Boys: Romance would go full flirty to try to convince you to leave with him at a bar but you just waved him off, he walked off to the group a sour look plastered on his face next was Abby's turn and he decided to try a different approach he let show his patterns slowly walking towards you but didn't talk to you, he was using the douchebag method which kinda worked you asked about his tattoos then he went onto a nonsense tirade about it's meaning that made you laugh starting your 2 hour conversation before you decided to leave together to go somewhere more private, as soon as you stepped outside the roofie he'd given you would start to work you collapsed into his arms as the others joined you.

Yan Saja Boys: Romance and Jinu would tie you to the chair questioning you on your sanity for your taste in music promising to cure you while the others just stood close by watching you, you wouldn't talk to them just grit your teeth something about yanderes is that they hate being ignored, they'd start growing frustrated punishing you by keeping water and food just out your reach trying to get you to talk to them, they move onto making you listen to kpop but that didn't work either the hatred in your eyes only growing.

Yan Saja Boys: they'd start giving you medication to make you weak and move you around making you watch some of them dance as the others fed and pampered you, this gives you a sense of being somewhat close to normal, it starts to change you over time and as it goes on their songs play over a phone slowly moving onto a speaker as you slowly adapt to them and with each passing day their smiles going wider as they know you are theirs to own, theirs to change.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 25

˗ˏˋ vanilla drips ˎˊ˗

"Sometimes the sweetest confessions come in the form of flour wars and vanilla extract kisses, when 3 AM vulnerability meets kitchen counter chemistry and you realize you've been lying to yourself about what you actually want."

next | index

✧ chapter details ✧

word count: 11.2k

content: 3am sourdough therapy sessions, flour warfare, vanilla extract as foreplay, kitchen counter confessions, raw intimacy (literally), tessa reconnaissance missions, jason date debriefs, smut, penetration, vanilla kink as always

✦ author's note ✦

Okay. Before anyone starts warming up their fingers to type “why is Y/N being such a hypocrite about Tessa,” let’s stop right there because actually? She’s not. Not even a little bit. What you’re witnessing here isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human behavior. It’s trauma logic. It’s psychological realism. And it’s honestly the most consistent Y/N has ever been.

Here’s the thing: what she has with Jungkook is sex. She’s said it, she’s acted on it, and more importantly—she believes it. Her brain doesn’t categorize him as a romantic option, not even subconsciously. So when she pushes Tessa toward him, it’s not because she’s lying to herself—it’s because, from her point of view, Jungkook deserves something good. After Mia? Yeah. He deserves a little sweetness. Tessa’s nice. That’s literally it. She’s responding with a moral instinct, not romantic jealousy. And that’s not hypocrisy—that’s compartmentalization paired with a genuine (if ill-defined) desire to see someone be treated well.

But here’s the question the chapter’s really asking: is “something good” always what someone needs?

Because Jungkook doesn’t recognize affection as safe. The boy has trained himself not to see it—thanks to a past that weaponized intimacy against him. So of course he doesn’t clock Tessa’s interest. It’s not him being stupid. It’s a trauma-informed blind spot. He’s too tuned into control dynamics to perceive sincerity when it’s offered without strings. (And let’s be real, how many of us have had our receptors miswired by the wrong person?)

That’s where the mutual curiosity comes in—both Y/N and Jungkook ask about each other’s dating lives in this chapter. Not because they’re pining or secretly in love or any of that fluff. They’re not. What they are, though, is interested. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but definitely in a human one. They’re trying to read each other. Understand each other. That’s what friends do. Or, in their case, that’s what trying to be friends looks like. They’re clumsy, they’re defensive, but they’re showing care in the only languages they know—flour fights and 3 AM bread commentary and checking if the other person is sleeping with someone else, just to make sense of the shape of things.

And Jungkook? For all his snark and dodging—he reads her this chapter. Like really reads her. He names her deflections. Calls out her need for control. Gives her permission to let go in ways no one else has. That kitchen scene isn’t romantic, it’s recognition. And that’s what makes it intimate. Not love. Not pining. But connection.

The vanilla extract moment—look, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at the "of course it's vanilla because that's Y/N's scent" metaphor, but hear me out. The fact that he was drinking it? That's not cute quirky behavior—that's concerning. It's self-medication disguised as harmless habit. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t caught up—vanilla extract is ethanol. Which means, it is alcohol. And Y/N recognizing it but choosing to transform it into something sensual instead of confronting it directly? That's her attempting to heal through intimacy rather than conversation, which is very much her emotional language at this point in the story.

Anyway. Enjoy the mess. Enjoy the tension. Enjoy Jungkook's dirty talk and Y/N's stubborn deflection and the way they're both falling without admitting it. It's about to get so much more complicated, and I am absolutely living for it.

✧ read on✧

ao3

wattpad

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

Soft at first, almost hesitant, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be there.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

No response.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Whatttt?" you snap, sitting up and glaring at the door.

Still no answer.

With an annoyed huff, you throw off the covers and march to the door, yanking it open—and nearly stumble into Jungkook.

He's leaning against the frame, one arm braced above his head like he's posing for a magazine cover. His hair is messy, his silver ring catching the faint light from the hallway.

You take a step back instinctively, narrowing your eyes. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

He tilts his head toward the kitchenette, lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm making sourdough."

You blink at him. "Sourdough?"

"Remember I told you about my Steam nickname? The baking pun?" He raises an eyebrow like he's daring you to remember.

"Huh," you say flatly, still trying to process why this man is standing outside your room at an ungodly hour talking about bread.

"Wanna see?" he asks, his grin widening.

"No," you reply immediately, crossing your arms. "Why would I want to see your midnight bread experiment?"

"Because it's cool," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him for a long moment before sighing and stepping out of your room.

"Fine. But if this is stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupts, already turning toward the kitchenette. "It's art."

"Oh my god," you mutter, following him reluctantly.

The counter is a mess of flour and bowls and what looks like a dough blob covered with a damp cloth. Jungkook gestures at it like it's a masterpiece.

"Behold," he says dramatically. "The future of bread."

You squint at it.

"It looks like a brain."

"Shows what you know about baking," he retorts, grabbing a wooden spoon and poking at the edges of the dough. "This is proofing."

"You're proofing my patience right now," you mutter, leaning against the counter.

He smirks but doesn't look up from his work. "You're just jealous because I have hobbies."

"Making bread at 3 AM isn't a hobby; it's a cry for help."

"Says the girl who reads Kafka for fun."

"It's called intellectual stimulation."

"It's called depressing bug stories."

You roll your eyes as he starts shaping the dough.

"So this is what you do when you can't sleep? Play housewife?"

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"Shut up." You watch him for a moment longer before asking, "Why sourdough?"

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

"My mom taught me how to make it when I was younger," he says quietly. "I loved it, so I picked it up quite easily. I guess it's just habit now."

There's something softer in his voice now, something almost reverent.

You don't press him for more details; it feels like enough that he shared this much.

"But I mean... why do it now?" you ask instead.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "I told you, it helps me think."

You scoff, trying to keep the mood from dipping too far into serious territory. He finishes shaping the dough and places it on a tray before turning back to you.

"Wanna help?" he asks, holding out the wooden spoon.

"Nope," you say immediately.

"Oh come on." He wiggles the spoon enticingly. "Live a little."

"I'm living just fine without touching your weird blob bread."

"You're no fun."

He sets the spoon down with exaggerated disappointment and starts cleaning up the counter.

You watch him for another moment before grabbing the spoon and poking at the dough experimentally. It feels weirdly satisfying under your fingers—soft but firm, pliable but resistant.

Jungkook glances over and smirks again.

"See? Told you it was cool."

"Don't push it," you warn, but there's no real bite in your tone.

He chuckles softly and continues tidying up while you poke at his sourdough creation like it might reveal some hidden secrets about him—or maybe just about yourself.

And somehow, in this quiet kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by flour and sarcasm and unexpected softness, it feels... okay.

You're still poking at the dough when Jungkook flicks a bit of flour in your direction. It lands on your arm, a tiny white puff against your skin.

"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't start something you can't finish, Rogue."

His eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

"Is that a threat, Phoenix?"

"Yes it is."

You dip your fingers into the flour bag and flick it back at him, leaving a white streak across his black t-shirt.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" He grins, reaching for more flour.

You back away, holding up your hands. "Don't you dare."

"What are you gonna do about it?" He advances slowly, a handful of flour cupped in his palm like a weapon.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you warn, but you're already calculating escape routes. "I just showered."

"Should've thought about that before you started a war."

You dart around the sofa, putting it between you.

"This is childish."

"Says the girl hiding behind furniture," he counters, mirroring your movements as you circle the couch.

"I'm being smart."

"You're being a chicken."

You gasp in fake outrage. "Take that back!"

"No can do," he taunts, lunging suddenly to the left.

You shriek and bolt right, nearly slipping on the tile as you move through the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's right behind you, laughing as you sprint to the other side.

"Get away from me, you monster!" you yell, but you're laughing too, the absurdity of the situation hitting you.

"Never!" he calls back, his voice pitched higher in a cartoonish villain impression. "Ueheheheh!"

You grab a throw pillow as a shield, holding it in front of you.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh no, not the pillow," he mocks, still advancing. "Whatever shall I do?"

You swing it at him, but he dodges easily, grabbing your wrist with his flour-free hand.

Before you can react, he's smearing the flour across your cheek, touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughhousing.

"Got you," he says, voice low and triumphant.

You retaliate immediately, snatching the bag of flour from the counter and shoving your hand in.

"Fuck that, this means war!"

And so then, war begins indeed.

Flour flying everywhere, breathless laughter echoing through the apartment, furniture used as barricades and launch pads.

You leave white handprints on his shoulders when you try to push him away; he leaves them on your waist when he catches you mid-escape.

The aftermath leaves the kitchen floor looking like a disaster zone, flour coating every surface like a dusting of snow.

You're both covered in it—hair, clothes, skin—looking like ghosts in a low-budget horror movie.

"Truce?" you gasp finally, out of breath from laughing and running.

"Never surrender," he declares, lunging for you again.

You dodge, but your sock slips on the flour-covered floor, and before you fall, Jungkook grabs you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.

"Gotcha," he says again, softer this time, his face inches from yours.

You're both breathing hard, covered in flour.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, a question in them.

And then—

SMACK.

His hand connects with your ass in a playful swat, leaving a perfect white handprint on your black sleep shorts.

You gasp in outrage as he dances away, cackling like a maniac.

"You did NOT just—"

"I did," he confirms, looking far too pleased with himself. "And it's a work of art, if I do say so myself."

You glance over your shoulder, trying to see the handprint.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Worth it," he declares, already backing away as you advance on him. "Totally worth it."

"You're dead, Ro," you threaten, grabbing another handful of flour. "Dead!"

He just laughs, eyes bright with mischief, not looking sorry at all.

"Come and get me then, Phoenix."

And despite yourself, despite the mess and the late hour and the flour in places flour should never be, you're laughing too, chasing him around the kitchen like you're both twelve years old instead of college students with responsibilities and complicated lives.

It's ridiculous. It's childish.

It's the most fun you've had in weeks.

Flour permeates the kitchen air like falling snowflakes.

Jungkook is now leaning against the counter, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, surveying the flour-dusted disaster.

You, for your part, are trying to brush flour off your arms, which is mostly just smearing it around.

"You know," Jungkook says, his voice laced with that fake-innocent tone he uses when he's about to say something outrageous, "all this flour… it's probably not great for your pores."

You eye him suspiciously. "And?"

"And," he continues, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer, "you should probably shower again."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." You gesture vaguely at your flour-coated state.

"I could help," he offers. "You know… save water. Be environmentally conscious."

You burst out laughing, a startled, disbelieving sound.

"Are you serious right now? We just had a flour war, and your first thought is how to get laid?"

"Efficiency, Nix," he says, tapping his temple. "Always thinking efficiency."

"You're deranged," you choke out between laughs. "A completely deranged, horny bitch."

He just shrugs, unbothered.

"Maybe. But think of the planet."

You're still chuckling, shaking your head at his sheer audacity, when a thought flickers through your mind, uninvited and slightly uncomfortable.

Tessa.

If he actually starts dating her, if they become a thing… this—the easy banter, the late-night flirting, the casual hookups—it would all have to stop, right? You can't exactly keep sleeping with him if he has a girlfriend.

The thought leaves a weird, vaguely metallic taste in your mouth. Not jealousy, exactly. You don't want Jungkook in that way.

But the dynamic you have, this messy, undefined thing… it's familiar.

Weirdly comfortable in its own chaotic way.

The idea of it changing, ending… it's just… weird.

You push the thought away, shaking your head again, trying to clear it. Not your problem right now.

"Yeah, I'll pass on your noble environmental efforts," you say, trying to regain control of the conversation.

You look around at the white-dusted apartment, then back at him.

"Seriously though, when did you even get home? I didn't hear you come in at all."

He leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his flour-streaked chest.

"A while ago. Maybe you were too busy dreaming about me to notice."

"In your dreams, Rogue." You pick a stray piece of dough off your sleeve. "I was sleeping. Like normal people do at"—you glance at the microwave clock—"three-thirty in the morning."

"Normal is boring," he counters easily. "Besides, I'm stealthy. Like a ninja. A bread-making ninja."

"A messy ninja," you correct, gesturing at the flour coating literally everything, including him. "You look like a powdered donut."

"A sexy powdered donut," he clarifies, striking a pose.

You snort. "Keep telling yourself that."

You start trying to wipe down a section of the counter with a paper towel, which mostly just creates floury streaks.

"Seriously though, you didn't make any noise. I would've heard the door."

He shrugs, grabbing another paper towel and starting to help, surprisingly.

"Maybe I'm just light on my feet. Or maybe your ears are full of wax."

"Rude."

You throw the floury paper towel at him. He dodges it effortlessly.

"Just stating facts," he says, grinning. "Maybe you should get them checked. Could be impacting your hearing. Explains why you never listen to me."

"I listen," you argue, crumpling up another paper towel. "I just usually choose to ignore you because ninety percent of what you say is bullshit."

"That feels statistically inaccurate," he muses, wiping down the handle of the fridge. He leaves a faint white handprint behind. "I'd say it's more like… eighty-two percent bullshit. The other eighteen percent is pure genius."

"Delusional," you mutter, tackling the flour patch on the floor near the sink. "Completely delusional."

He stops wiping and just watches you for a second, a thoughtful expression replacing the usual smirk.

"You really didn't hear me come in?"

"No," you say, looking up. "Why? Should I have?"

He shakes his head, the smirk returning.

"Nah. Just means my ninja skills are improving. Or you're a really heavy sleeper." He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you snore, Nix? Is that your dirty little secret?"

"I do not snore," you hiss, flicking water at him. "And get out of my personal space."

He laughs, easily dodging the water droplets. "Just asking!"

He resumes wiping the counter, humming softly under his breath.

You watch him for a moment, thoughts about Tessa still churning in your mind.

It's ridiculous, standing here covered in flour at nearly four in the morning, cleaning up a mess you both made, arguing about ninja skills and snoring.

But somehow, it feels… normal. Your kind of normal, anyway.

Messy, complicated, and definitely not boring.

You're on your hands and knees, attempting to wipe up a particularly stubborn patch of flour near the leg of the kitchen island, when you decide to go for it.

Operation: Tessa Reconnaissance. For the sisterhood, obviously.

And maybe a tiny bit because you're curious how this whole mess fits together.

"So," you say, keeping your voice casual as you swipe uselessly at the floor, "your friends seem… like a lot."

Jungkook snorts from where he's attempting to de-flour the coffee maker.

"Yeah, they're idiots. But they're my idiots."

"Including Library Girl?" you ask, aiming for nonchalance. "The redhead? Tessa?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tessa? Yeah, she was there. Why?"

"No reason," you say quickly, maybe too quickly, focusing intently on the flour patch. "Just noticed you two talking a lot. She seems… nice."

"She is nice," he agrees easily, turning back to the coffee maker. "Super smart, too. Knows her shit about film. Like, really knows it."

Okay, good start. He acknowledges her existence and intelligence. Phase one complete.

"Yeah?" you prompt. "She mentioned you guys talked about… Park Chan-wook?"

You pronounce the name carefully, hoping you got it right based on Tessa's text.

He brightens instantly, forgetting the coffee maker entirely and turning to face you fully.

"Dude, yes! She actually got why The Handmaiden is structured the way it is. Most people just focus on the twists, but she was talking about the shifting perspectives and visual storytelling… it was cool."

His enthusiasm is genuine, almost nerdy. It's the same way he lit up talking about John Mayer's guitar playing. He's clearly impressed by her film knowledge.

"So… you like her?" you ask, trying to sound like you're just making conversation while scrubbing the floor.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says easily. "Definitely one of the few people in that class who isn't a total poser. We had this debate about Bong Joon-ho's genre blending—it was actually interesting."

He seems focused entirely on the intellectual connection. No hint of anything else.

Time for phase two: physical attraction assessment.

"She's really pretty, too," you add, still scrubbing. "Like, model pretty."

He shrugs, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where his dough blob still sits.

"Yeah, I guess. Didn't really notice."

You stop scrubbing and look up at him incredulously. "You didn't notice? She looks like she walked off a runway and directly into that ramen shop. How could you not notice?"

He frowns slightly, like he's genuinely trying to recall her appearance beyond 'classmate'.

"I mean, she's got… hair? And a face? I don't know, Nix, I was more focused on the conversation." He seems genuinely perplexed by your insistence. "Why are you so hung up on how she looks?"

"I'm not hung up!" you retort, feeling defensive for reasons you can't quite articulate. "I just… stating facts. She's objectively attractive."

"Okay?" He draws the word out, like he doesn't understand the relevance. "Lots of people are attractive. Doesn't mean anything."

He gestures vaguely with the damp cloth.

"Are we gonna finish cleaning this up or are we analyzing the relative hotness of my classmates now?"

You huff, returning to your floor scrubbing.

Unbelievable. Either he's genuinely oblivious or he's the world's best actor.

Given his track record, oblivious seems more likely.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just making an observation."

"Well, observe the flour patch you missed by the trash can," he retorts, pointing with the cloth.

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"Bossy."

"Best one."

You crawl over to the trash can, wiping up the offending flour.

Okay, so he acknowledges she's nice, smart, shares his interests, but is apparently blind to the fact that she's a literal goddess?

Why are men so confusing?

"So," you try again, shifting tactics. "Since she's so cool and smart and into the same weird movies as you… you gonna ask her out?"

He stops wiping again, looking genuinely surprised by the question.

"Ask her out? Why would I do that?"

"Because… you like her? You just said she was cool and smart?"

Are you losing your mind? Is he actually this dense?

"Yeah, as a friend," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the same class. We talk about movies. That's… what friends do?"

"Jungkook," you say slowly, sitting back on your heels and facing him directly. "Girls like Tessa—girls who look like her and are that nice—don't usually go out of their way to talk to guys about obscure Korean directors unless they're interested."

He stares at you, blinking. Like the concept is entirely foreign.

"Wait, you think she… likes me? Like, likes likes me?"

"Is there an echo in here?" you ask dryly. "Yes, you absolute walnut. That's generally how that works."

He runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair, looking completely bewildered.

"No way. She's just… friendly. People are friendly sometimes, Nix."

"Not that friendly," you insist. "Trust me. There's friendly, and then there's 'laughing at all your jokes and touching your arm every five minutes' friendly. That's different."

He actually seems to consider this, replaying interactions in his head.

His brow furrows.

"She does laugh a lot… And she did touch my arm…" He looks back at you, still skeptical. "But maybe she's just, like, a touchy person?"

"Or maybe she wants to touch your dick," you deadpan.

He chokes on air, eyes widening.

"Dude! What the fuck?"

"Just saying! It's a possibility you seem to have completely overlooked."

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

"Nah. No way. You're messing with me."

"I'm really not," you say, suddenly feeling bad for Tessa—because this poor beautiful girl is putting in the effort, and he's completely clueless. "She basically told me she likes you."

"She told you?" Finally, he looks like oxygen is reaching his brain. "When?"

"At the party. We talked for a bit."

"And she just… announced her romantic interest in me? To my roommate? That seems weird."

"It wasn't like that! She was asking for advice! Because she was nervous!" You're practically defending her now. "She's really sweet, Rogue. And clearly into you."

He leans back against the counter again, processing this information.

He doesn't look smug or pleased, just… thoughtful.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

"Huh," he says softly. "Never would've guessed."

He's quiet for a moment, staring down at the floury cloth in his hand.

"I mean, she is… really nice."

"So?" you prompt. "Now that you know the feeling might be mutual…?"

He sighs, dropping the cloth into the sink.

"I don't know, Nix."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He avoids your eyes, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the cloth with unnecessary focus.

"Dating's… complicated, you know?"

"Everything's complicated with you," you mutter.

He glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it's gone.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that's just how it is." He turns off the water, wringing out the cloth. "Besides, I'm not really… looking for anything right now."

"You're never looking for anything," you point out. "Except maybe your keys. Or a clean mug."

"Exactly," he says, attempting a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Too busy looking for my keys."

There it is again. That deflection. That hint of something heavier beneath that he refuses to acknowledge.

You think about what Yoongi said, about Mia, about Jungkook needing to be careful.

Maybe he's right to be hesitant.

"Okay," you say quietly, deciding not to push it further.

You've done your recon. You have information for Tessa, even if it's not the straightforward green light she might be hoping for.

"Just… don't be a dick to her, alright? If you're not interested, fine. But she's nice. She doesn't deserve games."

He looks surprised by your defense of her.

"I wasn't planning on playing games." He hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, "She does seem… different. From…"

He trails off, but you know who he means.

Mia.

An awkward silence hangs between you for a moment.

Unspoken history and potential futures.

Jungkook breaks it first, clapping his hands together with forced brightness.

"Okay, enough about my potential love life," he says, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Let's talk yours. How was the date with Jason?"

You freeze, paper towel in hand, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

He's halfway through sweeping a particularly stubborn pile of flour when he pauses, leaning on the broom handle.

"You know, Jason? Tall guy, glasses, probably owns more vests than actual personality traits?" He waves the broom vaguely. "The one you were all dressed up for earlier?"

"I wasn't dressed up," you protest automatically, even though you know it's a lie.

You definitely put effort into your appearance for that coffee date.

Jungkook snorts.

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

You narrow your eyes at him.

"His name is Jason, and he's not boring. He's... mature."

"Mature," Jungkook repeats, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Right. Because that's what every college student dreams of. Maturity."

"Some of us actually want to date functioning adults," you retort.

"Functioning is overrated," he says with a grin. "But seriously, how was it? Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of... what does he study again? 18th-century doorknobs?"

"Modern literature," you correct, rolling your eyes. "And it was nice."

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"Nice? That's it? Wow, don't oversell it or anything."

You sigh, grabbing the dustpan to help him with the flour pile.

"It was really nice, okay? He's smart, and he actually listens when I talk. We had a great conversation about female agency in Gothic novels."

"Riveting," Jungkook deadpans. "I'm sure the sexual tension was off the charts. Did you hold hands while discussing the patriarchal oppression of women in corsets?"

"You're such an ass," you mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. "Not everything has to be about sexual tension, you know."

"Doesn't have to be," he agrees, sweeping the last of the flour into the dustpan you're holding. "But it sure makes things more interesting."

And yeah, you catch him looking.

That look.

The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

One hand still loosely gripping the broom handle, the other braced against the table as he leans into it like he's posing for a fucking cologne ad.

You don't acknowledge it at first. Too proud. Too fucking annoyed by how easily he can flip the switch. One second you're arguing about Gothic literature and vests, the next—he's practically leaking testosterone across the countertop.

"I know that face," you mutter, not even looking up. "That's your 'I need to nut or I'll die' face."

He grins, unbothered. "Not wrong."

"Go jerk off in your sad little windowless cave like a normal person."

He shrugs, grabbing the bag of flour again, sifting some through his fingers with mock concentration.

"Mmm. Say it again. That mouth of yours, Pix… always so fuckin' mouthy."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach dips. "Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together, I wouldn't have to talk so much."

"Yeah?" he says, ignoring the flour and stepping forward.

One stride. Two. And then he's right in front of you, eyes glinting.

"Keep runnin' that smart pretty mouth. See what happens."

You're about to fire something back—something snarky, something biting—but he grabs you.

Just yanks you forward by the waistband like it's nothing. Like you're nothing but a ragdoll he gets to toss around.

Your body stumbles into his chest and suddenly both his hands are on your ass, gripping it with filthy enthusiasm—greedy, solid handfuls of flesh through thin cotton, palms still dusty with flour. His fingers press, squeeze, spread, claim.

You gasp—too startled to bite it back.

And he fucking grins.

"See what you do to me when you act like that?"

His cock's hard against your stomach. Rock solid. Obvious. Shameless. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"God, Nix," he mutters, voice thick now. "C'mon. It's been too long."

You snort. "I sucked your winny yesterday."

He breaks—a bark of laughter, genuine and scandalized.

"Winny?" he repeats, like he can't believe you said it. "You calling my dick a preschool toy now?"

You shrug, deadpan. "Fits. Loud, annoying, kind of a drama queen."

He leans in again, dragging his mouth close, too close.

"Uh-uh, and I ate you out the day before that," he says, scornful little smile tugging at his lips like he's winning something. "So technically… still overdue."

"So?" you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be. "That's not overdue."

"It is," he says, like it's math. "I mean actually being inside you. Kinda been craving it for a while now."

You swallow. Loud.

"Should I bend you over the kitchen table?" he murmurs. "Fuck you from behind? Bet you'd like that, huh?"

"Please," you scoff. "You'd probably knock over your sacred sourdough."

He grins, cocky and low and unbearable.

"So protective of the dough. But not my Winny?"

You slap his chest, trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it like that."

"Me? You gave it a name, so… C'mon, give my Winny some love, Pix."

You snort, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan because your thighs are starting to ache with how badly you want pressure. Relief. Something.

"Counter or table?" he asks, already walking you backwards.

You hesitate. Just a second.

"…Counter."

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Just grabs you and lifts like it's easy, like you weigh nothing. Drops your ass right onto the cool marble and steps between your legs—close enough your knees bracket his hips.

And his voice? His voice is low and filthy and unforgiving.

"Atta girl."

His mouth is on you before you can roll your eyes.

Hot, hungry kisses trailing up your neck—messy, unhurried, lips dragging like he wants to brand you. He bites at your jaw, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You tilt your head without thinking, baring your throat like a fucking offering.

And he groans—low and wrecked—like that does something to him. Like you're giving him more than skin.

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft crease near your hips, holding you open while he devours.

You blink, and something catches the light near the sink.

Tiny. Brown. Familiar.

Your arm reaches past him, still off-balance on the counter. Fingers curl around it—vanilla extract.

You hold it up between two fingers, smirking.

"Why the fuck is this out?"

His head lifts just enough to glance at what you mean.

"Oh," he says, then immediately dives back in, mouthing at your collarbone like he didn't just answer you. "Nothing. Was sipping a lil bit earlier."

Your body stiffens. Barely. But he feels it.

You don't say anything for a second. You just… look at the bottle.

That rooftop moment. Yesterday. Him alone up there while the party buzzed under your feet. You didn't press then, just made a joke, let him deflect.

But it doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone drinks baking extract ethanol like it's bourbon.

You lick your lips. Keep your voice easy. Teasing.

"That why you smell like a cookie?"

He huffs a laugh against your throat. "You love it. Bet it's makin' you wet just thinking about biting into me."

He's joking. He's back to kissing.

But the bottle is still in your hand, glass warm from your skin, rolling between your fingers like it's got a heartbeat.

And okay. Fine. Maybe you're a little unhinged too.

"Wanna try something?" you ask, voice quiet, a little hoarse.

His head lifts slow. Eyes lazy. Lips wet.

He tilts his head, cock twitching against you like it heard the shift in your voice before he did.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning like he already knows he's gonna say yes no matter what it is. "What're we trying, Phoenix?"

Because you know—you know this man would let you pour hot sauce on his dick if you told him it'd turn you on.

His gaze flicks to the bottle still resting against your palm. Back to your mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, voice already going gravel. "Show me."

You dab two fingers against the lip of the bottle, tilting it just enough to coat your skin in that sticky-sweet scent. Not much—just enough to cling. Your pulse, your collarbone, the hinge of your neck.

His eyes track everything. Like he's under hypnosis.

Slow drag up your wrist, down your throat. Pupils blown wide. Tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip like it's instinct.

And then you offer it to him.

Your throat—tilted, bare. Vanilla blooming warm across your skin, seeping into heat, mixing with your scent.

You watch his jaw tick, tension wrapped in restraint.

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Not because he's unsure. But because he knows what'll happen if he starts.

His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up to your face. And then—

He grabs your wrist, rough but reverent, and slides your fingers straight into his mouth.

His tongue curls around them, sucks them clean like he's starving and this is the only sweet thing he's allowed to have.

His eyes don't leave yours for a second.

Heavy. Dark. Quietly fucking feral.

You feel it in your cunt.

That twitch—sharp and sudden—when he lets your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet pop and immediately dives back into your neck.

No warning. No mercy.

Just mouth on skin, lips dragging open over the vanilla, tongue flattening against your throat like he's licking you clean. Like you're the bottle. Like he's drunk and this is the relapse.

"Mmmfph—fuck," he groans against your neck, hot breath flooding over your skin. "You're—fuck—you're dessert, Phoenix."

He's biting now. Mouthing. Bruising.

Your head falls back against the cabinets with a dull thud and you don't care. Not even a little.

His hands are under your thighs again, yanking you closer to the edge of the counter like he's going to eat you here and now and be proud of the mess.

He doesn't stop licking your neck—just shifts slightly, mouth dragging lower, wetter, hungrier—until he can grab the flask again without even looking. He uncaps it one-handed, like he's done it a hundred times in the dark.

Because he probably has.

And then he's holding it over your chest.

"Hold still, Phoenix."

Voice low. Thick with something needy.

You barely nod before the cool drip hits your skin—fuck—a slow, deliberate trail spilling from the center of your collarbone and down, sliding between your tits, disappearing under the fabric of your tank top.

He watches it move. Doesn't blink. Bites his bottom lip like he's trying to restrain himself and failing spectacularly.

"Fuckkk," he mutters under his breath, and the way he stares?

You'd think he just watched God part the Red Sea between your tits.

But he can't see where it goes. Not really. Because of the shirt.

And that?

That's unacceptable.

So he doesn't ask. Doesn't even warn.

He just grabs the hem of your tank and yanks it up, fast and messy, until it's bunched under your armpits. The cool air hits your bare skin, but his gaze is scorching—dragging down to your breasts, then lower, following the trail of sticky syrup that's now sliding beneath.

He drops the flask without care.

Leans in.

And presses his mouth to the spot just under your breasts, where the drip ends. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue darting out to chase the taste.

He groans against your skin, like you're something forbidden and fuck, he's eating it anyway.

Then he starts licking up.

Slow. Thorough. Filthy.

Tongue dragging up the underside of your tits, between them, following the line of vanilla all the way back to your cleavage. His breath is hot and shaky, hands holding your thighs tight like he needs to anchor himself before he devours you.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he growls against your skin.

And you can barely breathe.

You lean back on your palms, spine arching subtly, thighs spreading wider across the counter—silent invitation.

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Like he's trying to play it cool, like he's not already mentally wrecked.

Your fingers close around the vanilla bottle again.

And you tip it over your stomach.

A thin stream spills, slow and syrupy, tracing a path from just under your ribs down to your navel.

Sticky gold pooling in that soft dip, then slipping lower—toward your waistband, beneath it.

He stops.

Mid-breath.

Eyes drop.

Then drag back up to your face, slow as fucking sin.

And those eyes… those fucking eyes.

Dark like blackout curtains. Hungry. But quiet, too. Restrained. Like he's hanging onto the last thread of control and it's fraying fast.

He bites his lip again, teeth dragging over it, jaw flexing.

You raise a brow.

"Aren't you licking the vanilla off my skin, Rogue?" you say, voice steady, teasing, like your pulse isn't sprinting. "Go ahead."

He snorts through his nose—horny.

It's not even a laugh, not really. More like disbelief.

"Jesus, you're such a fucking menace."

Then he moves.

Hands at your waistband, yanking your shorts down like they've personally offended him.

There's no grace. No finesse. Just desperate, fumbling urgency, like if he doesn't get them off now he might lose it.

They hit the floor. So do your panties.

And then he drops to his knees.

Hooks your thighs over his elbows and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, eyes level with your pussy. Eye to eye with his fucking meal, and the smirk that twitches at the edge of his mouth is so cocky it should be illegal.

But then he pauses.

Eyes catch on the fact that you're smooth. Bare.

His gaze flicks up, that same damn smirk sharpening.

"So you did plan on wishing me a happy birthday, huh?"

You groan, head thunking back against the cabinets.

"Shut up before I change my mind."

He just laughs, grabbing your thigh and yanking you closer, like that's his response.

It is.

"Thanks for the gift," he says with mock sincerity, "but like… full runway smooth? Nix. Just so you know, I like a little design."

You gape at him.

Is he serious right now?

Does he ever stop speaking?

Or think before he speaks? Like 'oh this might sound embarrassing coming from my mouth, I probably should keep it to myself.'

No. Definitely no.

"Design?"

He nods, dead serious now.

"I'm just saying. Little lightning bolt? Maybe a star? I could help you trim it next time. Get real artsy with it."

"I hate you," you mutter, scandalized and laughing, because of course this is what he's focusing on.

"I'm just saying…" he defends, grinning like a madman. "Bare's too creepy. I like texture, Phoenix. But not, like, a forest. I'm not tryna floss with it."

"God, you're disgusting," you shoot back, heat simmering low in your gut despite the absurdity.

"Disgustingly honest," he counters. "I want a little… edge. Like an angled fade. A pussy taper."

You laugh so hard your core clenches and he notices. Eyes drop. His smirk vanishes.

And just like that, he's focused again. Hands tightening around your thighs. Mouth opening. Ready to dive in.

But not before he whispers:

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

His mouth hovers. That maddening space—right there, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to feel him.

It's hot. Each exhale fanning over your cunt like a fucking tease. You twitch, involuntary, hips tilting forward on reflex, thighs tensing around his shoulders.

"Rogue," you murmur, half-warn, half-beg.

He smirks. That slow, cocky pull of his lips that tells you he's going to drag this out just to see how long it takes before you snap.

He leans in, tongue barely peeking out like he's going to lick—

And then doesn't.

"I will actually punch you in the face," you hiss.

But he's already grabbing the bottle again.

His other hand steadies you, fingers splayed on your thigh, as he lifts the vanilla flask to eye level. Tips it slightly.

"Wait—" You grab a fistful of his hair. "Wait. Is that even safe?"

He pauses. Looks up at you, eyes wide, surprised—but not annoyed. Just… calm.

"Yeah," he says, voice casual but sincere. "This one's alcohol-based, not oil. No sugar. Won't mess with your PH or anything, I like your pussy way too much to risk it."

You roll your eyes, but okay. Fine. He's got a point.

And he's never put you in danger—annoyed, yes. Insane with frustration, absolutely.

But never unsafe.

"Okay," you mutter. "Proceed with your perversion."

"Oh, I plan to."

He uncaps it.

And the way he does it—so casually, like this is just some Wednesday night extracurricular?—makes your whole body lock up in anticipation.

He tips the bottle, lets a slow stream of vanilla drizzle from just above your navel, down the curve of your belly, heading lower.

It tickles. Warm and sticky, trailing through your folds, and your whole fucking body tenses with it.

His tongue flicks out, but this time, it's not teasing—it's the real deal.

His tongue drags up.

One long, slow stroke—base to tip—starting where your thighs twitch and ending where the vanilla's pooled.

He groans into it. Groans. Like it's crème fucking brûlée and he's been starving for a week. Like your cunt is the main course and dessert and a Michelin star.

You blink down at him, suddenly weirdly self-conscious.

Because—why the fuck is he acting like it's the best thing he's ever tasted?

It's vanilla extract and you, not caviar. Chill.

Your instinct is to kick him. Or flick his stupid forehead. Something.

But your cunt's already clenching around nothing, wetter than you want to admit.

Because—goddammit—his enthusiasm is doing something to you.

Like deeply. Shamefully. Physically.

You glance down, ready to call him dramatic. Maybe smack the back of his head.

But his eyes are closed.

And not in a performative way. Not for show.

They're hidden—lashes soaked, hair falling in messy dark strands over his brows. His whole face is fucking soft—relaxed, like he's at peace. Like this is meditation. Like your pussy is his church.

You reach down, tug his hair back just enough to uncover his face—need to see him.

Need to look.

And then—fuck. He looks up.

And he smirks. Caught you in 4K. Knew exactly what you were doing.

You want to smack him. Or yank his head down harder. Or kiss him. Or maybe scream.

It's all too much. He's too much.

But he just shifts again, mouth zeroing in now—on your clit this time. Tongue flat. Warm. Pressure steady and—fuck, fuck—

Your head slams back against the cabinet. You don't even feel it.

Because he's staring straight at you while he licks.

Intense. Sure. Smug. Like he knows. And the worst part?

He does.

You don't like eye contact. You hate eye contact.

Or—you did. Before he made it his fucking thing.

Now it's some kind of sex death ray. You're melting under it. You can't breathe under it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice hoarse, lips slick with you.

"So mouthy up there…" he breathes, thumb dragging over your inner thigh. "But fuck, you're weepin' for me down here."

You choke on your own spit.

"Shut the fuck up with your cringy little sex monologue."

He snorts. Has the audacity to laugh into your cunt like it's funny.

"Uhhh? I thought we were past that whole thing where you pretend you don't like my dirty talk."

"I don't—"

He cuts you off with a slow circle of his tongue around your clit. Just once. Cruel.

"Right. That's why you got all hot when you said, 'Do you want me to ride you?'" he mimics, low and teasing. "Looked me in the eye when you said it, too. Said it just like that. Fuckin' purring, Pix."

You groan. "God, I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don't. You just hate that you like this."

Another lick.

Another smug look.

Another twitch deep in your gut.

And all you can do is glare at him—until his mouth is back on you, and then you can't even do that.

Because fuck, he picks up the pace.

Your right leg bends, heel dragging up his arm, foot planting itself on his shoulder like it belongs there. Toes curling the second his tongue swirls just right—just there. Over and over. Unrelenting.

Your whole torso arches back, spine stretched out like a bow. Head thunked against the cupboard above, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles go white.

And he doesn't stop.

Both his hands keep you steady, locked around your thighs, until the right one slides up—palm dragging over your skin, hot and too much. It settles right in that spot between your hip and waist. Thumb pressing into your side like an anchor.

Like he's keeping you from falling.

Like you're breakable.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or maybe just bite him for being so fucking considerate while simultaneously licking your pussy like he's trying to win a Michelin star.

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Because it's too much.

Because how the fuck does he even do that with his tongue?

It's obscene. Criminal. Feels like he's mapping you from memory now—like he's figured out every angle, every twitch, every exact combination that gets you to the edge in five minutes or less.

And—fuck—there it is.

That low hum in your belly, spiraling sharp and fast, heat pulsing outward. Nerve endings tightening. Your thighs start to close but he forces them open with a flex of his arms, tongue flattening again.

You gasp. Loud. Desperate.

Your hand flies down to his head and you yank his hair—hard.

He growls against you, frustrated, head jerking up, lips glossy and chin slick and brows scrunched like he's ready to fight.

"What," he snaps, breathless, panting. "What—what the fuck—"

You just whisper, shaky:

"Inside."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth parts. Eyes still a little wild.

"Huh?"

You meet his gaze, still breathless.

"I wanna cum with you inside me."

It short-circuits him. For real.

He pushes to stand so fast he almost stumbles. Feet trip a little. Palms slap the counter behind you as he catches himself and mutters, "Yeah—okay—fuck—gimme a second—"

But you reach out. Grab his arm. Stop him cold.

You lick your lips.

Probably look stupid. Glossy-eyed and dazed, like someone just rewired your brain through your pussy.

Whatever. You don't care.

You don't care because you can feel it now.

That ache. The need. The desperate, pulsing want for him to just get inside already. Your whole body's still twitching from his mouth and now it's fucking empty.

No thank you.

So you yank him. Hard.

Fingers curling in the loose fabric of his tee, tugging him back toward you like gravity's rewired itself around your cunt.

He lets himself be pulled. Doesn't even fight it. Just stumbles forward until he's between your legs again and then—then you're crashing his mouth to yours.

No hesitation. No buildup. No thoughts.

Just heat. Tongue. Need.

It's messy. Teeth clash. Vanilla and sweat and slick.

His hands slam to the counter beside your thighs for balance, knuckles brushing your waist as your tongue slides against his and you swallow the groan he lets out.

And yeah. You don't kiss men after they eat you out. Ever.

You've always thought it was gross, honestly. You live in your pussy. You don't need the flavor profile introduced.

But with him? Right now?

You don't even care.

You just want to taste what he tastes like. Want his spit in your mouth. Want to feel him.

So you kiss him like you mean it. Like you're not overthinking it. Like this doesn't break five of your own personal rules.

When you finally pull back, lips slick and breathing uneven, you keep your hands fisted in his shirt.

And say—quiet. Calm. "No need for condoms."

His eyes snap open.

You watch them go wide like you just told him the world's ending tomorrow and there's a free-for-all orgy scheduled at noon.

He coughs. Legit coughs. Like your spit went down the wrong pipe.

"Wait—what?"

You shrug. "I have a copper IUD. Works from minute one. I'm good."

His mouth opens, then closes again. Brain buffering.

"I mean…" he blinks. "I—I just—I didn't think you'd…"

You arch a brow.

He shakes his head a little, eyes dropping to your lips.

"No—like—I'm not complaining, I just—" His mouth staggers like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, you've been fucking with condoms, right?"

"Yeah. Always. Jesus. Yeah."

"And you've been getting tested?"

He gives you a look. "You think I'd be rawdogging around Brooklyn without paperwork?"

"Kind of," you mutter, just to mess with him.

"Okay, rude," he says, palm flattening on your thigh like it's involuntary. "I'm not feral. I'm—I'm… a respectful slut."

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then you say, quieter, "I haven't fucked anybody else since I fucked you."

And that? That actually makes him pause.

He blinks again. "Wait. For real?"

"Yeah. Nothing so far."

And he doesn't make it a thing. Doesn't get all soft and stupid about it.

He just takes a beat, stares at you, lips slightly parted like he's replaying it. Like the logistics are finally syncing in.

"Okay," he says. Rough. Breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… okay."

You tap his chest. "Just cum outside, alright? Just in case."

He groans. Low and pained.

"Pix."

"I'm serious."

"You're killing me."

"Don't care."

"I'll pull out," he promises, fingers tightening on your skin. "But I swear to god, if you keep saying shit like that—inside, raw, no condom—I'm gonna lose it before I even get my pants off."

You grin back. "Sounds like a you problem."

And he breathes out, frustrated and horny and fucking wrecked, and mutters—

"You're my fucking problem."

He licks his lips.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's already tasting you again.

Then he leans in and murmurs against your cheek—

"Okay. Turn around."

You blink. "Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tug up. "Turn. Around."

"Of course you wanna change positions."

"What can I say," he shrugs, cock already visibly straining through his sweatpants. "Artist's curiosity."

Still. You do it.

He helps you down—steadying hands at your waist, guiding you like you're breakable, which, let's be honest, rude. And once your feet hit the floor, you shift, pivoting slowly to face the counter.

Elbows down. Back arched.

You stick your ass out just to be a bitch about it.

He groans. Actually fucking groans. Like it hurts him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hands immediately cupping your ass like it's reflex. "You're such a bitch."

You smirk into the counter. "Complaining?"

"No complaints." He huffs out a laugh. "Hands on the counter."

You glance over your shoulder. Raise a brow.

"Trust me," he says, already dragging one palm up the curve of your back.

You hum. But you do it. Flatten your hands, palms flush with the counter's edge.

Behind you, there's a shuffle.

Then that sound—the sound.

Elastic snapping as he yanks his waistband down.

You hear him shift his stance, toes lifting slightly as he lines himself up behind you. And then—

The press.

Just his tip, nudging against your entrance, and your whole body seizes, lips parting around a silent gasp as your thighs instinctively press together.

"You better not let go of that counter," he mutters low.

You don't answer.

Not out of defiance—just because your brain's gone static.

So he spanks you. Sharp and hot and immediate.

"I said something to you," he growls, palm landing hard enough to echo. "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

"That's what I thought."

Then his hand drops from your ass, slides between your thighs, fingers spreading you open as he lines himself up again. Still doesn't push in.

Just rubs.

His cock slides up and down your slit, slow, deliberate strokes. Slick everywhere. Your breath stutters every time he nudges your clit on the way up.

"God, you're so fucking slippery," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Dripping for it. I haven't even put it in yet."

You close your eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

"Your pussy's acting like it missed me," he adds, rocking his hips again, cockhead dragging lazily across your folds. "She's not even pretending."

"Maybe she has bad taste," you snap, voice shaky.

He laughs. Loud.

Then does it again—another glide, another tease, tip pausing right at your entrance just long enough for your breath to catch, then slipping away again before you can adjust.

"You're gonna lose it, huh," he murmurs. "All that smart mouth. All that sass. Gonna forget how to speak when I give you what you want?"

You grit your teeth.

He slides his tip back again, holds it there—barely inside. Just pressure.

Still not pushing in.

Still not giving it to you.

You whimper, shoulders tensing.

"Gripping the counter, Phoenix?" he asks sweetly. "Like I told you to?"

Your fingers curl tighter.

He grins.

And stays right fucking there. Not moving.

Just waiting.

Just standing there behind you like a smug little shit, cockhead resting at your entrance, hot and heavy and perfectly fucking poised—and somehow not going any further.

You shift your hips back slightly, trying to bait him.

He clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh."

"Rogue."

"Pix."

You groan. "You're so fucking annoying."

"Don't tempt me. I could stay like this all night," he says, cock dragging up through your folds again just to prove his point. "Just rub it against you until you're crying."

You scoff. "You act like that's a threat."

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, voice right at your ear.

"You'd cry so pretty."

You twist your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're actually insane."

"Says the girl bent over the counter like a porn scene," he grins, straightening back up. "All 'no condoms, fuck me raw, Rogue' like it's nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry. Do you not want it?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Kinda liking the view, not gonna lie."

"Oh my god."

"Seriously. You ever seen your ass from this angle? Top-tier."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter, squeezing the counter harder. "You gonna give a Google Maps review next?"

"Might," he shrugs. "Five stars. Would fuck again."

You start to reply—some scathing, lethal retort—but you don't even get the first word out.

Because suddenly—he pushes.

All the way in.

One smooth, brutal thrust.

And you moan.

Loud. Unfiltered. Embarrassing.

Your hands slam flat on the counter like your body can't fucking handle it. The stretch, the shock of it.

You feel full. Too full.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't give you time to adjust. Just buries himself in one go like it's his fucking right.

Then—smack.

His palm lands on your ass again, sharp and fast.

"That's more like it," he pants behind you, hand lingering after the slap. "There's my girl."

He pulls out slow.

Real slow.

Too slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch leaving you, feel how empty you get without him. Like he's making a point.

Then—slam.

Hard. Deep. Ruthless.

You jolt forward, hands scrambling for grip as the counter rattles under your hips. A broken sound slips out of you—more instinct than choice—and behind you, he laughs.

Actually laughs.

A horny little chuckle, cock still buried deep like he didn't just rearrange your goddamn organs.

If you could twist around and kick him in the ribs, you would.

"What the fuck are you laughing at," you bite out.

He hums, smug as ever. "Sounded cute."

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"I'll show you cute—"

But you don't finish it. Because he pulls out again, and then slams back in with the same brutal force that leaves your legs trembling and your lungs gone.

What the fuck is he so cocky about?

He's the one getting it raw.

You're the one granting the privilege here. He should be grateful. You could revoke his rights real quick.

Even though… you won't.

Because there's something about it. About this.

No condom. Just skin. Just him.

It's different.

You don't know why it's hotter. Why it feels so much more intimate. You didn't think it would be. It's just cock. Just fucking. But now you feel everything—every twitch, every drag, every time he shifts his angle and catches that spot that has you choking on air.

And then he murmurs behind you, voice low—

"Does it hurt?"

You swallow. "No."

"Good," he says. Calm. Like it's logistics. "If it does, just arch your back more. Fixes the angle."

Fucking hell.

There it is, again.

How is he being considerate and a little shit at the same time?

You're not even flustered because of the sex anymore—you're flustered because he's flipping toggles like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You don't respond.

You can't. Because he grabs your hips and—

Slams into you again.

Not fast. Not rushed. Just one clean, devastatingly hard thrust that knocks the breath straight out of you. His grip holds you there, cock pressed deep, dragging that edge of pain into something white-hot and filthy.

"God," he mutters, breath catching. "The way you're gripping me—fuck—you like that, Nix?"

You don't answer.

Too proud. Too dazed. Too stubborn.

So he spanks you. Again.

Sharp and immediate.

"Answer me when I talk to you."

You flinch. Then growl, "Keep spanking and being demanding and I'll revoke raw rights so fucking fast—"

But he just snickers.

"Oh, will you?"

You can hear the smirk.

Then he leans over, chest brushing your back, breath hot on your ear.

"You like it when I slap my hand on your ass, Nix," he says, low and satisfied. "That's why I keep doing it."

You scoff. "You're making shit up."

He grinds into you once, slow and cruel.

"Am I?"

"Yup."

"Naaah. I've been testing."

You blink. "Testing."

"Mhm," he confirms. Another slap to your ass, gentler this time. Palming over the skin after. "And now I know."

You suck in a breath. "How would you know what turns me on?"

He huffs a laugh—mean, hot, unbothered.

"Because you always mouth off about the shit that gets you going."

Your heart stutters. He keeps going.

"Too embarrassed to just let yourself enjoy it, so you talk shit. Every single time."

"Fuck off," you hiss.

He smirks again, hands dragging your hips back slightly. "Nah. You're not fooling anyone, Pix."

"Eat shit," you bite out, but your voice betrays you—tight, breathy. Fucked.

He groans, head tilting back for a second like he can't believe how good he has it.

"You're so full of it."

You scowl over your shoulder.

He slaps your ass again. Just to punctuate it.

"This," he says, palm dragging slow over the sting he just left, "is textbook Phoenix behavior."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What I just said. You always talk shit about what you like." He thrusts again, not deep—just enough to feel like a warning. "First it was the dirty talk. Remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Barely."

"Oh, you remember." His voice drops. "Because you called it cringey, and five minutes later you were soaking my jeans."

You grit your teeth.

"And then you rode me," he continues, like he's delivering an airtight closing argument. "Said 'do you want me to ride you?' all breathy. Like you hadn't spent days pretending you were above it."

You don't reply.

He leans in, hips pressing closer, cock buried deep and still not moving.

"And yesterday?"

You clench without meaning to.

"Yeah," he laughs softly. "Yesterday. You wouldn't even look at me when you were sucking me off. Acted all bratty and 'ugh I hate eye contact,' and now tonight you were pulling my hair back just to see my face."

You did do that.

"And now it's the spanking," he says, rocking his hips slow. "Bitching about it."

Another smack, firm and deliberate.

"But you just clenched around me. Again."

You groan into your arm. "You're fucking exhausting."

He grins against your shoulder. "You're fucking lying."

You shake your head. "You're not right."

He pulls back a little, just enough to move again. One clean stroke, all the way out and back in with a grunt.

Then—

"You're wet as fuck."

And you are. You feel it. Feel him glide. Feel the mess. Feel how your body wants him deep, no matter what your mouth says.

"You keep acting like you're not into it," he murmurs, breath hot. "Like you don't love being talked to like this. Touched like this."

"Shut up," you whimper, because you don't want to admit it. You don't want him to be right.

But he already is.

"You act like it's for me," he mutters. "Like I'm the one getting off on it."

And he is. Of course he is.

But so are you.

"You keep lying like it's gonna protect you," he says. "But your body gives you away every time."

He's still going.

Deep now.

Fast.

No hesitation, no mercy—just relentless drive, hips snapping into yours, angle brutal and right. Every time he hits bottom it knocks a broken little moan out of you. Loud. Unfiltered. Fucking real.

And still—still—he doesn't shut up.

"You've convinced yourself it's all for me. That you don't enjoy it. Can't. Won't."

Your jaw clenches.

"You can't let yourself," he continues, thrusting hard enough to slap skin. "Because you need to stay in control. Need to be good. Do it right."

His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your ass bounces off him with every slam, lewd and hot and loud.

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

You want to argue. You really do.

But you can't.

You're moaning too loud.

"You don't even stop to ask what you like," he growls, eyes locked on where you're joined. "But I'll tell you."

Smack.

"You like this position."

Smack.

"You like it raw. Hard. Deep."

You whimper.

"You like when I spank you," he murmurs, biting his lip, thrusts picking up even more.

"Shut up," you hiss. "Shut up, shut up—"

But it's useless.

You're already flushed down to your chest. Already arching into every thrust. Already leaking down your thighs.

Your hands grip the counter like a fucking lifeline—knuckles white, arms shaking.

He groans, hands adjusting—one on your waist, the other wrapping low across your belly to pull you into every stroke.

"It's okay, Nix," he says, voice rough but coaxing. "You don't have to say it."

He slams in harder, burying himself to the hilt, making your knees buckle on instinct.

"Just keep gripping the counter."

Your breath stutters.

"Don't let go if you like it."

You bite your lip.

"Don't say anything. Don't explain. Just grip."

You hesitate. One second. Maybe two.

And then—you do.

Fingers curl tighter around the countertop edge. You lock in. Anchor yourself.

Give it to him.

You don't say a word. But that grip? That's your answer. That's your yes.

He groans, hand dragging up your spine, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he wants to feel how it wrecked you.

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

That last comment—

There's my good fucking girl.

It does something. Snaps something in your spine. Or maybe your brain.

Because your cunt flutters around him hard, slick tightens, thighs tremble, and yeah, yeah you're closer. Closer than you should be. You were already there when he first slid in—already so worked up you could've finished in sixty seconds if he just shut the fuck up and focused.

But of course he didn't.

Of course he ran his mouth. Called you out. Read you like a book.

And now?

Now you're clenching around his cock like you're about to shatter, and he feels it.

You know he does.

Because he leans in, breath gone wrecked. Lip caught between his teeth.

"Hmm?" he pants. Thrusts harder, deeper. "What's that? You like when I call you that?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to scoff. Or deny it.

But your cunt clenches instead.

He feels it.

"Ohh fuck," he groans, like it hits his brainstem. "You do."

You turn your face into your arm, humiliated by your own goddamn response. But it's too late. He's already there—already winding it tighter.

"Let's see if you like it even more when I do this."

You blink. "What are you—"

He grabs your thigh.

Hooks it up onto the counter. Bends your leg at the knee beside your elbow, spreading you wider without warning. Opening you up. Letting him deepen.

And he does.

Slams into you again with the new angle, and fuck—it hits different. Hits deep. Your whole body pitches forward with the force, mouth open on a sharp moan you can't swallow.

Then—his hand.

His fingers find your clit. Circle it once, slow and effective.

And you whimper.

It's high-pitched. Unintended. Undignified.

You want to vanish.

But then he's right behind your ear again, voice slurred and drunk on it.

"Gonna cum for me, angel?"

Your body jolts.

Because yeah. Yeah, you are, especially now that he's got your leg hooked, your pussy stuffed, your clit being worked with just enough pressure to make you lose it.

He feels your thighs twitch.

"Do it," he breathes, cock dragging thick inside you, fingers pressing just right. "Come on, let me feel it. I'm close too. Gimme it, Pix."

And your body obeys.

It rolls over you in one hard pulse—core tightening, vision blanking, thighs squeezing in and failing to stay strong.

Your moan punches out of your chest, loud and cracked, hips grinding back into his like you need more even as you're falling apart.

"Ohhhh my god, fuck yes—fuck, yes, Nix, fuckkkk."

He keeps fucking through it. Doesn't stop. Lets your pussy spasm around him, wet and squeezing and pulling him deeper as you ride it out. You whimper, already too sensitive, hips twitching, but he's not done.

Because he's laughing now.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just that fucked-out little giggle he always gets when he's high on it. Like your orgasm lit him up from the inside.

"Jesus—oh my god—holy shit," he's muttering, still fucking you, little messy stutters in his rhythm now. "You feel so fucking good when you cum, I swear—fuck."

He moans again—short and desperate and real—and you feel it in the way his thrusts go uneven.

"Where—where do you want it?" he gasps. "Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm so close, where do I—"

"Ass," you croak, head low, voice barely there.

That's all he needs.

He pulls out instantly, like he's yanking a ripcord.

You whimper at the loss but then you feel his hand—fast and rough—working himself over the curve of your ass.

"Oh fuck—oh god, yeah, look at this gorgeous ass—fuckfuckfuck—"

And then he's cumming.

Thick, hot ropes spilling over your skin as he pants and jerks through it, one hand steadying himself on your back, the other stroking through every twitch of his cock like he's trying to squeeze out every drop just to paint you.

"Shit," he gasps, hips still flexing forward. "Fucking hell, Phoenix."

You don't move.

You just breathe. Still shaking. Still clenched. Still wrecked.

There's cum on your skin, sweat between your shoulder blades, and your thighs feel like they've forgotten how to exist—and somehow, you still feel good.

Too good.

And a little fucked up about how good.

But you'll deal with that later.

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[treeteaofversailles]

Fake Moaning? Not On My Watch…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MDNI! This is my original work. Please do not post to another site or to AI. Thank you and happy reading!

Summary: You fake moan into Zayne’s ear, and Zayne shows you how that was a bad idea. This isn’t connected to the “Should Have Been Me” universe.

Tags/TW: Smut. No plot. Fem!Non-MC!Reader. Zayne is a munch and likes to get absolutely nasty with it :P. PIV smut, fingering, cunnilingus.

A/N: here's a Zayne *tosses and runs away*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You leaned closer to him, turning your face and brushing your nose against his ear. Zayne thought you were going to give him a kiss on the cheek like you always had when you stopped by to visit him in his office while he was working. 

Instead, your lips nestled against his ear, and a shaky breath stuttered by his ear. 

And before he could ask you what you were doing, you exhaled the sweetest sound into his ear. 

“Ohh Zayne~!” You whined loudly. 

Your voice rang in his ear and sent shockwaves down his spine, settling low in his stomach. His cock twitched to life, instantly filling up the space in his cream-colored slacks. 

Zayne whirled around and glared at you, but you were already skipping out of his office. You even winked over your shoulder before closing the door behind yourself. 

He sat there for a few minutes, his ear still ringing with the sound of your saccharine sweet voice calling out his name like a siren. His face was so hot, he felt like he was going to ignite in flames. His fist tightened, and he clenched his jaw, trying to will the sound of your saying his name out of his head. 

He really needed to get back to work, or else he would be backed up for days. 

He took a steadying breath before he turned back to his work. Zayne pushed up his glasses and shifted in his seat, adjusting his slacks over his growing erection. 

Zayne kept typing, locking into the report so he could quickly get back to you. 

Meanwhile, you huffed, typing in the group chat with you, MC, and Tara. You tossed yourself on the bed, lying on your stomach as you texted your sister and your friend. Zayne’s t-shirt rose over your shorts as you kicked your legs in the air. 

“It didn’t seem to work, guys (╥_╥)” - You

“Told you it would take more than that to break the icy doctor (×﹏×)” - MC

“Don’t speak too soon~! Maybe he’s just finishing his work before he tends to you (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧” - Tara

“You could double down and send him a picture of you in lingerie or in his clothes. It worked for me and Caleb” - MC

“That’s cuz Caleb is already a freak (ಠ_ಠ)” - You

“(¬‿¬ )” - MC

“Usually, I just throw in that I have plans with another man, and then Xavier is all over me.” - Tara

“That’s cuz Xavier is possessive af bro Σ(°ロ°)” - You

“That’s cuz Xavier is a freakier freak… (┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴)” - MC

You laughed at the conversation and continued typing away, completely unaware of someone creeping up behind you. It wasn’t until you sent another text, teasing Tara about the “bruise” on her neck last week, that you felt a pair of cold hands grab your thighs. 

You shrieked and dropped your phone before whirling around to see Zayne hovering over you, a dark look on his face. 

Your heart was slamming in your chest from the initial scare, and now it was beating harder from his eyes boring into you. The sweet emerald-gold of his hazel eyes was nearly gone, swallowed by the void of his pupils. 

“Had your fun yet?” he asked, his voice deceptively sweet, cooing in a faux innocent question. 

You tried to answer, but you shivered when his hands slowly slid up your thighs, going under the shirt you’d stolen from him. He massaged your hips and climbed on the bed, the mattress dipping under his knee. 

“You want to moan so badly? I’ll give you something real to moan about,” Zayne heaved breathlessly. 

You could only squeak in shock when he roughly dragged you to the edge of the bed. 

He kissed you roughly, drawing a soft moan from you. Zayne parted your lips and shoved his tongue inside, his giant hands grabbing at your body and tugging on your clothes. 

You crumpled under him, grabbing at his shirt. You kissed him back hungrily, ignoring your phone going off with texts from MC and Tara. You had more pressing matters to attend to. 

Like Zayne’s bulge pressing into your clothed cunt. 

You whined whenever the rough part of his slacks rubbed harshly against your increasingly soaking and aching pussy. 

“Zayne, please…” You whispered against his lips when he pulled back enough. 

“No. I’m going to have my fun first. You’re going to take it. And then, maybe, I’ll give you my cock,” Zayne’s gaze held your firm to the bed. “Understood?”

You swallowed thickly before nodding. 

“Good girl.”  

He yanked your shorts and underwear down in one go. Zayne spit on his fingers and brought them to your clit. He rolled the sensitive bud under his dripping fingers and smiled brightly at your squirming under his touch. “You’re so sensitive, aren’t you, sweetheart?” 

You could only gasp and cling to his arms as he circled his fingers faster. Your mouth fell open in a silent cry of pleasure, your breaths escaping in short bursts. Your nails dug into his shirt. 

Zayne began to flick the sensitive bud, and your thighs constricted his waist. You hastily grabbed the sheets with one hand and covered your mouth with the other. 

“No, no, no,” he tutted sharply. “Let me hear you, baby. Let me hear how good you feel.” 

He used his free hand to free your mouth. Zayne laced their fingers together and circled his fingers faster. 

Your stomach was fluttering with that demented heat of your impending orgasm. It clawed under your skin, stealing your breath away. 

“Z-Zayne, ‘M-!” You whimpered. Zayne pulled his hand away, and he gently made shushing sounds when you whined loudly, pressing his lips to yours. 

“You were always so sensitive… You always came so quickly… But not tonight, darling. Tonight, you play by my rules.”

Zayne knelt on the floor. “Just relax. I’ll take care of you as I see fit.” 

That shouldn’t turn you on as much as it should have. But you obediently lay there on the bed, your legs spread wide open for him as he undressed to his comfort level, loosening his tie and undoing a few buttons of his shirt. Your pussy was aching so badly and clenched under his intense gaze. 

“Now…” he grabbed the underside of your thighs, spreading your pussy open so reverently under his thumbs. His eyes were so dark, and his cheeks flushed a deep rosy shade. Zayne stuck his tongue out and licked a long stripe along your folds. His grip tightened when you squirmed. He only moved his tongue to your clit, flicking it a few times before he focused on your dripping pussy. 

You broke into a moan, breathlessly crying out his name. You pinched a needy whine in your throat, but earned a sharp slap to your thigh. 

“Louder,” he ordered, his cheek squished against your thigh as he lapped his tongue faster on your dripping cunt. He panted heavily, the short puffs of air making your cunt clench around nothing. “You wanted to moan like a needy little thing in my ear. Now you get to, sweetheart.” 

You squirmed even more against the bed, his shirt rising up higher on your body the more you moved. Your nails sank into the sheets, and your head fell back, his name ripping from your throat when his tongue wiggled its way back inside you. His name echoed around the bedroom walls. 

“Good girl,” Zayne cooed, his glasses bumping askew on his nose against your leg. He looked up at you with eyes so dark with lust, and a deep blush dusted across his cheeks. 

“You’re so beautiful,” He smiled sweetly at your before flicking his tongue against your swollen clit, watching with glee when you whimpered loudly, your knees buckling around his shoulders. 

Zayne went back to wiggling his tongue around on your aching clit. Her eyes rolled to the back of your head when he got his lips around it and sucked. You mewled as more of your juices were gushing down your legs. It was staining his face, and he was smearing it all over your face again. 

You choked air into your lungs and looked down, your stomach tensing tightly with the next impending orgasm. Zayne was still diligently on his knees and hungrily slurping up all of your juices and burying his tongue so deep inside you. His teeth bumped and ground against your puffy folds, grating your nerves raw with mind-melting pleasure. 

His glasses were fogged up from his hot breath and your juices covering the gold-rim lenses. 

Your stomach fluttered wildly, making your legs even weaker than they were now. You warned him of your orgasm by grabbing his hair and pulling the soft, raven locks tight between your fingers. 

Your hips bucked a few times before your body snapped like a bowstring pulled taut. Your rapid, high-pitched breaths came out in long whines and whimpers as you came all over his face, gushing on his pretty nose and his glasses. 

You rutted a few times on his face and obsessive mouth before you came to a halt, falling against the tree with your full weight. 

“Naughty girl…” he huffed despite licking his lips as if he had just finished savoring the finest sake in the land. Your head was spinning so fast you couldn’t catch what he slipped after that name, but you were able to catch his next part, “You dirtied my glasses.” 

Thick globs of your cum trailed down the gold-rimmed glasses. It barely hid the way his eyes bore into you. His eyes were dark, completely molten with his arousal. He pressed his face against your again, gathering up as much of your juices and cum off your body as he could with his tongue and smearing more onto his glasses. 

Zayne still held your quivering thigh in one hand and pulled his glasses off with the other. He stuck his tongue out and licked all over the lens before dragging it over the glasses' round shape slowly and tantalizingly. All the while watching your as he gathered up the thick globs of your cum on his tongue, painting it white. 

You weren’t able to apologize again when he got to his feet and kissed you hard. You tasted yourself on his tongue and mewled from your cum being smeared all over your tongue and lips. The heady taste of your arousal mixed with his lips caused you to squeeze painfully around nothing, the emptiness inside you suddenly, and agonizingly, unbearable.

“Ohh Zayne~!” you whined against his hot mouth, still fervently kissing your as if he were dying. Your hands went to his shirt and yanked it open, exposing his beautifully toned chest to the world. 

You undid his belt and drooled more at the feeling of his cock straining against his briefs. You barely got your fingers around the soaked fabric to expose his cock when he slapped your hands away. 

“Needy little slut,” he growled against your lips. “Turn around.” He slapped your still-exposed ass and you keened into his mouth. “Ass up.” 

You shuddered from his gruff voice ordering you around, your pussy clenching nothing. You quickly did as you were told, trying not to come again from how he was manhandling you. 

Zayne yanked your shirt up so hard that he shoved you deeper into the mattress. You stumbled to regain your hold. Her exposed pussy clenched from the cold air slapping against it and the way you felt his eyes boring into you. 

“Look at her,” Zayne purred. A thick and hot wet drop slapped against your cunt, causing your to flinch before you moaned when you realized he’d spat on your pussy. His rough fingers smeared his saliva more into your folds, combining his spit with your continuously dripping slick. 

  “A beautiful pussy for a beautiful lady,” Zayne kissed along your spine. One of his hands stayed on your cunt while the other snaked up your back and twisted into your hair, yanking your back when he got a good handful. 

You let out such a slutty moan that your cheeks flamed from how filthy you sounded. 

“All for me? Is this all for me, baby?” he cooed. 

You nodded instantly, pushing back against him and grinding up against his hard length. “Yes, sir! Yes! Yes, please! I want your cock!” 

Zayne moaned and hissed a breath in before slapping your ass, digging his fingers into your flesh before replying. “So needy for me… Gonna treat you right. I’m gonna make you feel so good.” 

You mewled eagerly. There was a soft shuffling of his underwear being pushed down and not much other preamble before he pushed his cock inside you. 

Your mouth dropped open and a long wanton moan was dragged out of your as each inch of his hard, throbbing cock was buried inside you. Your knees went weak instantly. 

No matter how much you had him inside you, you will never get used to his thick girth stretching your so taut around him. Every bump and grind of his veins running along his cock worked your walls open, stretching your so snugly around him. 

He was barely halfway in when you were already pushing yourself back against him. 

“Be patient,” Zayne grunted and slapped your ass again. But you knew he was equally as desperate from the strained timbre of his voice. He grabbed your shirt, twisting the fabric tight around his fist several times, pushing you into the sheets. “Stay fucking still.” 

“I’m sorry, sir!” You whined and looked behind you. “Just need you so bad!” You pouted a bit when he stopped, motivating your to push your hips back some more, pushing his cock deeper inside you. His drooling and obscene tip was so, so close to kissing your sweet spot that it was making your head spin even faster. 

“Come on, Doc,” you looked up at him from under your lashes. His jaw flexed as he glared at her, his hands tightening to the point of bruising the shape of his fingers on your skin. “Come on, I want you to fuck me alre—!!”

Zayne cut your off by ramming the rest of his cock into you. Her breath slammed out of your lungs. His name began to echo around the bedroom from your lips with each bullying hit. 

His cock pummeled your sweet spot, knocking your harder and harder into the bed. Your nails tore up the sheets, trying to grab for a stable hold. He wasn’t letting you catch your breath in the slightest. 

Every sound punched out of your body from his brutal thrusts and his own grunts and panting was pure music to your ears, filling you with a darker and hungrier need for the doctor. 

The rotund tip of his cock was grinding against your sweet spot. If you tensed your stomach enough, you could feel every drag and shove of his cock in you. 

Shit, he was going so deep you could feel him in your lungs. 

He let go of your shirt and found his way to your hair and yanked your back, sending thrilling bolts of pleasure down your spine.

“Feel me in your lungs, huh?” Zayne laughed hotly against your ear. You choked up a confused whine when you realized he heard her. “Feel me that deep?” 

He brought his hand to your front, pushing down on your stomach, making your feel his cock pummeling your insides even better.

You sobbed in ecstasy and squeezed the doctor’s cock tighter. 

Your thighs were quivering with each calculated hit against your increasingly overwhelmed bundle of nerves, shaking uncontrollably no matter how hard you dug your knees into the soft earth beneath her. 

The doctor was ruthless and unforgiving in his thrusts. His rough hands pressed hard on your body, molding you to a shape befitting his touch.

Tears streamed down your face, and you turned back to Zayne, his hand still wound in your hair. 

“Z-Zay…” 

Zayne turned his head and caught your lips in a heated kiss. You kissed him back, still whining and panting against his tongue as he licked into your mouth. 

“I’m so close! ‘M so—!” You shuddered. 

“Come for me,” Zayne pleaded, his hazel eyes locking with hers. “Come for me, my beautiful girl.” 

Your breath hitched in a sob and you cried out against his jaw as you came, your cunt convulsing around his throbbing cock. Her walls squeezing him did little to slow him down. Zayne milked you of your orgasm, securing your hips in his hands to chase his own orgasm. 

Zayne gave a few more deep thrusts before he spilled his hot seed inside you. He groaned loudly and lay over you, grinding his hips slowly to make sure his entire load was trapped inside you. 

You were breathing raggedly. You curled under him, humming softly whenever he pressed kisses to your face and exposed body. 

“Are you okay?” he whispered, his voice ragged. 

You nodded and turned around as best as you could, being pinned under him. You kissed his cheek. “Yeah,” you kissed him again, smiling when his lips were drawn back to yours again. 

“Had your fun?” 

You giggled and nodded, “Yeah.” You looked at him carefully, “It’s been a while. I missed you.” 

He hummed softly, his hands smoothing up and down your sides. “I missed you, too. Been too long.” 

You caressed his face for a few more moments, taking in the beautiful curve of his cheekbones and the slope of his nose. You kissed him, turning around slowly, carefully disloding his flagging cock from your cunt. You lay on the bed so your chests were pressed together and wrapped your arms around him, kissing him more reverently. 

Zayne’s hands traveled up and down your sides as he drank up your affection. You pressed their foreheads together, lying tangled in each other’s arms. 

[runningracingdancingchasing]

She'd imagined sitting him down on the couch, maybe with some alcohol to make it all easier, imagined the lighting and how it would play on his features. But now they were in the kitchen, and the lighting was completely different, harsh and bright in comparison to her imagination. Well, that was on her. She was the one who'd started the conversation now instead of later.

Clearing her throat again, she found it hard to find her words, and even harder to look at him.

"I've been rehearsing this all day," she confessed with a little smile that didn't reach haunted eyes, toying with her own fingers while wishing she had Abraçinhos to hug. But he was in the living room, on the couch, where she'd meant to have this conversation. "But I can't seem to remember how it was going to go. Sorry if I'm about to ramble..."

Taking a deep breath, she thought through all of the myriad of rehearsals she'd gone through, then picked a place and started. Managing to look at him for a moment, she iterated, "Just know that I'm telling you this because you're my best friend and I trust you." That was very important. It was easy for Rapunzel to love. She loved her friends almost right away. But trusting people wasn't so simple. That probably had something to do with what she was about to tell him...

Okay, here we go. Just breathe and... start. "Okay, so the thing is... I can't remember anything about my past up until a few years ago," she explained softly, "and that's by design. Something... happened when I was little. I'm not sure exactly what, but I know it was traumatic. My therapist thought -- and I agree -- that if I want to function as an adult, I had to lock it all away. It was really the only way to move forward. But that's why there are things that basically everyone knows that I don't know anything about. Which is so frustrating and embarrassing, because I'm usually so smart!"

Even talking about it now, she could feel that locked closet of memories getting banged on from the inside, and her shame from not knowing how schools worked. Her focus started turning inward, a slippery slope to a bad night, even if he decided she was worth hanging onto. Without thinking, she got a glass of cold water and sat down at the table again, pressing the cool glass against her face and neck to keep herself in the here and now and with him.

"There are things I don't remember so much as feel. Echoes of a voice I can't identify or- or thinking someone's going to react negatively to something when no one with half a heart would. Sometimes... it's like a part of my brain is trying to remember the stuff I've deliberately forgotten, and the rest of my brain is trying to keep me from remembering. When that happens I just kind of... go away. Like, I'm there, physically, but my mind..." She paused to sip some water and ran her fingers idly over the place mat in front of her, taking in the texture as the cool drink soothed her throat, keeping her grounded. She surprised herself by the fact that she didn't feel like she was going to cry. Not yet. If he decided this was it, yeah, she'd spend the rest of the night crying. But not yet.

The more she thought about it, the more guilty she felt for being this way and subjecting him to her. Had she trapped him by asking him out before she told him this? But she was telling him now, and giving him an out, right? That was good of her, wasn't it? She liked him so much that she's was putting her biggest flaw right out there in the open and shining a light on it. If he couldn't handle it, well... she could just leave Rio after all.

God, she didn't want to leave Rio. Didn't want to leave him.

A sad, scared sigh escaped her. "I'm broken, Rai. I'm broken, and I don't know if I can ever be fixed all the way. I know I should have told you this before I asked you out, because you deserve to have an informed choice, to know what you're getting into, and I totally get it if... if it's too much. If it's a deal-breaker. I can be a lot as it is, and this is just... it's a lot more. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

And she really hoped he'd stay, despite it. And she was terrified he wouldn't. Her head and stomach swam unpleasantly, pizza and wine suddenly not seeming like such a good idea.

He'd busied himself washing out their wine glasses. Washing dishes was his least favourite of all chores - which he despised in general - but she'd gone through the effort to make dinner, and the least he could do was to help clean up.

He felt his shoulders tense a little as she spoke. Serious and important... Her tone and the entire vibe changed, and he tilted his head at her, a little furrow between his brows.

"Sure, girl." He set the glasses down and dried off his hands, leaning his hips back against the kitchen counter and folding his arms loosely. "What's, uh... what's up?" He deliberately kept his mind as blank as possible, refusing to jump to scary conclusions.

[dissociativewriter]

OH MY! congrats on the 400 followers!!! and for the event can't you write some angst with sylus x nonmc, please??? don't know if you have listened to WILDFLOWER by Billie eilish, but i really wanna see what would be born out of that??? not pressure tho! (also sorry for my english but im not a native speaker haha)

thank you!! this was an amazing request! it took me a while to write it, but i really like this. i hope you do too!

request event

The base hadn’t been quiet in months.

It was nice, you thought. A welcome change. In all your years at Onychinus there was always a tense silence. Always something that seemed to say this was an operation, not a home.

That all changed when Miss Hunter arrived, though.

Everything seemed warmer, splashes of color dotted around and a constant hum of chatter echoed through the space.

You’d never seen Sylus like this. Even when he was laughing and messing around with Luke and Kieran, he hadn’t allowed himself to be this happy. It seemed like there was something holding him back, something expectant.

Now the air was lighter, his shoulders lost their tension, his laughs came more freely. Things seemed to be looking up.

That made the newfound silence all the more jarring.

Miss Hunter had left just as quickly as she’d came. It wasn’t a huge ordeal. She hadn’t made a big deal out of it. There was just an conversation, spoken in quiet tones behind closed doors. Next thing you knew, she was gone in a mess of tears and broken promises.

You’d let Sylus alone for a time after that. Taken up the responsibilities of Onychinus in his stead, the role practically second nature ever since he’d promoted you to second-in-command a few years ago.

It was quiet again. You didn’t see much of the Boss, and you never expected to see Miss Hunter again.

But she’d shown up at your doorstep one night within the first week of their separation. Tear tracks on her cheeks and a heart-wrenching sob asking for someone to talk to.

You’d obliged, of course. How could you turn her away when she was like this? Pulling her into you, rubbing her back as she sobbed into your shoulder. She blubbered that she didn’t have anyone to talk to, that none of her friends really knew Sylus enough to cry about him to.

She explained that even if they weren’t together, she didn’t want to expose him and his identity like that.

You nodded, holding her close as she seemed to cry herself dry. She did most of the talking that night. Talking about how it had been a mutual decision, how they both felt like they just weren’t right for each other.

Miss Hunter had said she never expected falling out of love to hurt so bad.

The next morning, Sylus emerged from his room for the first time in four days. Silvery hair messy, eyes bloodshot, usually steady hands now trembling at his sides.

You sat with him. Wordlessly offered him a cup of coffee. He took it with a nod of thanks, holding it close instead of drinking it, like he was willing its burning warmth to thaw the cold that had taken over.

It became a routine. You’d sit with him, allow the quiet that had been uncomfortable, that had had something missing, to settle until it became something resembling understanding.

Sylus tried to distract himself with the work of Onychinus. You limited his access and told him he needed to sit with his grief and understand it before it consumed him entirely, not avoid it with gunfights and business deals.

Sylus never was able to fight you when you got like this.

He let you take care of him in a way no one had in a long time. It was gentle, quiet. A cup of tea here, a gentle reminder there. Never asking too many questions, never pushing for something more. He didn’t mention how much he appreciated it. He knew he didn’t have to.

You should have seen it coming, you thought. He was vulnerable. You were there. You should have expected it when the touches began to linger, when he began reaching for you.

You always thought of her when he did that.

Maybe you brushed it off because you thought you’d never compare to her. After all, what was the worry, when she was so bright and outgoing when you just seemed to fade into the background.

“No one knows me as well as you do,” Sylus muttered one night, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve always been there for me. I think— no, I know…”

Your breathing felt like it stopped. All you could think of, all you could see in the back of your mind was Miss Hunter. Should you feel this guilty? This hurt?

Were you just a replacement, something to fill the void, that fresh wound that kept bleeding?

“I love you,” Sylus whispered, low and reverent.

You didn’t move your hand from his. You didn’t say how all you could think about was how Miss Hunter must have felt.

Sylus didn’t mean to hurt you. You knew that.

Maybe being quiet was for the best.

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[vitalverstappen]

Almost Ready - O. Piastri

summary: everyone sees it but them. one final summer left to admit the truth

pairing: camp counselor au Oscar Piastri x reader

warnings: swearing, use of y/n

word count: 8.6k

a/n: this fic was heavily inspired by @piastriprincess 's fic under pink light in june and you all should definitely go check it out! i've honestly started writing a few more camp related fics so look out for them!

You were eight years old when you first met Oscar. 

The first thing you noticed about him was that he didn’t talk much. Not in the shy way some kids did, looking down at their shoes and whispering hellos. No, this was different. He looked like someone who had decided, deliberately, that silence was better than saying something dumb. Like words were coins and he only wanted to spend them if it was absolutely necessary. 

The second thing you noticed was that he had the best snack. 

You were sitting on a patchy, sun-warmed picnic blanket near the lake with your cabin group, poking at a sad sandwich someone’s mom had labeled in Sharpie. It was leaking something suspicious onto the paper towel underneath, and honestly, you were already regretting not just asking for a second granola bar instead.

Camp was still new. The sky was bright and buzzing with dragonflies, and everything smelled like a weird mix of bug spray, pine needles, and that sunscreen that made your arms feel sticky no matter how long it had been since it dried. Somewhere behind you, a counselor was trying to convince a kid that late water “technically counted” as a bath. 

Your socks were already damp from stepping on the wrong part of the dock. Your knees itched from the grass. You felt out of place and overly noticeable and kind of homesick in a way you didn’t want to say out loud. 

And then you saw him.

Across the grass, maybe a few blankets over, a boy with sandy-blond hair and knees covered in bandaids sat alone, munching on what looked like… chocolate covered pretzels.

Your mouth kind of watered. 

You didn’t know his name yet. You didn’t know what cabin he was in, or if he was the kind of kid who got into trouble or got ignored. But he had that serious, quiet-kid look. The kind of kid that noticed things. His baseball hat was too big for his head and slipped low over his eyebrows. His socks were pulled up to his calves in a way that would’ve gotten him laughed at anywhere else, but there, it just made him look prepared. Like he got camp in a way you didn’t yet. 

So you scooted closer. 

Just a little. Not directly toward him - more like a slow diagonal shuffle, careful and half-hearted, like if you got caught, you could pretend you weren’t doing it on purpose.

But he noticed. Of course he did. 

His eyes flicked toward you - quick and sharp, the same way a bird looks up from a feeder when it senses movement. He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched.

Then, finally, in a voice not much louder than a whisper:

“What,” he asked, without looking away, “are you doing?”

You froze mid-scoot.

“...Sitting.”

“Okay,” he said, and popped another pretzel in his mouth like that was the end of the conversation. 

You watched him crunch. He chewed like someone with opinions.

After a second: “That looks really good.”

“It is.”

You waited. He didn’t offer you one. 

“Are you gonna share?” 

Oscar looked at you like that was a very big ask. Like you’d just requested access to his medical records or the secret formula to chocolate milk.

Then, with the world’s tiniest sigh, he plucked a single chocolate pretzel from the bag - slowly, precisely - and held it out toward you like it was an ancient treasure he wasn’t sure you’d earned.

“You can have this one,” he said, “but not if you’re gross about it.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Like… if your hands are sticky. Or if you eat weird.”

You inspected your palms. “They’re clean. I think.”

He handed it over like he was passing along a relic.

You popped it in your mouth and immediately lit up. The chocolate was a little melty from teh sun, and the pretzel was perfectly salty and sweet and crunchy. “That’s so good.”

“I know. That’s why I said don’t be gross.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “You’re kind of bossy.”

He shrugged like he got that a lot and didn’t care.

You sat beside him in silence for a while, both of you watching a pair of counselors try to stop a goose from stealing someone’s apple slices. The goose was winning. 

The sun warmed your back, and the sugar settled on your tongue like something safe. He didn’t talk. You didn’t either. But the quiet didn’t feel weird anymore.

Then, very softly, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say it out loud:

“I’m Oscar.”

You glanced sideways. “I’m Y/N.”

There was a pause. You could hear kids laughing by the docks. Someone was singing off-key in the mess hall.

“... Wanna split the rest of the bag?” 

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded and scooted a little closer, careful not to touch his arm. But he didn’t move away when you did. 

And in the weird,unspoken, quietly magical way that kids sometimes become friends, that was it. 

From then on, when the counselors asked where you were, the answer was usually the same:

“With Oscar.”

And that’s how it would be for the rest of that summer. 

And the next one. 

And the one after that. 

Each June, you’d find him on the first day - same too big hat, same socks pulled up too high, same quiet smile he only ever gave you. It was like pressing play on something that had just been paused, like time didn’t really move during the months you spent apart. You’d pick up right where you left off: racing canoes, swapping dessert at lunch, inventing stories about the birds that nested in the rafters of the arts & crafts shed. 

He never said much. But you always knew where to find him. 

But in between the summers, during the long, boring school years, you lost touch. 

You’d think about him sometimes. Usually when something small reminded you - chocolate-covered pretzels in a vending machine, someone with a funny accent in a classroom, the way a friend sat in the grass like he used to. Those memories would pop up, sudden and specific, like sunlight through the clouds on a gray day. 

You’d wonder what his life looked like the other ten months of the year. What city he lived in. What subjects he liked. If he thought of you too. 

But mostly, you waited. 

And when summer came around again, you’d arrive at camp with that quiet, nervous feeling tucked in your chest - is he coming back? 

And every year, the answer was yes. 

======

At sixteen, the cabin looked a lot smaller. 

Not in a disappointing way - just in the way everything from childhood eventually does. As if your eyes had grown up faster than the space around you. You stood just outside the doorway, a clipboard tucked under your arm and a box of name tags dangling from your wrist, staring at the same crooked window you used to press your face up against when it rained. The glass was still cloudy in the corners. You remembered tracing little hearts in the fog of it with your fingertip.

The bunk beds looked the same - scuffed and creaky and slightly too close together. The bottom bunk on the far left still had a carved smiley face near the headboard, and someone wrapped friendship bracelets around one of the support poles, faded and fraying from summers long gone. The wooden beams still had those pencil markings from campers long gone: height measurements, initials, hearts carved around other initials. You spotted your own name faintly scratched near the window frame. 

And even though your shirt said Junior Counselor, it didn’t quite feel real yet. You felt like a kid playing dress-up in someone else’s summer. 

Then you heard him. That unmistakable soft shuffle of sneakers on gravel, the quiet sound of someone who didn’t stomp or run, who simply arrived. 

You turned, and there he was. 

Taller now, his frame stretched out like it had only just started figuring itself out. His shoulders broader. Hair longer, a little messier, sun touched at the tips.His navy camp baseball cap now fit perfectly, this time flipped backwards. His name badge was clipped neatly to his collar: Oscar P. 

Still the same no-nonsense stance, still the same calm in his eyes. Like the whole world could be buzzing and Oscar would just watch.

And when he saw you, his whole face shifted - just slightly. A soft half-smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. The same one he used to give you back when you were eight and dripping wet from falling in the lake, cold and embarrassed, and he’d handed you his towel without saying anything.

“I was hoping they’d put us on the same rotation,” he said. His voice had dropped since last summer. Not deep exactly, but lower, steadier. Still distinctly him. 

You grinned before you could stop yourself. “They said I’d have a co-counselor who ‘didn’t talk much but knew how to fold blankets.’ I figured it was you.”

He rolled his eyes. “I said that once.”

“Yeah. And then folded mine for the rest of the summer.”

He didn’t deny it. Just stepped forward and leaned casually against the porch railing beside you. The wood creaked under his weight, the way it always did. The breeze rustled through the trees, bringing with it the familiar smell of pine needles, sunscreen, and something vaguely burnt from the mess hall kitchen.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. 

It was like being ten again, sitting shoulder to shoulder on a sun-warmed rock near the dock, passing pretzels back and forth and pretending you weren’t thinking about the end of summer. Pretending nothing would ever change. 

“I didn’t know if you’d come back,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could think too hard.

Oscar didn’t answer right away. His head tilted slightly. “Did you want me to?” 

You didn’t look at him, just shrugged, suddenly fascinated with the dirt curled in the grooves of the wooden floorboards. 

He stepped a little closer. 

Not close close. But close enough that his arms almost brushed yours. Enough that you could smell him - clean cotton and sun-warmed skin, with something faintly citrusy beneath it. Laundry detergent, maybe. Or shampoo. It made your head feel fizzy in the way feelings sometimes did before you had the words to name them. 

“I kept checking the cabin list,” he admitted quietly. “Thought maybe you’d decided not to come.”

“I always come back,” you said

“So do I.”

The words hung in the space between you - quiet, but not empty. It didn’t need to be said out loud. You both knew what it meant.  

Silence again. But not awkward, simply full. 

Then, he reached into his bag and pulled something out.

You blinked. “Is that-”

“Chocolate-covered pretzels,” he said, “First day tradition.”

You let out a laugh without meaning to. It came out too loud, and it echoed off the walls like a secret being let loose. 

“I can’t believe you remembered.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t bring any,” he teased and handed you the bag. 

The rest of the summer passed the way it always did - fast in the moment, slow in the memory. Sunburned days and firefly nights. You and Oscar fell back into your old rhythm so easily it scared you a little. It was like muscle memory, like a song you hadn’t heard in a year but still somehow knew all the words to. 

You still split snacks. Still walked side by side to the mess hall. Still found each other during free swim like gravity had its own opinion on where you belonged. 

But it was different now, too. 

You laughed longer when he said something dry and unexpected. He looked at you a beat too long when you weren’t watching. You noticed the shape of his hands - how they’d grown, how steady they looked. He stopped correcting you when you folded the life jackets wrong, even though he clearly noticed. 

Sometimes your shoulders touched when you walked, and neither of you moved away. 

There were moments- soft ones, barely there ones - when it felt like something might happen. A shared glance in the fading dusk, a lingering pause when he handed you your water bottle, the near-miss of a hug that didn’t quite happen at the end of a long day. All those almosts that buzzed under your skin long after you went to bed.

But nothing ever came of it. 

Not because you didn’t want to. 

Just… not yet. 

You hugged goodbye the way people do when they think they’ll see each other soon. It was quick, almost casual, your arms over his shoulders, his hands at your waist. Too short and too long at the same time. 

You didn’t make promises. 

He didn’t ask for your number. 

You didn’t ask for his. 

But you came back next summer.

And so did he. 

======

Over the years, your friendship became something quieter, deeper. 

Less about snacks and shared sunscreen and more about who you were turning into when no one was watching.

You stopped spending every second side by side, but somehow became even more important to each other. It wasn’t about lake games or flashlight tag anymore. It was midnight walks when you couldn’t sleep. Conversations on the mess hall roof during counselor curfew. The way his voice lowered when he asked “Are you okay?” and actually meant it.

You talked about the futures you were trying to figure out - half made plans and backup dreams. College majors. Cities that scared you. Jobs that didn’t exist yet but sounded good in theory. He told you how he didn’t like talking about feelings, but with you, it was easier. You told him how you worried about disappointing people. He told you he worried about never doing enough. 

You talked about your families. Your parents. What home felt like. What it didn’t.

The people you thought you were falling for - and the ones you knew you weren’t. About kisses that didn’t feel like anything, and moments that almost did.

You both dated other people. Sometimes briefly, sometimes not.

Camp flings. School-year maybes. People who made you laugh, people who looked good in photos. 

But not him. 

You didn’t talk about it much, not in detail. Neither of you ever asked for names, never wanted them. But sometimes he’d go quiet when you mentioned someone. His jaw would shift, eyes focused on something just past your shoulder. And sometimes, when the cabin was too quiet and the air was too warm, you’d lie awake wondering if he was thinking about someone else. If another girl had sat beside him in a different kind of silence. If she knew about the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek when he was nervous. If she ever made him laugh that quiet, breathless laugh he only let out when he really meant it.

Still, every summer, you found each other. 

In the clearing behind the mess hall. In the pause before dinner. On the corner of the dock where the sun hit just right and no one else ever sat. You’d pick up like nothing had changed, even if everything had. You knew his favorite hoodie. He knew when you needed space. You could read his moods from across the firepit, and he could find your laugh in a crowd of twenty voices.

And every summer, you left without saying the one thing that had begun to burn quietly in both of you: It’s always been you. 

The words waited at the back of your throat like a secret. Like a truth too delicate to say out loud. Like something sacred you weren’t ready to ruin. 

So you’d hug goodbye, tight but brief. You’d tell yourselves there would be time. 

Next year. Next summer. When you were older. When you felt safer. When maybe, just maybe, he’d say it first. 

But he never did. 

And neither did you. 

======

You didn’t mean for it to be your last. But you knew it was. 

At twenty three, real life had gotten louder - jobs with titles you didn’t quite understand yet, cities with rent you couldn’t quite afford, commutes and deadlines and alarm clocks that didn’t smell like pine or damp earth. The world outside of camp had started calling you by your full name. Expecting things from you. Urging you to move forward.

You’d aged out of counselor cabins and color wars and group chants screamed across the lake. Your bunk had been replaced by a full-sized mattress in a sublet apartment with too thin walls. You drank coffee now. You packed Advil in your bag. The idea of chasing fifteen eight-year-olds through the woods made your back hurt a little just thinking about it. 

You were only back this year because the camp director had begged. One more summer she’d said over the phone. Help train the new kids. Make it special. 

You said yes. You weren’t even sure why.

Until you got there. 

Until you heard a voice behind you say, soft and familiar: 

“Same shoes.”

You stopped mid-step, duffel swinging lightly against your hip. The sky above the staff cabins was clear, hot, a shade of blue that only existed in June. You turned.

And there he was.

Oscar.

He looked different, but only slightly. Like someone who’d just finished becoming whoever he was always meant to be. His features were more defined now, jaw a little sharper, stubble ghosting his chin just slightly. His camp t-shirt clung to a frame that had filled out over the years - subtly, quietly, like everything else about him. His hat was still backwards. His hands were still in his pockets. 

He was older. Sharper. And still, unmistakably him. 

That same quiet certainty behind his eyes. The same stillness in the way he stood. That same crooked half-smile pulling at his mouth, only for you. 

And just like that, your lungs gave in. You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for months. 

He didn’t move. Neither did you. 

“Hi,” you managed, voice already softer than it had been all morning.

“Hi,” he said back, like no time had passed. Like this was normal.

And somehow, it was. 

You stepped toward each other. He held out his hand - not for a handshake, but to take your bag. You let him, even though you didn’t need the help. He slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Like you did when you were sixteen and he carried your art supplies up the cabin steps without asking.

“I didn’t know if you’d be back,” he said, watching you from the side. 

“I didn’t know if you would,”  you said. “Figured maybe you finally aged out of camp traditions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean like bringing pretzels on the first day?”

You laughed - quiet and surprised and involuntary. It spilled out of you like something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time. The sound of it made his smile deepen. 

You looked at him. Really looked. 

Maybe this was the summer you were going to say it. 

======

The mess hall was already too hot by 9 a.m.

A box fan rattled in the corner, groaning against its own effort, blowing warm air over a pile of unclaimed name tags. The smell of instant coffee and last night’s spaghetti lingered in the wood-paneled walls. Outside, the sky was an uninterrupted blue, the kind that promised bug bites and sunburns. 

Inside, ten brand-new junior counselors sat on mismatched benches, all elbows and nerves, sipping lukewarm iced coffee out of paper cups and pretending not to be intimidated. Most were fresh out of high school or in that dazed post-first-year-of-university fog. A few had already started sweating through their t-shirts.

You stood at the front of the room, clipboard in one hand, camp whistle looped around your wrist like a bracelet. Your name tag - handwritten, glitter-stickered, slightly peeling - clung to your shirt with the stubborn pride of someone who had absolutely seen things.

Oscar stood beside you. 

He hadn’t said much yet - he never did, not unless it mattered - but he was flipping through a laminated emergency protocol packet like it personally offended him. His name tag read:

Oscar - Senior Staff. 

All block caps. Clean, precise. No stickers. 

The difference between the two of you was… obvious to say the least. But no one could ever argue you didn’t work well together. 

“Okay,” you said brightly, clapping your hands together once. The sound echoed across the exposed raptors. “Let’s talk about cabin dynamics.”

A few groans rumbled through the group, low and reluctant. One girl tilted her head back and dramatically whispered, “Help me.” 

Oscar didn’t even look up from the protocol guide. “If you complain now,” he said, flat and dry, “you won’t survive the third graders’ tie-dye day.”

A couple of them laughed - nervous, uncertain, the kind of laugh that asked was that a joke? You glanced sideways at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Starting with a threat?” you murmured under your breath.

“Setting expectations,” he replied, not bothering to whisper. 

You bit back a smile.

You turned toward the whiteboard and uncapped a marker. “You’re going to live with these kids for ten weeks. They will cry. They will spill applesauce on your bed. One of them will probably try to smuggle a frog into the mess hall. The good news is: you get used to it.”

“The bad news is,” Oscar added, flipping a page with a snap, “you still have to clean up the applesauce.”

More laughter now. Slightly easier. You caught a few of them exchanging relieved looks.

You turned toward the whiteboard and started scribbling down a few bullet points: Routine. Respect. Rain plans. Each in big, bold letters.

Behind you, Oscar began handing out the cabin charts - color-coded, organized, and predictably immaculate His handwriting was still all-caps, neat to the point of intimidation. You wondered - not for the first time - if he’d ever been the kind of kid who used a ruler to underline things in notebooks.  

“Uh, question?” a voice piped up near the back. 

You turned. 

A new counselor - Jaden, you thought, skinny and sunburnt already - raised a hand tentatively.

“What if the campers don’t like us?” he asked, genuine concern in his eyes. “Like, what if they think we’re… lame?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “They will.”

You turned to stare at him. “Oscar.”

He shrugged, facing the kid. “At first. They always think you’re lame. Then one of them cries during lights-out, you sing them off-key lullabies, and suddenly you’re their hero.”

You shot him a side-glance. “You sing lullabies?”

He didn’t look away from the chart. “Once. By accident.”

You snorted and turned back to the group. “What Oscar’s trying to say is: they come around. Just be patient. Be present. And don’t lie to them - kids can smell fake nice like it’s blood in the water.”

They laughed again - louder this time. You could see them loosening up, tension slipping off their shoulders as the room warmed in the right way. 

A girl with pink sunglasses pushed up on her head - Ava, - raised her hand next. “How do you guys, like… know all of this? You seem really calm.”

Oscar leaned back against the table beside you, arms crossed, letting the question hand for a second.

You answered first. “We’ve been here since we were kids. Climbed the ranks. Went from campers, to junior counselors terrified of canoe duty, to now senior campers.”

Oscar added, “And we’ve made every mistake you’re about to make. Twice.”

That got a solid laugh, and someone clapped, ironically. The energy shifted. Less formal now, more like a team starting to take shape

You turned toward Oscar and caught it - just for a second - his eyes already on you, like he was waiting to see if you’d say more. You didn’t. Not yet. 

But your smile softened. And his did too.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “You’re being nice.”

“I’m being honest.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

He shook his head, but didn’t deny it. 

You turned back to the group and clapped again. “Alright. Time for a trust walk. Pair up, someone gets blindfolded, and no, we’re not liable if you fall in a ditch.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Is there a ditch?”

“There might be,” you said cheerfully, tossing him a bandana.

He caught it one handed. “Rock paper scissors to see who leads?”

You grinned. “You’re not blindfolding me, Piastri.”

“Then I guess I’m trusting you to not walk me into a tree.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You walked out together, side by side, just like you used to.

And the new counselors followed. Not because you told them to. But because together, without ever trying, everyone thought you were the people who knew that you were doing.

Even if you were still just figuring it out. Even if neither of you had said what you really wanted to. 

The lake shimmered under the afternoon sun, soft waves lapping at the wooden dock like it was exhaling. Dragonflies flitted lazily across the surface, occasionally dipping low enough to skin the water, then zipping up again. Somewhere behind you, cicadas buzzed in the trees, a low electric hum that filled the stillness.

You sat in the tall white lifeguard chair, sunglasses perched on your head, whistle resting between your lips, and a bottle of blue Gatorade sweating by your ankle. Your feet were bare, propped on the lowest rung, toes already dusty with sand. 

It was midweek, and the swim zone was empty - for now. Just you, the heat, and the occasional creak of the dock shifting under the sun. 

Your clipboard was balanced on one of the arms of the chair, weighted down by a clothespin and a crumpled receipt being used as a bookmark. It was filled with cabin swim rosters, band color notes (a very serious system of shallow, middle, deep end), and a scribbled reminder to find someone to patch the kickboards before the next round of kids turned them into medieval weapons again. 

You exhaled slowly, closed your eyes, and tilted your head back. The sun warmed your shoulders, your collarbones, the bridge of your nose. This was the best part of the day: the quiet before the cannonballs.

Then - 

“Please walk.”

The voice was familiar. Steady. Slightly annoyed.

Your eyes opened. There he was, half chasing his cabin group down the hill toward the lake like a reluctant sheepdog. Oscar had one hand wrapped around a stray pool noodle and the other gripping the back of a camper’s shirt who was dangerously close to face planting. 

You watched them make their way towards the changing stalls, the kids shouting over each other about who could swim faster, who was gonna do a triple flip off the dock (they weren’t_, and who saw a fish the size of a shark yesterday (they didn’t).

“And here comes the chaos,” you muttered to yourself.

He heard it anyway. “This is the refined version of chaos,” he said, releasing the kid and sending him toward the changing stalls. “You should’ve seen snack time.”

You leaned an elbow on the side of your chair and smirked down at him. “Someone cried again?”

“Two of them,” he said, flipping off his sneakers and kicking them towards the bench. “One over a broken granola bar. The other because his was too perfect, and he didn’t wanna ruin it by eating it.”

You snorted. “That’s camp philosophy right there.”

Oscar shaded his eyes with one hand and looked up at you. “You’ve got sunscreen on your nose.”

You rubbed it instinctively. 

“No,” he added, and you caught the edge of a smile, “I mean you did a good job. Usually you forget it.”

You rolled your eyes but your lips tugged upward anyway. “You gonna swim or just pace dramatically on the shore?”

“I’m supervising,” he said, pulling off his shirt and tossing it over the bench. You’ve seen him a thousand times before, but your eyes couldn’t help but linger. “But if someone starts fake drowning again, I’m going in.”

You raised your eyebrows. “That one kid yesterday deserved an Oscar.”

Oscar deadpanned, “He had my name.”

“Don’t hold it against him.”

The campers began trickling into the water, a few of them shrieking at the initial cold before dunking under, splashing one with another with wide, clumsy arcs. You counted heads out of habit, tracking colored wristbands, mentally noting who needed to be watched near the ropes and who’d already made a beeline for the floating platform. 

Oscar sat on the bottom step of your lifeguard stand, forearms resting on his knees, his bare feet digging into the warm, grainy sand. He didn’t speak right away, just watched his cabin with a kind of focus that had always made him a good counselor - steady, patient, present. 

“You’re good at this,” you said softly, not even sure if you meant for him to hear it.

“I’m tired,” he replied, glancing up. “Is that the same thing?”

You shrugged. “Sometimes.”

A pause. Then:

“You’ve always been good at this,” he said. “The way you just… know what they need before they even do. It’s like magic or something.”

You looked down at him, caught off guard. The way he said it wasn’t teasing - it was earnest. Quiet. 

“It’s not magic,” you said, your voice a little hoarse. “I’ve just been here a long time.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, without looking at you: “Yeah. But you care. That’s the difference.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t.

You just watched a camper try to climb onto the floating dock, fall off twice, and then get boosted by two friends, triumphant like he’d summited Everest. 

“Thanks,” you said, finally. 

Oscar nodded. “Anytime.”

The sun glinted off the lake like shattered glass. Your knee, bent against the frame of the stand, brushed gently against his shoulder. He didn’t move. Neither did you.

The whistle stayed silent. No one was drowning. No one was crying. 

But somehow, it still felt like your heart was treading water - just waiting, waiting, waiting to touch solid ground.

It wasn’t camp unless there was a critter found somewhere. 

Sometimes it was a raccoon in the dumpster. Once it was a squirrel in the arts & crafts cabin. And one year, someone swore a possum had tried to climb into their sleeping bag. 

And like most times, it started with a scream. 

A sharp, glass-shattering one that cut across the quiet of the evening like a knife through marshmallow fluff. You were halfway through brushing your teeth at the outdoor sink when it happened - spit and mint foam still in your mouth - when the sound rippled across camp. Your toothbrush froze mid-brush.

Then came a second scream. Louder. Somehow wetter. You didn’t know how a scream could be wet, but it was.

You spat, jammed your toothbrush back in its case, and turned just in time to see the bathroom door slam open. Two campers bolted out like they were being chased by a ghost. 

“THERE’S A BAT!” one of them cried, arms flailing. “IT’S IN THE SHOWER STALL. IT’S LOOKING AT ME.”

You blinked. 

Before you could ask anything else, Oscar was suddenly at your side like he’d teleported there. Hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, and holding a half-eaten granola bar like it might help.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice calm but alert.

You pointed at the door. “Apparently, Dracula’s moved in.”

Another scream echoed inside - this one more dramatic, echoing off tile.

Oscar sighed, already rolling up the sleeves of his crewneck. “Okay. I’ll handle it.”

You grabbed his arm. “Oh no you don’t. You’re not going in there alone.”

“I’ve got a towel,”

“That’s not a shield.”

“It is if you believe in it.”

“You’re going to get rabies.”

He looked at you, deadpan. “Not if I duck.”

Despite yourself, you almost laughed. Still, when he stepped forward, you followed him. Of course you did.

The air inside was warm and damp, thick with that distinctive camp-bathroom mix of humidity, faint mildew, and watermelon shampoo. The lights flickered like they were trying to create mood lighting for a horror film. The scent of fear - kid shampoo, wet flip-flops, and adrenaline - clung to the walls. 

Near the showers, someone had knocked over an entire shelf of toiletries. Conditioner bottles were strewn like casualties across the floor. A towel was draped dramatically across the floor like someone had used it to defend themselves and failed. 

Silence loomed over, tension thick in the air. 

And then - fluttering. 

You both froze. 

It came from above. From somewhere behind a warped ceiling tile near the corner light fixture, something small and winged squeaked once, then again. 

“There it is,” you whispered, squinting upward. 

Oscar tilted his head. “It’s kind of cute.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He raised the towel like a net. “Alright. We’ll trap it. Then we let it go. No panic.”

“No panic,” you repeated, heartbeat clearly disagreeing.

Another flutter. It was getting ready. 

“Okay,” he said, positioning himself below the ceiling corner. “On three. One. Two…”

He didn’t get to three. 

What followed was nothing short of a disaster film in fast-forward: wings flapping in manic loops, the bat doing aerial acrobatics, your scream bouncing off the tile, Oscar swearing, the towel flying, you flying (backwards into a sink), and the bat careening once, twice, before shooting out through the cracked window with one final screech like it was late for a party. 

Silence.

You and Oscar stood panting, eyes wide, surrounded by fallen toiletries and questionable dignity. Your shoulder was pressed tight to his arm. His hoodie had slipped halfway off. You were both breathing like you’d just run a mile. 

“I think,” you said between gulps of air, “I just saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Oscar ran a hand through his hair. “Mine said, you’re gonna die in a camp bathroom.”

You started laughing, real laughing. Bent slightly at the waist, catching your breath, shoulders shaking. He looked over, eyes crinkling at the corners. And for a second, it was quiet again. 

“Thanks,” you said finally. “For not letting me get attacked alone.”

He shrugged, but softer this time. “Always.”

Then, from the hallway:

“DID YOU KILL IT?!”

“CAN WE NAME IT?!”

“CAN WE KEEP IT AS A MASCOT?!”

You both groaned at the same time. 

Oscar gave you a side-glance. “If you tell them it laid eggs in the shampoo bottles, they’ll never step in here again.”

You smirked “You’re a menace.”

“But a helpful one.”

You shook your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “That was worse than the squirrel-in-the-arts-cabin year.”

“Still not as bad as glitter day,” he muttered

The bat was gone. 

But for the rest of the summer, that night was ingrained in your campers heads. Legendary. Mythical. Immortalized in popsicle stick retellings and glitter-glued reenactments. 

It started innocently during arts and crafts. 

The sky outside was a heavy, pewter gray, thick with the kind of rain that hadn’t fallen yet, but was waiting, smug, somewhere above the pine trees. Camp was on rain schedule, which meant a hundred damp-footed, sugar-laced children were now crammed into the rec hall for the past hour and a half making lopsided friendship bracelets and glitter-glued name signs that would absolutely not survive the summer. 

Oscar sat at one of the long tables, hunched over a piece of cardboard and a pile of googly eyes. He wasn’t crafting so much as supervising, but someone had handed him a glue bottle and now he was very seriously assembling a bat out of pipe cleaners, complete with glitter fangs.

You were perched on the opposite edge of the table across from him, one knee tucked under you, snipping pieces of yarn for a friendship bracelet for a camper. 

A lull settled across the room, punctuated only by the sound of scissors and low-level supply disputes. 

Then, from the far side of the table, came a voice.

“Miss Y/N,” a voice piped up beside you. It was Sophie, one of the louder, bolder girls from your lake group. Her pigtails were lopsided and her arms were glittery. “Are you and Oscar in love?”

You choked on air. “What?”

Across the room, someone dropped a popsicle stick. Chairs squeaked. Heads turned like it was a courtroom drama. 

Sophie didn’t back down. “You always sit next to each other.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re in love,” you said, trying for neutral, cool. The effect was… questionable.

“But you laugh at his jokes even when they’re not funny,” a boy chimed in from the next table over. 

“And he gave you his last Cheez-It yesterday,” another added solemnly, like that was definitive proof of eternal devotion. 

You shot a glance at Oscar. He hadn’t looked up from his craft yet.

“Technically,” he began, holding up the bat to inspect it, “it was my second to last Cheez-It.”

That. Did. Not. Help. 

“SEE?” Sophie crowed, practically leaping onto her bench. “He remembers! That means he cares! He’s in looooveeee” 

Oscar finally looked at you. Raised one eyebrow, lips twitching like he was seconds from breaking.

You, however, were going down swinging. “You guys are wild. People can care about each other and not be in love, you know.”

One of the ten year olds across the room cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone: “YOU GUYS TOTALLY LIKE EACH OTHER.”

Oscar leaned back on his bench and sighed dramatically. “This is what I get for participating in bat-themed crafts.”

“Miss Y/N!” Sophie tugged your sleeve, starry eyed. “If you do get married, can I be a flower girl? I have a sparkly dress already.”

You shook your head “We are not getting married.”

“But if you did!” She insisted, now practically vibrating with excitement, “would there be cupcakes? And a petting zoo?”

Oscar set his glue bottle down and said, deadpan, “Only if I get to ride into the ceremony on a canoe.”

That broke the dam. The entire table burst into delighted chaos.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m deeply uncomfortable,” he replied dryly. “But the image of a wedding canoe has potential.”

The kids started chiming in again, overlapping:

“Can we decorate it with streamers?”

“You have to have s’mores at the reception!”

“What if the bat comes back and officiates the wedding!?”

You buried your face with your hands. 

Oscar nudged your knee under the table. 

When you peeked through your fingers, he was looking at you with that same soft expression he always wore when he thought no one else was watching. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Just for you. 

“You know,” he said, “I would trust you to pick the playlist.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m going to drown you in the lake.”

He grinned. “How romantic.”

And then - “SEE?! FLIRTING!” came the high pitched wail of confirmation from behind a mountain of yarn.

You groaned, but despite that, you were smiling. 

The rain began to fall soon after. Soft at first, drumming on the tin roof like applause from the universe itself. The kids went back to their crafts, now glancing between the two of you with renewed suspicion and barely contained glee. 

Oscar reached over and placed his completed bat in front of you. It had a lopsided smile and crooked wings. One googly eye was already sliding off. 

“For you,” he said, mock-serious.

You stared at it. “This is hideous.”

“It’s symbolic,” he replied, straight faced.

You snorted. “Of what?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Emotional dysfunction.”

And from across the table, a chorus of giggles rose up again. 

They didn’t need to know the truth. That your hands brushed under the table. That you hadn’t stopped thinking about the way he looked at you during free swim. That maybe they were more right than you were willing to admit. 

You tapped the bat’s head, glanced at him sideways, and said, “Fine. But if we get married, we’re not naming our first kid ‘Cheez-It.’”

Oscar didn’t even blink. “Middle name. Compromise.”

And somewhere behind you, another kid whispered. “This is better than a soap opera” 

You should’ve known something was up the moment your campers offered - completely unprompted - to “take over swim check in,” armed with clipboards, dramatic salutes, and suspiciously wide eyes.

“Go take a break, Miss Y/N,” Sophie said, blinking innocently, standing a little too perfectly between you and the path up to the cabins. “You’ve done so much. We’ve got this.”

That alone was suspicious. Sophie once fake-cried for ten minutes to get out of rest hour. And now she was volunteering for extra responsibility?

But before you could question it, she was already corralling the younger kids, her voice unusually commanding. “Line up alphabetically by how cool your swim bands are!” she declared.

Your eyebrows furrowed. “That’s not how alphabet-” 

Too late. A distraction had been launched. 

Five minutes later, Sophie came bounding back, glitter streaked across her cheek like war paint and a folded piece of paper clutched in her hand like it was a top-secret message. 

“For you,” she said, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face. “Step one.”

You raised an eyebrow but unfolded it anyway.

CLUE #1:

Where the bat once flew and shampoo bottles died,

A clue awaits, if you dare go inside 

(P.S. It’s not back…probably)

You stared. “Is this a scavenger hunt?” 

From halfway up the hill, Sophie turned and cupped her hands around her mouth. “OPERATION CANOE WEDDING IS A GO.”

“Operation what?!”

But she was already gone

You looked at the paper again, then sighed. Of course they started with the bat bathroom.

Inside the girls’ showers, the light flickered in that same ominous way it always did, like the building was haunted by the ghost of shaving cream past. The tiles were still chipped from that one epic prank war, and a suspiciously large spider occupied the upper corner like it paid rent. But there, taped to the mirror with a concerning amount of glitter glue, was the next note. 

CLUE #2:

You watch the waves, you guard the shore

But maybe love has something more?

Go where you sit to count the heads,

And maybe think about what’s left unsaid.

(Omg that was deep)

You snorted and muttered, “You dramatic little gremlins.”

It kept going. Notes slipped under doors. Hints chalked in bubble letters along the path. A lopsided origami heart wedged between canoe paddles. One kid handed you a paper flower and said, “For your emotional growth,” before vanishing behind the gear shed

You found Oscar sitting beneath the tree by the firepit, a clue resting in his lap like it had personally offended him. 

He looked up when you approached, brows raised. “ Let me guess. You got roped into this too?”

You held up your own collection of glittery rhymes. “Apparently we’re soulmates and they’ve decided to force fate’s hand.”

He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “They made me solve a riddle in order to unlock the ‘next phase of my heart journey.’”

“They made me dig under the paddleboards. I got a splinter”

You both stood there for a second, then fell into step without thinking, like always. Same path. Same rhythm. Comfortable silence broken only by the chirp of cicadas and the occasional far-off shriek from what was probably a pillow fight going rogue.  

The final note had been taped to the dock’s railing, sealed with an alarming amount of heart-shaped stickers. 

FINAL CLUE: 

You’ve reached the end. Now take a seat,

He’s waiting for you (and your heart’s skipped a beat).

No pressure or anything. 

(P.S. WE KNOW!!)

You sat beside him, legs swinging over the water, shoes kicked off. The sun had started its descent, casting long golden streaks across the lake. The world narrowed down to the creak of the dock and the way his pinky nearly brushed yours.

“They’re really committed,” you said after a while. 

“Too committed,” Oscar replied, exhaling slowly. “I think Sophie threatened someone into drawing a map.”

You laughed softly. “I feel like I’m on some weird rom-com TV show and the campers are the writers.”

“Terrifying thought.”

Then, quieter: “Do you think they actually believe it?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He leaned back on his hands, watching the sun dip behind the tree line. 

“I think…” he said eventually, “kids see things we’re too scared to say.”

It landed between you like a stone in still water. 

You turned your head. His profile was golden with the last of the light, his jaw tight like he was trying to keep something in. 

“But it’s just a joke. Right?” He asked, not quite looking at you.

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Obviously. It’s… camp drama. They’re bored.”

“Right.” His voice was soft. Neutral. Careful. “It’s nothing.”

“Exactly.”

You both stared out at the water. 

The moment stretched. The lake lapped gently below. Your foot dipped in, just barely, and set soft ripples outward. But neither of you moved. Not really.

Because it wasn’t nothing. 

Not even close.

You cleared your throat. “I should… probably get back. Before they start assigning roles in the fake wedding.”

Oscar stood first, brushing his hands off on his shorts. “For the record, I’m not wearing a flower crown.”

“You’d look good in one.”

He paused, looked down at you, that unreadable half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“So would you.”

And maybe that was it. Maybe that was the closet either of you could get.

You stood and walked back beside him. Not touching. Not talking. But the space between your shoulders hummed with everything that hadn’t been said. 

And behind you, in the shadows of the trees, you knew your cabins were watching - waiting, whispering.

But you didn’t turn around. 

You weren’t ready. 

Not yet. 

The fire cracked and popped like it had secrets to tell.

It was the last night of camp. The kind that didn’ feel real until you were already halfway through it - the air heavy with smoke and memory, the faint echo of a summer’s worth of inside jokes still lingering between the trees. The kids were finally asleep - tired from crying during cabin goodbyes, from trading lanyards like currency, from trying to memorize phone numbers they’d never actually call. 

The counselors lingered in the firelight, a scattered collection of silhouettes and worn sweatshirts, clutching mismatched mugs filled with lukewarm cocoa and the ache of endings. Someone strummed a familiar song on the guitar, the chords slightly off, but no one cared. Someone else lit a sparkler and traced a heart in the air. And someone retold the story about the raccoon that once stole an entire box of graham crackers and disappeared like a ghost into the woods.

You sat on a fallen log, knees pulled up to your chest, hoodie still warm from a last-minute run to the laundry cabin. Your eyes tracked the sparks curling toward the stars, but your focus wasn’t really on the fire. 

Oscar was on the log across from you, legs stretched long and a twig spinning absently between his fingers. The light from the flames caught in his hair and painted gold at the edges of his face. He hadn’t said much all night - not because he was distant, but because he was watching it all like he was trying to memorize it.

Every summer ended. You both knew that. But this one was the last chapter of something sacred. Twenty-three didn’t leave much space for cabins and campfires and inside jokes about bats. Not when real life was baning on the door. 

As the fire burned lower and the group around it slowly thinned - some peeling off toward cabins, some lying back in the grass - you caught him watching you. Finally, really watching. 

“You okay?” you asked, voice low.

He nodded once. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He huffed out a soft laugh. “Not this time.”

You waited.

He looked down at his hands. “Just that this is the last one,” he said, his voice barely above the fire’s whisper.

It didn’t need explanation. You both knew what he meant. 

Camp had always been the place you came back to. The reset button. The middle ground.

There was a long stretch of silence, broken only by the occasional pop from the logs and the far-off whoop of someone cannonballing into the lake, last-minute swim rules be damned. Then-

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” you said. 

Oscar glanced up. 

You shifted on the log, suddenly aware of every inch of space between you. “And I keep wondering if I’ll regret not saying something.”

That got his attention. The twig stilled in his hand. His brow furrowed. 

“But maybe you don’t feel the same,” you added quickly. “And that’s okay. I just didn’t want to leave this place without-”

“Wait,” he said suddenly, standing like the ground had given him a jolt. “Come here.”

Your heart tripped. 

He stepped away from the fire, toward the edge of the woods where the tree line opened up just enough for the stars to peek through like secrets. He didn’t turn to check if you were following. 

But you were.

The noise of the fire and the others faded into the background. The pine needles cushioned your steps. The scent of smoke clung to everything. When you reached him, Oscar turned, hands shoved in his pockets.  

“I do,” he said 

Your brows knit. “Do what?”

“I do feel the same way.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a little out of breath. He looked nervous, but not unsure. Like he was done pretending. 

“I’ve felt that way for a long time,” he said. “Years. But everytime I thought about saying something, I talked myself out of it. I didn’t want to ruin what we had. You’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine too.”

His voice dropped. “And I almost kissed you on the dock.”

“I know,” you whispered, a small and sad smile formed on your lips.

“I wanted to. I was going to. But then I thought… if I do this, and it’s not what you want, it’ll change everything.”

“I was scared too,” you admitted. “But Oscar -” You took a breath. “You were never going to lose me.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Like he was taking in every inch of your face, memorizing it like the way he watched the fire earlier. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for your hand. His fingers bruised yours, tentative.

You didn’t pull away.

And when he laced your fingers together, something in your chest settled. 

When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It was a quiet question. And your kiss was the answer. 

Soft. Steady. Years in the making. 

The kind of kiss that felt like it had always been waiting there - between games of capture the flag, behind whispered goodnight jokes in the staff lodge, just under the surface of every late-night swim. 

When you pulled back, the air felt clearer. The stars looked closer. His forehead rested against yours. 

“So,” he murmured, voice brushing your skin. “What happens next?”

You smiled, thumb grazing his knuckles. “We figure it out.”

“Together?”

“Always.”

And in the hush of the last night of summer, beneath the stars and pine trees and the weight of something finally said, you knew - 

You were ready. 

So was he. 

[lucidrmss]

extra credit. II 7.3k armin arlert x reader

cw: 18+ explicit content minors dni, nerdmin x baddie reader, reader insert but no use of y/n, unprotected sex, female pronouns/afab reader, vaginal sex, oral sex, nipple piercing, possessive armin, bit of dirty talk, bit of fluff. university/college au.

summary: No one saw it coming. Not your roommate. Not your on-and-off ex situationship. Not even the judgmental girl with a color-coded planner who’s clearly in love with him.

But somehow, the cardigan-wearing, note-taking, blushy boy wonder of your Comparative Politics class caught your attention. And that’s saying something, because you’re not exactly known for quiet crushes or gentle flirting — being a tattooed, sharp-tongued, braless baddie with a GPA just as high as your standards.

After a sketchy dude corners you at a party, Armin Arlert — the last person you expected — swoops in like a flannel-clad knight in awkward armor. That moment sparks a chaotic, and unexpectedly tender journey involving fake study sessions, thigh tattoos, jealous glances, and one painfully adorable nerd who may or may not be packing more than just a well-organized Google Drive.

Let them stare. Let them whisper. You’re not letting this one go.

notes: i'm here with part 2, longer and dirtier! a had to edit it all again that's why it took forever. hope u like it <3

<part I

You were totally going to be chill today.

The library dates have grown to you, you actually like to study, just know how to balance it with nights out. But this is comfortable, sharing opinions and having someone to actually listen to it, not with a surprised face like it's uncommon to wear short skirts and be able to develop intellectual opinions, but sharing deep conversations and with Armin, it's easy.

In fact, you could sit there and talk about how you custom-made a piece of clothing you thrifted last week and he'd look at you with his big, bright eyes as if you were describing how you accidentally discovered the cure for cancer.

So the study dates? is just a excuse to sit close and have him speak in that low voice to you. With your coffee, wearing your least intimidating crop top, you told yourself: Don’t flirt. don’t provoke. just study.

As you scan the library, you notice that everything is quiet, being it a friday afternoon. Or it was quiet, ‘cause you accidentally made eye contact with a damn Jean Kirstein who had the audacity to wink at you in front of Armin.

Look away, ignore it. Maybe he'll get the hit and don't be a menace for once in his lifetime. Is that asking for too much? the footsteps approaching your table 10 seconds later answered yes.

“Damn, babe. If I'd known study sessions with nerds made you this hot, I’d’ve volunteered months ago,” he says, teeth flashing as he leans on your library table like he owns it.

You glance up from your notes and deadpan, “if you knew how to read, Jean, maybe you’d be here for the actual material.”

Jean laughs — loud and easy, not offended in the slightest. “Always such a flirt. But hey, if the blondie here ever needs a break, I got room for a real tutor.”

You’re already mid-eye roll when you hear it.

“I think she’s fine with the one she has.”

Oh?

You blink, slowly.

Jean raises his brows, mock-innocent. “Whoa. Okay, Professor Armin. Relax.”

Armin doesn’t even look up. “Maybe don’t hit on people while they’re trying to learn.”

You wait for Armin to blush and backpedal like he always does. He doesn’t.

Instead, he adjusts his glasses, underlines something in your shared textbook, and leans a little closer to you. You feel his shoulder touch yours — light, intentional.

Your stomach flips.

Jean watches the interaction, then snorts. “Well, shit. Didn’t realize this was exclusive.”

Armin looks him dead in the eye.

“It is.”

Excuse you? You nearly knock your iced coffee over.

Jean lifts his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Jesus. Nerd got game. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

When he walks off, you just stare at Armin.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, not meeting your gaze. “Just tired of guys thinking they can talk to you like that.” he sounds annoyed, eyes still focused on the open textbook but he looks distracted, jaw clenched, a vein popping out of his throat.

A quiet nerdy man who wears glasses and has a possessive agenda? You couldn't make that shit up, no even in your wildest dreams.

You’re quiet for a second. “You jealous, baby?”

Armin finally looks at you. Really look at you.

And for the first time since that almost-kiss, you see it again — the heat behind his eyes. The one that doesn’t match the shy smiles and physics flashcards. The one that makes you ache.

“I don’t like sharing” he murmurs.

Jesus Christ.

That got you shivering, shyly looking away. He just clears his throat and continues to read to you, like that moment didn't happen. Only his thigh touching yours under the table.

The thing about college parties is that they’re basically controlled chaos. Like, sure, someone brought Cards Against Humanity and another guy made jungle juice in a mop bucket — but it’s fine! Everything’s fine!

Especially when Armin shows up wearing that soft gray sweater that hugs his shoulders just right, and you remember why you bothered to come out in the first place.

You’re wearing all black again. Cropped halter. Knee-high platform boots. A leather jacket you definitely don’t need. He spots you across the room, fiddling with the rim of a red Solo cup, and you swear his whole face lights up. Soft-ass nerd, you think — fondly, stupidly, like some lovesick schoolgirl. The contrast between you two is kinda hot tho.

“Hey,” he says when he reaches you, out of breath from squeezing through the crowd. “You look…”

He trails off.

You arch an eyebrow. “I look?”

His mouth opens. Closes.

You step closer and smile with dangerous softness. “Use your words, baby.”

Armin turns redder than the Solo cup.

You live for this.

But before he can recover, Connie swoops in from nowhere and yells, “TRUTH OR DARE. IN MY ROOM. CIRCLE. NOW.”

Because apparently y'all twelve again.

The room's smelling faintly like weed, and cheap vodka, hot with so many people in the same place. You spot Mikasa laying on Coonie’s bed and Eren sitting on the desk chair, back to the rest of the room, but you can see him packing the ground up weed into a rolling paper. You sit next to Armin, obviously. His knee keeps brushing yours like he’s trying to pretend it’s an accident, even though it keeps happening every five seconds.

Across from you is Sasha (already tipsy), Connie (born tipsy), Jean (smirking, obviously), some random people you don't care enough to remember their name and— yep — Mina.

You don’t know if she’s glaring at you or having a stroke. Either way, you smile sweetly and lean a little more into Armin’s space.

“Alright, nerds,” Connie claps, vodka bottle in hand. “Never have I ever… slept with someone and forgot their name after.”

You hold up your cup and drink without blinking.

Armin chokes.

Everyone groans or giggles. Mina looks directly at your mouth like it offended her personally.

“Never have I ever… had a crush on someone in this room,” Sasha smirks.

Cue chaos.

Everyone makes eye contact with everyone. You sip. Jean chugs. Mikasa doesn’t flinch. Armin… lifts his cup. Sips.

You want to tease him — but the bottle spins.

Its Mina’s turn.

“Never have I ever made out with someone just to get a reaction out of someone else.” You sip again. So does Jean. but that's an old story, not even worth mentioning. You see the flicker in Armin’s jaw.

Connie, in a brilliant stroke of timing, takes things further off the rails.

“Never have I ever… had sex in a public place.”

You cackle.

Armin clears his throat.

And drinks.

What.

The room erupts.

“No. Absolutely not. Ain't no way Armin Arlert it's little freak, explain yourself,” Mikasa demands, nearly toppling over.

Armin just pushes his glasses up calmly. “Library study room. Sophomore year. After finals.”

You drop your jaw.

Mina visibly deflates .

“Was it with that girl with the septum and purple braids?” Connie asks.

“Nope,” Armin says.

“Who then?” Jean insists.

Armin shrugs. “You don’t know her.”

You… suddenly want to know everything about this alternate-universe Armin with secret kinks and perfect timing.

It spirals quickly after that.

Sasha drinks for “Never have I ever stolen a traffic cone.”

Connie drinks for “Never have I ever kissed a professor.”

Jean drinks for “Never have I ever hooked up with two people in the same friend group.”

Armin’s barely tipsy, his face is flushed in a beautiful way that compliments so well with his blonde hair it's actually making you kinda of feral. You’re dangerously close to asking if he’s faking this I've never felt the touch of a woman energy or if the universe just wanted to create a sex god with a resting shy face.

You're having fun, laughing at Mikasa and Connie bickering, watching as Eren joins the circle while passing a blunt over to Jean, feeling Armin's hand caressing your thigh, while you rest on his shoulders a little. Yet nothing can distract you from this feeling. Of being watched, getting your every move scrutinized. Everytime you meet her eyes, she raises her eyebrow. It's getting tiring.

Jealousy it's a ugly face, even on pretty girls like Mina Carolina.

Your patience snaps. your turn now.

While staring directly at her, you go for blood.

“Never have I ever lied about wanting to just study when what I really wanted was to jump someone’s bones.”

Connie screams, you hear Armin choking beside you.

You drink, watching her blush while also taking a sip.

The blonde man beside you hesitates for a second before also taking a big gulp. The world seems to stop when your eyes meet. Your lips parted as his ears got more red and his eyes glitter. Fucking glitter like when sunshine touches the ocean. Deep and blue and fucking breathtaking beautiful.

This motherfucker got you wanted to write poetry and draw hearts with your names.

It's time to admit you got it bad.

The moment ends with everyone groaning when Connie suddenly lurches forward.

“Oh— no, no, no—” Mikasa scrambles for a trash can, but it’s too late.

The carpet claims another victim. The game dies an honorable death.

Someone suggests a group selfie to immortalize the trauma. You all huddle together, flushed and sweaty.

Jean’s got devil horns on. Sasha’s holding a baguette she stole from the kitchen. Connie is barely conscious .

You feel Armin slide behind you — then his arm loops around your shoulders.

Soft. Warm. Familiar.

Your breath catches.

He’s smiling at the camera like it’s nothing. But his hand is resting right below your collarbone. His thumb brushing the skin under your necklace.

The photo flashes. Captures it all.

Later, when you check it on Sasha’s phone, you zoom in.

His smile is innocent.

Your smirk? Dangerous.

But it’s his hand that stays with you.

Because it’s not just possessive.

It’s not casual.

It’s a promise.

You don’t remember who suggested karaoke at 3:37 a.m., but they’re currently on their third dramatic rendition of “Toxic,” and Eren is screaming the harmony like his life depends on it.

The party has thinned. The carpet’s been cleaned (kinda). The last cup of decent alcohol is gone.

You’re sitting on the couch nursing a bottle of water like it’s vodka. Armin’s next to you, arms around you — not a lot, but enough to make your heart overreact.

He looks like he shouldn’t fit here.

Too clean. Too sane. Too good.

But he does.

And then he looks at you and smiles, like you’ve just said something funny even though your last sentence was “I think Eren’s possessed.”

You grin.

—

“I still think Sasha won that game,” you say as you stumble slightly, the cold air slapping you sober.

“How?” Armin scoffs, holding his sweater tighter around his chest. “She didn't even drink for ‘never have I ever lied about being a virgin,’ which—statistically? Impossible.”

You laugh, shoving his arm. “She’s a legend. Respect her lore.”

You’re both walking slowly. The street is empty, dead-quiet except for the buzz of street lamps and the sound of your boots scuffing.

“Thanks for walking me,” you say when you two slow down in front of your dorm’s building, hands tucked in your jacket pockets.

“I wasn’t gonna let you walk back alone. You’re, like… not safe.”

You smirk. “You’re calling me unsafe?”

He looks at you with a sideways grin. “Yeah. But in a gremlin energy kind of way.”

“Wow. Armin Arlert. Student of the year. Secret library slut. Thinks I’m a gremlin.”

He laughs softly.

And then he looks at you like he’s thinking way too hard.

“What?” you nudge.

“I like seeing you like this,” he says.

“Like what?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “You know. Loose. Silly. Kinda chaotic. Like… like a girl who doesn’t have a comeback every ten seconds or a death glare locked and loaded.”

You squint at him. “I am silly.”

“You’re terrifying ,” he deadpans. “In, like, a hot way. But terrifying.”

Your lips twitch.

“Okay, but real question,” you say, pausing by your dorm entrance. He stops one step down the stairs. “If I’m so scary in a hot way, how come you haven’t made a move yet?”

Armin blinks. “What?”

You step closer. The wind picks up behind you, lifting your hair over “You like me. I know it. Everyone knows it. Even Connie knows it, and Connie once failed a psych class he wasn’t even enrolled in.”

He licks his lips, looking absolutely flustered.

“So?” you press. “What gives? Why haven’t you just… caved in?”

He swallows. Hard.

“I didn’t want to be just another guy who wants you because everyone else does,” he says, voice low. “You get stared at. Talked about. People make up shit just to feel close to you. And I—” he moves forward “—wanted to be different.”

Your throat goes dry.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to kiss you,” he adds quickly. “I thought about it. A lot. More than I should.”

Your gaze drops to his mouth.

Then climbs back up.

“I want to do this right,” he says, softer. “Real dates. Not fake study sessions. Not hallway flirting or party games. Just… you and me. Trying to see what this could actually be.”

It's this what being with a Real Man looks like? you finally made it?

You don’t say anything, just grab his jacket, tug him up, and kiss him.

It’s short. Hot. Clumsy.

You laugh into his mouth when his glasses bump your forehead. He huffs a breathy laugh, presses one hand to your waist like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to hold you tighter.

He is.

He will.

But tonight?

Tonight you pull away, lips tingling, breath shared.

“Okay, nerd,” you whisper. “You want a real date?”

He nods, dazed. “Yeah.”

You lean in again, lips grazing his jaw. “Then ask me out before I ask you to stay the night.”

Armin blinks.

“... Will you go out with me?”

You grin.

“Depends. Does the date come with more kissing?”

He leans in close, the real him surfacing through the shy boy mask.

“All of it.”

You almost cancel.

You’re not the canceling type — more like the don’t catch feelings and flee when you do type — but still. For a hot second, you stare at your reflection in the mirror and ask yourself if you’re really about to let Armin Arlert take you on a date.

Then you remember how he kissed you, how his hand curled around your waist like he meant it, how he whispered "all of it" with a look that made your knees consider retiring.

And you put on your damn jacket. Your phone pings with a text a second later.

>Armin: I'm here

He’s waiting outside your dorm, standing next to a bright blue car that absolutely does not belong to him.

“Connie’s,” he explains when you raise an eyebrow. “He owed me a favor. I helped him write a breakup email.”

You blink. “That’s… darkly romantic.”

“It had bullet points,” Armin says proudly.

He opens your door. Let you in first. Doesn’t try to play it cool — he’s nervous, you can feel it. The way he drums his fingers on the wheel, the way he sneaks glances at you at every red light.

You don’t speak much on the drive.

But you don’t need to.

Because when you get there — a retro arcade with neon lights, synth music playing inside, and a glowing sign that reads "Joystick Palace" — you laugh so hard you snort.

“An arcade?” you grin as you step out. “Really?”

“You said you like chaos,” he shrugs, locking the car. “And I like a fighting chance to beat you at something.”

“Oh, baby,” you purr. “You’re gonna regret that.”

Inside, it’s loud and flashy.

You pass rows of claw machines, air hockey tables, and ancient DDR setups.

Armin pays for a loaded token card like a gentleman. You immediately waste ten tokens trying to win a vibrating duck keychain.

Armin wins it in one try. You hate him.

Next you two reach the Skee-Ball Showdown table.

“You have terrible form,” he says with a little laugh.

You roll your eyes. “Says the man in a corduroy jacket.”

“It’s fashion.”

“It’s a lie.”

He smirks, steps behind you, and gently adjusts your arms, breathing right beside your ear. “You gotta flick. Like this.”

You try again, and miss miserably. Armin takes a ball, flicks it with clinical precision, and lands a perfect 100.

You stare at him, deadpan. “Are you secretly a Skee-Ball assassin?”

“I had no friends in middle school,” he says simply.

You wheeze.

You finally beat him in a Zombie Apocalypse game. It's basically just gun shooting a bunch of very fast zombies. You know you did actually beat him ‘cause he's doing the face he usually does on the study sessions when he's very concentrated in something. Jaw locked, eyebrows furrowed, a little pout on his pink lips. It's so fucking hot.

When your screen says YOU WIN in all caps and colors and you scream, while flashing him your middle fingers. “ You're a fucking loser Arlert”

He just laughs and try to stop you screaming with a hand on your mouth “People are side eyeing you so hard right now” You could care less about other people when you are having fun with him

You’re both laughing too hard to function when you pile into a tiny photobooth that smells like plastic and popcorn.

“Wait—my hair—!”

“Too late—!”

The flash goes off just as Armin accidentally elbows you in the boob and you scream-laugh into his shoulder.

When the strip prints, you’re both wheezing.

1st pic: You blinking. Him wide-eyed.

2nd pic: You throwing up a peace sign. Him doing jazz hands.

3rd pic: You squished together, cheeks touching, laughing with your whole chest.

4th pic: Him looking at you. You looking back.

And something quiet in the middle of all the chaos.

You don’t say anything, just tuck the photo strip into your jacket with a shy smile and pretend your heart isn’t imploding.

——

The arcade has a crusty pizza lounge in the back. Sticky booths. Cheap soda. Grease stains that deserve forensic analysis. And yet, it’s perfect.

You sit across from him, legs touching under the table.

“So,” you say between bites. “Any reason you picked this place?”

He shrugs. “You’re loud. Competitive. Terrifying.”

“I will throw pepperoni at you.”

He grins. “And I wanted to see what you looked like when you’re having fun without trying to impress anyone.”

You pause, chewing slowly. “That's... dangerous, Armin.”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“You say stuff like that and I forget I’m supposed to be the one in control.”

He flushes pink, but doesn’t look away.

“I don’t want control,” he says. “I just want to know the real you. The girl who wins at claw machines. The girl who laughs like she doesn’t care. The girl who stole my hoodie three days ago and never gave it back.”

You grin.

“And what if I’m in love with you?” You weren’t supposed to say it out loud. But the words fall out before you can stop them, soft and simple and devastatingly true:

“I think I’m in love with you, Armin.”

You don’t look away, don’t take it back.

Armin stares for a second, like you just gave him a cheat code to life. Then he reaches across the table, hand covering yours, thumb tracing your knuckles. “I’ve been in love with you since the day you told a TA to suck your ass in lecture.”

You cackle loudly, the kid at the next table looks mildly traumatized.

But it’s fine, because Armin is still blushing and smiling and not even trying to hide it.

And you?

You’ve never felt more real.

——

The arcade’s closing now. The glowing neon signs flicker out one by one, and the last dregs of teenagers shuffle toward their rides, greasy paper cups and leftover tokens in their wake.

You and Armin walk back to the car, the buzz of the evening still crackling in your chest.

The laughter's quieter now. Everything is, like the night itself is holding its breath.

Armin unlocks the car, holds the passenger side door open for you — and maybe it's the way he looks at you in that hoodie, or the fact that his fingers keep brushing your waist, or the fact that he saw all of you tonight and didn't even flinch.

But whatever the reason—

You don’t get in the car. You don’t even think, just grab him by the front of that stupid corduroy jacket and kiss him like your life depends on it.

And he melts.

“Wait—” he says, breath hitching, “what—?”

“I’m done waiting,” you mutter. Then, with exactly zero shame, you shove him back into the driver’s seat and climb into his lap.

Straddle him. Close the door. Like a prize.

Like a goddamn throne.

“W-wow —holy sh—” His hands hesitate — just for a second — before gripping your hips tight, thumbs digging into the curve of your ass like he’s been dying to. His glasses fog. His mouth opens against yours, wet and hot and messy, and your bodies crash together like magnets misbehaving.

“Still think I’m scary?” you whisper, teeth and lips grazing his jaw, kissing down his delicious throat, nails scraping his undercut.

“Yes,” he gasps.

“Still like me?”

“I’m obsessed with you.”

You rock your hips once — just once — and the breathy moan he lets out breaks you.

He’s flushed from collar to ears, fingers tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, you can feel him getting hard and you head is spinning from how deep he's kissing you, like he’s catching up for every second he didn’t.

Tongue deep. Hands firm. Lips bruising.

“You drive me insane,” he mutters into your mouth.

You grin against his lips, breath ragged, hands in his hair, tugging until he groans. just as you’re about to grind again — as the windows fog and your body trembles with too much clothes and not enough skin — A loud, sharp knock on the window.

You freeze. Armin freezes.

A woman’s voice — annoyed and nasally — slices the moment in two:

“There are children in this parking lot.”

You turn your head. A mom. A literal mom, holding a juice box and glaring like you just kicked a puppy.

You blink. Smile and wave politely.

Armin chokes on his soul. “I—I am so sorry—!”

You slide off his lap, giggling uncontrollably while he smacks his forehead against the steering wheel and mutters something about “crawling into the sun and staying there.”

The drive back to your dorm is a blur of laughter and blushing and your hand resting on his thigh like nothing happened.

He walks you to the door like a goddamn gentleman.

Hair’s a mess, lips are swollen. His glasses are still a little crooked. His hands keep twitching like he wants to grab you again.

And you? You’re a little more in love. It’s terrifying, really and somehow, it feels like freedom.

You lean against the doorframe. “Thanks for the date, nerd.”

“Thanks for hijacking it and almost getting us banned from an arcade.”

“Tell me you didn’t love it.”

“I loved it.”

You smile. He steps forward, tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, and kisses your forehead. Slow and soft.

“Sleep well,” he murmurs, even in the poor light, his eyes shine.

“Not a chance,” you whisper. He grins, backing away.

You watch him walk off, hoodie riding up a little, hair practically bouncing, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s hiding a secret.

You wait until he’s gone.

Then you take out the photobooth strip.

And you post it to your story. No caption, just hearts and his @.

And for once, you don’t care who sees.

You can feel the hallway buzz before you even turn the corner. Phones clutched too tight. Whispered “oh my god that’s her”s. A heady mix of staring and pretending not to stare.

Which… okay. You did post that photo strip. You did let Armin hold your waist like a man who paid rent to be there. And yeah, your caption was literally just a heart, but that’s basically a marriage license in social media language.

So, you knew. But he didn’t.

You round the corner and spot him before he spots you. He’s standing by at locker, trying to act normal, wearing that dusty green hoodie you like and a pair of black jeans that absolutely weren’t tight until you noticed they were. His blonde hair, messy and softly curly at the end, are falling over his forehead. His ears are red.

He looks like someone who accidentally became an overnight meme. You sneak up behind him and poke his side.

He jumps. “—Oh my god, warn me!”

“Sorry,” you smirk. “You looked too approachable. I had to ruin it.”

He groans softly, leaning back against the metal locker. “I don’t know how you walk around like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like… everyone’s looking at you.”

“They always look.”

“Yeah, but now they’re looking at me too. I got high-fived by like three dudes I’ve never even met. One of them said that I'm a ‘lucky bastard’, another one asked what shampoo you use. I dropped my bag.”

You try not to laugh, but his expression is so pained, so violated, that it slips out anyway.

“I feel like I accidentally joined a frat,” he mumbles.

Then, quieter:

“And I don’t like the way they talk about you.”

Your know what he means and don't like it too, but after having to deal with it alone, you've learned to ignore it.

He doesn’t look at you — just rubs the back of his neck like he’s trying to massage away the emotions. “Like you’re a trophy they lost to me. Like you’re something they didn’t win.”

Your voice softens. “And that bothers you?”

He finally looks up. “It bothers me that they talk about you like that. And yeah, I guess I’m jealous. But mostly? I just feel like they don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“That you’re not a prize. You’re a person. Who happens to like me for some reason.”

You tilt your head. “I like you for so many reasons.”

“You’re gonna make me faint in the hallway.”

“Promise?” He laughs — real and shy and warm — and that’s all it takes. You link your arm through his and tug him toward the cafeteria.

The moment you step into the lunch area, the chaos hits.

Mikasa waves you over. Connie yells “Power couple alert!” like a town crier. Eren whistles loudly like a proud Dad who's watching his son score a goal playing soccer. Jean does finger guns. Sasha is halfway through a croissant and still manages to shout “FUCK SOFT LAUCHING, THAT'S QUEEN BEHAVIOR RIGHT HERE LADYS AND GENTLEMEN.”

You sit, Armin hesitates. Then squeezes in beside you like he’s bracing for impact. And for the first few minutes, it’s a tornado of teasing and food stealing and Sasha throwing paper napkins at Connie’s head. But eventually, everything softens.

Mikasa slides a tray in front of Armin without asking. “You didn’t eat yet. I know.”

He smiles. “Thanks, Miki.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That your other girlfriend?”

Mikasa deadpans. “Only if he passes the final this time.”

“I—I’m studying!”

You lean into him. “I’ll quiz you later.”

Jean snorts. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

You throw a grape at his face. But Armin’s laughing again, shoulders easing down inch by inch, as the table noise wraps around him like a safety blanket. For all their chaos, this group is home. And when his hand brushes yours under the table, you squeeze it. Soft. Sure. Grounded.

Because yeah, people are talking. People are always going to talk.

But at the end of the day?

It’s just you and him, and that’s more than enough.

——

You’re slipping your headphones in, fingers already fumbling for your lighter and gum at the bottom of your bag, when you hear someone say your name.

You look up.

It’s Mina. Alone this time, no textbooks hugging her chest like a shield, no fake smile plastered on. Just her — big cardigan, soft eyes, and that slightly awkward energy that used to make you roll your eyes. But today, it doesn’t hit the same.

You tug one earbud out. “Hey.”

There’s a pause. A big one. The kind that stretches out like taffy and begs to be cut clean.

“I just…” Mina begins, eyes flicking somewhere past your shoulder. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. If I ever made you feel weird. Or like I was… trying to compete. That wasn’t my intention.”

You shrug. “You didn’t owe me anything.”

“I kinda did,” she says. “You were never cruel. And I might’ve been quietly hoping you’d disappear for, like, a week or two.”

You snort. “Just a week?”

Mina smiles, a little. “Okay. Maybe a month.” You both laugh, short but real.

Then you say, “He likes you, y’know. As a friend. A lot.”

“I know,” she nods. “And you’re… something else entirely. Which I guess is what he needs now.”

You hum. “I didn’t plan any of it.”

“I know that too.”

Another pause. More gentle this time.

“You look happy, though,” she says. “He does too.”

You nod. “I am. And he is.”

“Good,” she says. “That’s good.”

You both glance toward the buildings across the quad, like you’re searching for the next thing to say — but there isn’t one.

Just a nod.

A quiet, simple goodbye.

You turn and walk your separate ways.

Not friends. Not enemies.

Just two girls who grew up a little.

———

Armin’s dorm smells like cotton detergent and anxiety.

You’re barely past the threshold when your eyes land on his desk: two mugs, one with a tea bag tag still hanging off, and a notebook open to the densest study notes you’ve ever seen. There’s highlighter color-coding like he’s about to present a thesis, not cram for a final.

And then there’s Armin — already flustered, running a hand through that fluffy blond hair, wearing a simple gray t-shirt and joggers like the unintentional thirst trap he is.

“So… you made it,” he says, nervous smile blooming.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” you toss back casually, setting your bag down and peeling off your hoodie to reveal your usual black tank top. His gaze drops instantly to the curve of your collarbone. Then lower.

You pretend not to notice.

He clears his throat. “Uh, tea or water?”

“Tea makes me feel like a Victorian child with tuberculosis. Got soda?”

“…Water it is.”

You snicker and flop onto his bed without permission, legs crossed, and fumble for your notes — not that you’re going to use them.

“I ran into Mina on the way here,” you mention offhandedly.

Armin pauses mid-pour. “Oh.”

You nod. “She was cool. Said some nice things, actually.”

His eyes meet yours cautiously. “You’re not… mad at her or anything, right?”

“No,” you say truthfully. “She’s sweet. Just had a crush and a little passive-aggressive attitude. It happens.”

He nods slowly, sets the water down on his desk. “You’re handling this really maturely.”

“Trying to impress someone,” you shrug, giving him a sly smile. That earns you a blush. Bright and adorable.

You both try to study for maybe twenty whole minutes. He sits at the desk; you sit cross-legged on the bed, actually reading the damn thing, until you catch him looking at your thigh tattoo for the fourth time.

It’s a Medusa, coiled and dark, peeking out from the hem of your shorts like it’s daring him to say something.

You stretch slowly, just to watch his eyes darken.

“Problem, professor?” you ask, voice low and teasing.

“I—no. I just… I didn’t realize it was that detailed.”

You smirk. “You could see it up close, y’know. If you asked nicely.”

He looks like he might short-circuit on the spot.

So you rise, slow and deliberate, walking over to his desk, taking the pencil out of his hand and placing it down. Then — as if it’s the most natural thing in the world — you straddle his lap, knees on either side, hands on his shoulders.

“I can’t focus,” you whisper.

He looks up at you, eyes wide. “Me either.”

And then you kiss him.

Hard and messy.

There’s nothing slow about it — not this time. This isn’t the photobooth or the moment outside your dorm. This is heat and need and weeks of pent-up tension burning through both of you.

His hands settle on your hips, pulling you closer, and you can feel him already half-hard under you. You grind down, and his head falls back with a low, helpless noise that shoots straight through you.

Your lips leave him only to trail down his jaw, to the base of his neck, biting gently just to hear him gasp. He says your name like it’s a prayer. A warning. A plea. then he touches the strap of your tank top.

“Can I—?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Take it off.”

He does, slow like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His hands tremble a little, but his eyes never leave yours. Then they drop — to your pierced chest — and he exhales like he’s been sucker-punched.

“Holy shit.”

You grin. “You like it?”

He answers by taking one nipple into his mouth, gently at first, then with more confidence as your fingers tangle in his hair. His tongue flicks over the piercing leaving a gentle bite, and you whimper.

Teasing until you can’t take it anymore — his shirt needs to go. You tug it off him and toss it somewhere behind, letting your nails drag down his pale chest. You just knew he would be the sleep builder type, abs muscles marked by soft lines, his peck with cute pink nipples, skin shivering.

“You’re so hot,” he mumbles against your skin, and your heart stutters.

You grind again, harder, and this time his hands grip your ass, guiding you. The friction is blinding. You’re soaked through your panties, and judging by how hard he is now, he’s not far behind.

“Fuck,” you whisper, breathless. “I want to taste you.” He stares, stunned, as you slide down to your knees in front of the desk chair, eyes locked on his.

“You don’t have to—”

You shut him up by dragging your tongue along his length through the fabric of his joggers, and he just chokes.

By the time you free him from his boxers, he’s flushed, panting, already leaking at the tip. You lick a slow circle around it before sinking down, taking him inch by inch, never breaking eye contact.

“God—” His hands are in your hair, not pushing, just holding. His hips twitch as you hollow your cheeks, letting your tongue swirl. He looks like he’s trying not to scream, red from chest to cheeks, eyes a little dazed, shaking a little by the time you pull off, still hard and dripping, and you crawl back up, tugging your shorts and panties off.

“You good?” he asks, breathless.

You grin, guiding his hand between your legs, letting him feel how wet you are, and then bring to your mouth and suck his fingers clean.

His jaw drops. “You’re going to kill me.”

“No, baby,” you whisper. “I’m going to ride you.”

You sink down onto him slowly, both of you moaning, your thighs trembling from the stretch and the sheer fucking emotion of it all. He fills you perfectly. Like you were made for him.

You move slowly at first, circling your hips, watching him fall apart beneath you.

“—fuck, you feel— -uhgg” Your nails dig into his shoulders as you pick up the pace. His hands are on your waist, your thighs, your ass — anywhere he can touch, he eyes your tits as they bounce slightly like he's hypnotized, groaning like he can't handle it and goes back to sucking on it again.

You ride him until you're shaking, grinding your hips and biting your lips. The knot inside you snaps, pleasure crashing over you in waves.

But Armin’s not done.

He carries you to bed, laying you like you're made of glass, take off his glasses, and kisses you like he’s starved. You're a moaning mess, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgams. He kisses down your throat, the vale between your tits, your stomach and when his head is between your legs he looks up at you, big blue eyes you know and love, but with a little wild in it, “Pussy so fucking pretty, bet she can cream for me again.” He gives you a long lick, then a cute little kiss.

“Minnn” you whimper, hands holding the sheets tightly.

“Taste so good, smells amazing, looks so fucking pretty,” his words make you dizzy, its hard to process that sweet Armin who still blushes when you hold his hand, is the same man that its climbing up to rest his forehead against yours and saying with a smirk: “You're a perfect little thing, ain't you? And that's all for me? Huh?”

You nod whimpering his name as he slides back in, thrusting slow and deep, holding your face, eyes locked, sucking your lips lazily. Until you bite his lips back, gripping him inside you. That's when something in his eyes darkens.

Suddenly, he's so close you wouldn't know where one of you starts and the other ends. Bodys sweating, chest to chest, one arm around your lower back as the other hold you head, finger griping your hair, legs locking on his waist as he fucks you fast and hard, sometimes mumbling incoherently, sometimes dirty shit you could never imagine spitting out of his mouth.

He tells you how long he’s wanted this.

How many times he’s thought about bending you over a desk, study sessions be dammed.

How good you look taking all of him.

He's fucking whimpering in your ear.

Vision whitening, your eyes roll to the back of your head, toes curling, nails gripping his back, mouth open on a silent scream. Even the noise the bed frame is making while hitting the wall gets turned down. All you could hear it's him . Feel him, just making you take it. No space to run.

“You’re mine,” he whimpered, eyes glazed tugging on your earlobes with teeth, it's all too much “Fuck baby, I'm gonna cum”

His hand, the one on your lower back, snakes between your legs and he begins to circle your clit, making your body lock, pussy gripping so hard he makes a cute painful face, slamming one last time and letting out a pretty broken moan, your body shaking as he fill you up. Nice and warm.

The moment seems to linger, his arms around you, two hearts beating fast, breaths hard, your sanity coming back.

You just had the best fuck of your life with the Armin Arlert, the campus adorable nerd, and open your eyes to see his dorm room, crumpled with books, cute figures and wall with Star Wars posters.

“If I knew your dick game was this good, I would've fucked you sooner” Armin giggles. Fucking giggles into your ear like he didn't just railed you so good it ruined you to everybody else.

“And the dirty talk? ” you say and he whines embarrassed.

Armin’s face emerges from your neck, flushy with wet hair clinging onto his forehead.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“Mhm,” You shift, and he gently slips out of you, grabbing a towel from the desk drawer — probably prepped days ago with overly optimistic hope. It’s soft, and he cleans you carefully, like you’re something precious.

He tosses it into the laundry after, climbs back into bed after putting on a boxer with a shy smile, gives you a clean t-shirt then when you're done, pulls you into his arms without hesitation.

You melt into him.

“Stay,” he says softly, voice muffled in your messy hair. “Don’t leave yet.”

You nestle closer. “I wasn’t planning on it.” And just like that, you sleep.

——

You wake up tangled in warmth.

There’s light creeping through the blinds, golden and soft. Armin’s arms are still around you, one hand tucked under your (his) shirt — possessive and sweet. He’s snoring, faintly. His hair is a mess.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, heart full.

And then, like a wave crashing over you:

Holy shit, you love him.

You love the dumb way he looks at you, all big eyes and sweet smiles. You love his nervous hands. His annotated study guides. The way he tastes when he kisses you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

You love Armin .

He stirs as you shift slightly, blinking himself awake.

“…Hi,” he says, voice still gravelly.

“Hi.”

“You okay?” he whispers into your hair, fingers brushing over your thigh tattoo again — featherlight and curious, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“Mhm,” you murmur. “More than.”

He shifts just enough to look at you, his blue eyes sleepy and searching. “Not sore?”

You snort. “Armin, you fucked me like you’ve got something to prove.”

“I do,” he says, so seriously that you laugh.

“You win, baby. Gold star. Five out of five. Would let you destroy me again.”

His cheeks go crimson. “That’s not— I mean, I didn’t want to go too hard—”

“Shhh,” you tease, pressing a kiss to his throat. “You were perfect. Actually…”

You roll to your back and stretch, wincing dramatically. “I think you might’ve ruined me for literally anyone else.”

That makes his entire body go still.

Then—

“Good,” he mumbles, pulling the blanket over both of you. “'cus you’re mine.” He doesn't say it like a joke or a challenge. Just quiet certainty, like he’s stating a fact.

You blink up at him, heart skipping. “Yours?”

Armin’s eyes flick down to yours. He nods. “Unless… that was just a one-time thing for you?”

You frown instantly. “What? No. Of course not. I—Armin, you know it’s not like that.”

He nods again. “Okay. I just— I’m not used to this. Having someone. Like this. You’re…” He exhales. “You mean a lot to me.”

Your chest tightens. You lean in and kiss him slow, one hand cupping his face.

When you pull away, you say, “You’re my person, Armin.”

He smiles, not that flustered little curve you used to get — this one is full. Confident. A little smug. “So I guess that makes me your boyfriend?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Guess?”

“Okay,” he amends. “That makes me your boyfriend.”

You tilt your head. “Say it again.”

He leans in, kisses your nose. “Boyfriend.”

You grin. “Girlfriend.”

“Mine.”

“You are. Mine.”

You let the moment linger — sweet and weightless — then raise a brow. “So... what are the girlfriend benefits, exactly? Am I getting snacks? Back rubs? Photo booth printouts in your wallet?”

“You already got extra credit,” he smirks, dragging a hand down your bare back. “What more do you want?”

You fake gasp, hitting his arm.

Armin chuckles, burying his face into your neck. “You’re such a brat.”

“And you love it.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, gaze tender. “I really do.” he says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like he’s known it longer than he’s known anything.

You kiss him, slow and sure.

No rush this time, just your heart in his hands, and his smile against your lips.

[trans-masc-michelangelo]

Ok, but imagine this in the YJ verse??

Like, Robin and Kid Flash have already met, KF was inspired by a kid younger than him taking down bad guys and wanted to help his uncle. Maybe he lives with Iris and Barry in this, maybe not. But he saw a kid that isn't even half of Batman's height, fighting crime with him and taking down the bag guys with ease and he wants to do the same.

Wally met Robin a few times after he himself became Kid Flash, they hit it off and were pretty comfortable talking to each other. But then, Batman has a new sidekick. This one's a few years older than Robin, not a lot of years, but 2-4. Wally notices how whenever Batman needs help from his Uncle Barry or just when they see each other, and the new sidekick is there, Robin seems like he's... started to hollow out.

Barry tells him not to worry. Says he might just be getting used to having a sibling. But then it continues, and Uncle Barry in all the ways he tries to say it's alright, he's just not used to it yet, Wally can tell that he's also worried.

Then, another sidekick for Batman shows up, this one is the oldest. Flash and Kid Flash see Robin retreat into himself even more, barely smiling when they try to talk to him.

But the Flashes aren't the only ones who notice, Aqualad and Aquaman trade glances whenever Robin's around, how he tends to stay in the back now instead of right upfront. Green Arrow and Speedy look disgusted at times when they see Batman or one of the older Bat-Themed vigilantes brushing him off. How they talk to him like he's unimportant, like he's in the way despite being the most trained.

Then the thing with Cadmus. Batman seems the most unhappy with his sidekick. Robin looks positively terrified, his supposed father and brothers looking down at him in anger and annoyance. Wonder Woman and the heroes who also have sideki- Proteges try to talk to him. Ask what's going on, why he and his older Proteges look so annoyed. He brushes them off, saying he has to plan.

The Team is created. Kid Flash and Robin get to hangout more regularly now, Miss Martian and Superboy seem cool, and Aqualad is his usual stoic but sarcastic self. It's great.

Robin starts talking more. He's now staying at the Cave more nights than Wally or Kaldur, and Kaldur goes back to Atlantis every week or so. Robin stays the night almost all week. But he's talking more. He seems to be in higher spirits.

Until school starts, and he needs to stay home so he doesn't reveal his identity and/or become late to school because he forgot to set his alarm. He's gotten quieter again. He looks sad, hollow. He looks like he's a ghost in his own life.

Then, it seems something else has happened. He doesn't even try to participate in conversations anymore unless someone asks him a question. It was at the arrival of Damian.

After about three months of this, he just... stops coming to the Cave completely. Batman seems more agitated. Black Canary seems to be nervous something will set him off to be violent.

When someone finally asks-

"Batman, why... Where has Robin gone?" It was Kaldur who drew the short straw.

"He does not wish to be a vigilante anymore. As such, I saw it fit to revoke his zeta-tube access. He will not be coming in the-"

The computer turns on. Robin is staring at them. It's a recording.

"Hi Team!" He says, it's the perfect amount of sarcastic enthusiasm that shows shits about to go down. "If you're seeing this, Batman has lied about where I am and I don't want him to make you all hate me more than I already hate myself. Thanks to Batman and his other Proteges." He spits the word out as if it hurts.

"B, you've brushed me off since you first took in another kid. Making me feel like I wasn't good enough to be on the field when I'm more trained than both of them combined. I've run simulations. Don't try and say it's a lie, I'd beat them." Robin's voice gets dark. "I didn't do whatever he said, I ran away. Well, closer to a sorta I "got a better job position " but whatever."

"Turn this off." Batman growls at Red Tornado.

"Negative. There are two more minutes." Red states, his normally monotone having a little bit of emotion for probably the first time.

"I went with his only biological son so that I can reach my apparent full potential that I haven't been able to unlock because he stopped training me like he does with the others." He looks sad, heartbroken. "I didn't want to be hurt anymore. I just wanted to feel accepted and to feel like I mean something. Which is why I'm staying. If any of you want to talk to me, remember the best songs I've listened to with you and you like. I'll always find you." Robin smiles wryly. "And besides, I have grandparents now! How cool is that?!" He grins. "See ya around." He salutes and the feed ends in static.

The Team look at Batman. Canary is glaring at him with such ferocity that she might as well have heat vision. Wally stalks off, followed closely by the rest of the Team. They contact Robin. He explains what happened in more detail, after making a quip about them taking long enough.

They face him on missions now, but they mainly just dance around and he never really hurts them. His new dad is fun. He's serious, but he actually looks like he cares about Robin. Ghoul and Wraith are the dou that run the most errands for the Shadows.

Found out that a Ghoul in folklore is a sorta being that feeds off the dead?? (From my understanding??) And a wraith is a warning of death. I like to think (as a relative term) that Wraith shows up as a warning that someone has been targeted by the League of Shadows as a blink-and-you-miss sort of thing. While Ghoul is there, tearing down what the organization targeted has done. Wraith and Ghoul are the big guns of the Shadows. Quiet, cold, calculate. But also kind, warm, caring.

Hmm but what if it’s a reverse robins au, where their ages are all reversed, but Bruce still acquires them all in the same order. Like Dick is the youngest, but he’s still adopted first.

How old would Bruce have to be when he adopts Dick then? Let’s say he’s 19/20 when Damian is born, and Damian is maybe 10 years older than Dick, and Dick is 8 when Bruce takes him in. God I hate math fuck. Bruce would be 37/38? Give or take?

Idk but imagine the absolute angst of like a ten/eleven year old Dick feeling like he’s being replaced by a boy who’s older than him, feeling like he must not be good enough, and then Bruce adopts that boy within like 6 months?? While Dick is still just a ward?? I think that would break Dick. I think maybe he’d run away or smth. Even if just for a little while. Maybe he’d already founded the Titans, and so he goes on missions with them or just hangs out with them at their homes or at Titans Tower and barely goes to the manor.

And Jason dies within like a year. Tim joins quickly, and Dick finds another, new older boy who’s there replacing now both him and the big brother he never got to really know.

Idk the between is fuzzy, but I want Damian to be sent to join his father or whatever, and instead he finds the first child his father took in and he realizes Dick is is just totally lost and feels like he doesn’t belong anywhere but Damian can see how much potential he has, and he decides actually he will take this child and raise him instead. Dick is maybe like. Fourteen at the oldest. Bruce rly acquired Jason and Tim within like 2 or 3 years. It was a lot of change for Dick.

Maybe Dick and Bruce have just had another big fight. Maybe Bruce is lost in time and instead of taking care of Dick like he was supposed to, Tim is obsessed with proving that Bruce is still alive. Damian plucks Dick right up and either lives with him somewhere in Gotham and goes out with him as Batman and Robin, or Damian takes him back to the League of Assassins maybe.

Do they deal with Red Hood coming back during all of this? Or maybe Jason is still with the League so if Damian brings Dick there, Dick finally gets to know the brother he admits to being a little afraid of when Bruce first brought him home. Not because he was scary, but because he got along with Bruce so well and he was from Gotham like Bruce and then Bruce made him Robin too and he felt like he was being pushed away or replaced or like he was just disappearing.

Idk I just like the concept of reverse robins but same acquisition order

[winterarchives]

Blood, Sweat and Tears part l

Soulmate AU pairing - OT7 x reader , BTS x reader word count - 13.8k+ summary - You are an up and coming author for M-Buzz; Manhattan, New York’s popular and new news source, set with the task of interviewing the globally famous band, BTS. You also have a bit of a glitch in your system. While everyone else has a set of initials and a birth date to signify who their soulmate is, you have a set of 14 letters and 21 numbers, something unheard of and rather stigmatized; and something that confuses you, that is, until you meet the men you’re interviewing. warnings - cussing , eventual smut , MDNI , early writing (literal years ago) pls go gentle on me

Alright, you’d be the first to admit that there were wonderful advantages to the job you’d landed three years ago. You spoke 3 languages fluently, which made you the go-to person for Korean and Japanese interviews with a language barrier. You could meet celebrities that other ordinary American interviewers couldn’t truly connect with on your level, while saving your company a few bucks they’d otherwise spend to book an actual translator.

Other interviews with the bands, actors, and high-profile socialites would be limited to watered-down conversations held with those celebrities and their translators. So, yeah, you’d pretty much been given the highly prestigious press title the moment your employer had seen the “fluently speaks 3 languages” bullet point on your resume. 

“KPop and Japanese anime have blown up in America over the past few years!” She’d told you excitedly. “You’d be an amazing addition to our team.”  

And so you had started working your ass off immediately. Currently, you have interviews with Hideo Kojima, Hayao Miyazaki, Hajime Isayama, EXO, and BLACKPINK on your belt. You were looked up to in your work environment because of your dedication to the interviewing process. Plus, your income kept you comfortable. You were happy, for the most part. However, at times, you felt complacent. 

Sure, your job was amazing. Being able to speak 3 languages alone was a feat in and of itself, but at the end of the day, you felt lacking. Your social life had dwindled, something your family had been worried about since the second month of your working career, and although you thought it a nonissue at first, the loneliness built until it was something you could hardly stand to endure, but it was also inescapable.

You didn’t have the initials and birthdate of your soulmate etched in black ink on your left wrist, as everyone did at birth; instead, you had 14 letters and 28 numbers. The long sequence of characters had earned you confused looks from doctors at your yearly check-ups and a lack of social life. You’d had them memorised by heart. 

K.S.M.Y.J.H.K.N.P.J.K.T.J.J The stutter in the last two letters irked you to no end. And the numbers were a complete mind-fuck. 

12.4.92.3.9.93.2.18.94.9.12.94.10.13.95.12.30.95.9.1.97. What any of it meant was a fucking mystery to you and everyone around you. You were an enigma.

It wasn’t an existence you were keen on, and you know that it was a huge chunk of your family’s worrying. But you’d accepted long ago that you weren’t going to have a soulmate, that you’d either have to find someone else who was as misfortunate as you, or just settle with being alone save for one-offs and porn. It wasn’t like you weren’t living damn close to those truths now. 

You can still vaguely hear your mother chastising you for having such a full schedule. “You’ll never find your soulmate if the only thing you care about is your work,” she’d told you, thinking the overabundance of black on your wrist was a clerical error, and your lesser-than history of romance was a result of you not looking for them hard enough. It took everything in you not to break down at her harsh words, but you mustered a weak, “I’ve found them already, Mom, my work is my soulmate,” and left her townhouse. That was 6 months ago, and you’d not seen her since. You still stuck by your words, because even if you were lonely, you were beyond appreciative for the job you had, soulmate be damned. 

But sometimes the loneliness was deafening, and it left a question ringing in your head like a church bell. Was the writing really worth it?  

Friends from college couldn’t keep up with your hectic lifestyle of needing to be ready to board a plane at any given moment for an immediate press conference or high-profile interview your boss had scored you. You couldn’t have a pet out of fear of never being home to care for it, and your family couldn’t pause holidays because you’d have a layover flight that day. 

So, long story short, yes, your job was amazing and had definitely provided you with some of the best moments of your life (it’s not every day that you get to ask Hideo Kojima about Death Stranding,) but it’d also enhanced the evergrowing emptiness of your solitude, and piled on your shoulders round-the-clock work hours. 

“Y/N! Thank god you’re here,” your co-worker, Elle, greets you. She’d been the one person you could rely on the most since your first day. She’s a pretty girl, a few years younger than you, her colorful pencil skirts and chiffon button-ups always brightening your day as soon as you walk into the office. 

“Good morning to you, too, Elle.” You tell her, shocked when she quite literally hugs the breath out of your body. “What’s gotten into you this morning?” You ask her, stepping back to look into her eyes. 

“I had a few too many cups of coffee…” She smirks, “But, you’ll be proud of me! I got your interview with BLACKPINK edited, and it’ll be fresh on the press and on YouTube within the next few hours or so.” 

“That’s great! Thanks, Elle. You do need to be careful with your caffeine intake this early in the morning, though. We don’t need a repeat of Christmas.” 

She cringes at the reminder, vividly recalling the day she’d forgotten to eat and passed out when she’d gotten a papercut opening her Secret Santa gift. It’d cost her a week’s pay in medical bills once she’d been released from the hospital with a few stitches she’d scored from landing on her face in the office’s rec room. 

“Point taken,” she grimaces. 

You chuckle, nudging her shoulder as you work your way into your office, Elle on your toes the whole time. Your focus drifts as she tells you about her late night and early morning, because this is routine for the two of you now. You’re both free to chat amongst yourselves if you’ve finished your current assignments, something you’re grateful for, until your boss either emails you or makes her way into your office to assign you your next task. 

“Y/N?” Elle asks you, dragging your jaded attention from the swirling of the hot chocolate she’s readied on your desk, back to her face. 

“Huh?” You ask drowsily. 

“I said, did you hear that the Bangtan Boys are going to do a mini-tour around Seoul, Daegu, and Busan before they go on a break?” She says, exasperated by your lack of interest in her earlier monologues. 

“I actually hadn’t heard of that, yet.” You reply lightly, interest piqued, “is anyone from our office covering the tour yet? I know Andrew speaks some Korean, albeit not as fluently as I do.” 

“I haven’t heard anything in the office yet,” she answers. “But, that leads to the question, er, well, favor I have to ask of you.” 

You eye her questioningly, already cautious. 

“It’s just, I know that you’re sometimes allowed to bring a tagalong when there’s big stories like this to cover, so I don’t know… I was wondering if maybe I could be your plus-one if you get the story?” 

“Ugh, Elle, you know we don’t really get to choose the stand-in reporters for those trips,” you groan.

“Andrew told me that when he’s been given big stories that he always takes Cam with him,” she whines. “And I’ve never been out of the country, let alone the continent. It’d be an amazing opportunity for me to be able to leave New York for once.” 

She pleads at you with her eyes, full pink lips puckered and trembling. 

“If- and I mean if,” you emphasize, seeing how her pout turns into a near-blinding smile, “if I get the story, because honestly, we don’t even know if there is one; then I might consider asking Mrs. Powell if you can assist me as a co-writer.”

“Yes!” Elle shrieks, jumping up and down, chiffon bouncing and blonde hair waving across the room wildly. “I knew I could count on you! God, you’re so awesome.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you huff, checking your email. “Powell wants me to write a follow-up on the BLACKPINK interview, so I’m going to start on that. I’ll find you around lunch so we can discuss what I summarize,” you tell her, “oh, and Elle?” You say, stopping her in the doorway of your office before she leaves. “Remind me to kick Andrew’s ass later for being such a mushroom.” 

Elle laughs, stepping out of your office with a skip in her step. 

You didn’t exactly hate Andrew, but you trusted him about as far as you could throw him. He was ruthless in his interviewing and even more so in his everyday life. Beyond that, you guys had the same working position, prospective head reporter for M-Buzz, an up-and-coming Manhattan news source, and both you and Andrew wanted the head reporting position that only one of you would get. 

Four hours, three cups of coffee, and two bathroom trips later, the follow-up is written; the 4,000 words glaring at you from the computer screen. You type in Powell’s email address and hit send, letting out a sigh as you watch the check mark change from grey to green. 

Your mind, the persistent bastard, decides to wander back towards the dreaded soulmate topic, and although you weren’t too keen on staying in the mindset, you can’t shake it. 

At 21 years old, you’d never met another individual with a lack of ‘the signature,’ as most Americans referred to it. You’d moved cross country a multitude of times, studying various current events that arose, and interviewing until your mind was numb, but you’d not once encountered anyone with the same blank canvas that your wrist housed. 

You’d seen the way some people would glance at your wrist, nosy tendencies flaring, and then the way they’d raise their brows in shock, looking to you like you were some sort of circus animal. The pity in their eyes was acidic and made you want to vomit. 

You’d also have witnessed the irritation that would swell in your chest when you saw people treating their soulmates poorly, or ignoring their existence altogether. 

Cam and Elle could deny it all they wanted, but they were, in fact, soulmates. No amount of repression and cold insolence would change fate. They couldn’t deny their cosmic attraction forever, just like you couldn’t deny your cosmic solitude. 

There’s a small knock on your door, and then Elle is peaking her wide-eyed face through a crack, looking sorry for interrupting your train of thought. 

“Mrs. Powell just asked for you and Andrew to go to her office,” she tells you.

“Wonderful,” you quip, standing up and straightening your pencil skirt, not at all excited at the uncomfortable situation you’d be in once you entered your boss’s office. 

“I really think it’s about BTS…” Elle says shyly, walking alongside you towards the elevator. 

“It most likely is. She’s probably going to have us kill each other for the story.” 

“You were always a scrapper,” your friend jokes. 

“Don’t give me too much credit, Elle. I grew up in Washington. The closest thing to a fight I’ve been in was trying to squeeze into a bus with ten other people during a rainstorm.” 

“I’ve seen how you get when you want a position,” she tells you as the elevator doors start to slide shut, “you’ll knock 'em dead.” 

Her face disappears behind the metal panels, and the elevator rises. 

You could go for the job, yank it out from under Andrew’s nose, and enjoy Seoul, you hadn’t been to before, and you did very much enjoy traveling. Or you could simply stay home and watch Friends reruns, edit another reporter’s papers, and drink champagne. You could buy some Ben and Jerry’s and take some sick days, go to a spa, and just relax. 

The latter wasn’t you, though. You were driven, adventurous, and properly bored with New York. You needed a change of scenery, even if it were only for a few weeks, and if you could take Elle, that’d only make Seoul more enjoyable. 

With your mind set, and the doors to the elevator opening upon arrival to the thirtieth floor, you step out and walk with purpose towards the office marked “Powell.” 

“Thanks for finally joining us, Y/N,” Andrew mutters as soon as you’ve stepped foot into the room. 

“Nice to see you, too, Andrew.” You smile, masking irritation with friendly courtesy. 

“Cool it, Klein,” Powell huffs, eyeing Andrew coldly. “Go ahead and have a seat, Y/N,” she motions towards the chair opposite where she’s sitting at her desk, and you take it, avoiding the glare Andrew sends your way as you sit to his left. 

“I’m sure you’ve both been bombarded with notifications throughout the day about the ‘Persona’ tour taking place in South Korea later this month?” She asks, smiling, when you both nod. “Great, well, I had Margaret over on the tech floor set us up with better alerting algorithms last month, and they’ve worked magic for us today. We managed to book a two-person reporting gig for the entirety of the tour-”

“You’re sending me with Y/N? Doesn’t that seem a little redundant, given we’re both going for the same job?” Andrew groans, running his hand over his pointed face.

“Let me finish, Andrew,” Powell snaps, “I was going to say that you guys could pick who, amongst yourselves, would go with an apprentice, but given your outburst, I am choosing to send Y/N. We’re sending a reporter to interview the band and review the tour, not fight amongst coworkers.” 

You hold back a laugh, shocked that you’d gotten the job without having to lift a finger. “But- I didn’t mean to” 

“But you did,” Powell states dryly. “And now Y/N will be going to Korea for three weeks while you continue covering the President’s tweets.” 

That, you do laugh at. “At least you’ll have a lot of content,” you joke. 

Andrew huffs, grabs his coffee from the end table between your chairs, and leaves the room swiftly, jaw locked and scowl present. 

“So,” Powell shifts her gaze from the slightly slammed office door to your still-shocked expression, “your trip is pretty much all set up, you leave in three days, and the tour starts in five. The hotels will be paid for, of course, I just need to know who you’d like to bring along with you and whether you’ll be needing a spare room or just one with two beds when we book your stays.” 

“Oh, just one room will be fine,” you tell her, “I’ll bring Elle along with me, she does a spectacular job of helping to revise my articles already.” 

“Sounds great, I’ll just let HR know who’s being sent and fill out some paperwork, and you guys should be set. Your first interview with BTS will be the night you land, so you’ll have to get situated in the hotel quickly. From there on, I’ll continue emailing and calling with updates and schedules. Pretty smooth sailing, all and all.” 

“Just how I like it,” you smile, shaking her offered hand and leaving the room. 

You don’t expect Andrew to be waiting for you at the elevator, but there he is, in all of his angry-man glory; face red and temper very obviously still flaring. 

“Andrew, I really don’t thi--”

“No, you listen here,” he stops you, voice low and threatening. “I’ve worked my fucking ass off to be where I am today and I will not have my career ruined by some up-and-coming 20 year old floozy. You hear me?” He shouts, finger waving in your face as sweat beads on his forehead. 

“I don’t understand why you even-” 

“I don’t care if you don’t understand! My point is, watch your fucking back and stay the hell out of my way.” He spits, pushing past you and towards the stairs on the opposite side of the hallway. 

What the fuck? 

“He said what?” Elle asks, shoving another forkful of ramen into her mouth.

“The man’s fucking insane,” you tell her, twisting your own noodles with your fork, “it’s not like I targeted him as soon as I walked into the office! I literally just sat there and listened. Didn’t have to utter a peep.” 

“I can’t believe he called you a floozy. Is he stuck in the ’60s?” She mocks. “Listen, I know you’re upset, and after a situation like that, no one can blame you… But, Y/N, look on the bright side. We’re going to have so much fun in South Korea. I can’t thank you enough for letting me come with you. I really can’t.”

“Buy me lunch once a week for the next two months and we’ll call it even,” you joke.

“Deal,” Elle replies instantly. “You’re the only person I know who will eat noodles every day with me and not get tired of them.”

“It’s good food,” you reply, “people are just ungrateful.” 

It’s almost as if you’ve blinked and you’re getting off the plane in Seoul. The last few days passed by in a blur as you and Elle attended a few meetings, going over company policies and general rules of thumb. No sexually explicit questions, no touching the interviewee, be on time for the interviews, dress appropriately, etc.

“It’s colorful here,” Elle exhales, stepping to your side as you wait for a taxi. “Kind of exhilarating.” 

“It’s pretty breathtaking,” you agree, smiling at a taxi driver who finally acknowledges the two of you and pulls to the curb. You give him the hotel address once he’s situated your luggage in the trunk, and you rest your back against the leather interior as the car begins to weave through traffic. 

“Where do you wanna go first?” Elle asks after nearly half an hour of silence, “We could go to a local restaurant? Cam told me about a few places he’s been to that have completely ruined American cuisine for him.” 

“Well, first we have an interview.” You placate her, “food, after. Maybe we could walk the streets later and sightsee?” 

“Mmm, fair enough.” Elle smiles. “Thank you, Y/N. No, I really mean it,” she says, shrugging off the interjection that’s ready to roll off your tongue. “I know people usually say thank you just to serve their own egos, but I really mean it. You’re a good friend, and I appreciate that.” 

You blush, not quite knowing how to respond. 

“We’re going to have a great time,” Elle adds, filling the silence, “this will be the best work trip either of us has ever been on, I swear it.” 

“Alright, you’re getting sappy,” you chuckle, nudging her shoulder. “Save it for when we reflect on the trip a few months down the line, huh?” 

“You’re not very emotive, are you?” She jokes. 

“Hey, I can be emotional. I just choose not to act on my emotions in front of other people. I promise you, inside- very deep inside my body, my psyche is curled in the fetal position and crying from just how you’ve moved me.” 

“Shut up,” she scoffs, shoving you lightly. Her eyes light up as she glances out of the passenger window from her back seat. “Is that it?” 

You follow her gaze to the gargantuan building ahead of the taxi, and your mouth gapes. “That’s it…” You breathe, completely taken aback by how luxurious the hotel looked. 

“Wow…” 

“You can say that again.” 

You pay the taxi driver and bow, thanking him in Korean. Elle is already out of the small vehicle, pulling her luggage out of the trunk with a few grunts. You couldn’t hold off your work forever, despite how nervous you were growing. You could do this. You knew you could. Turning to the nearest bellhop and signaling him over, you begin to pull your suitcase out of the trunk.

“We have roughly 2 hours before we’re supposed to be downtown to meet with BTS for the interview,” you tell her. “So that gives us an hour to get ready. Powell said Big Hit offered a driver to us during the tour.”

“A driver? But we’re interviewing them, not the other way around,” she replies, following you and the bellhop as he escorts you to the front desk inside the massive building to retrieve your key. 

“I guess they really appreciate American media covering them,” you tell her, “maybe they’re considering another U.S tour sooner rather than later,” you shrug. 

“Your keys, Miss L/N.” The bellhop tells you, handing you the golden objects on a ring. Room #901, that’d put you pretty high up. 

“Thank you,” you tell him, smiling widely. “Would you be able to lead the way and get our bags up there? We’re on a time crunch,” you tell him in his native tongue. He nods his agreement and grabs a silver luggage cart from behind the front desk. 

You’re shocked that M-Buzz has put you and Elle on the top floor, not quite expecting the obvious pampering. 

“This is just so exciting!” Elle chirps, nearly scaring the poor bellhop. You offered him an apology for her outburst and huff. “I mean, the top floor? Cam has never mentioned being treated to a top-floor suite.” 

“It’s not what I figured we’d be getting, that’s for sure.” You mumble, “Maybe there’s some sort of catch? An extra 50,000-word write-up? Deducted pay?” 

“Oh, give M-Buzz some credit, Y/N.” 

“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, I do, and I’m not complaining in the slightest. I just didn’t expect it. We’re only going to be in Seoul for a week or so anyway. We have two other major cities to go to after.” 

“You have a point,” Elle agrees, “but I don’t think they’d dock our pay. The write-up seems more realistic. But you have gifted fingers, it’ll be a breeze for you.” 

“Magic fingers?” You question her, cheeks blazing. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Y/N. Everyone around the office calls you Magic Fingers because of how quickly you can pull a five-star article out of your ass.” 

You send her a pointed glare, this time verbally apologizing to the bellhop for her crudeness. You only had ten floors to ascend, and then you’d be free from the claustrophobic confines of the elevator and the awkward social setting looming inside of it.

“I just write whatever pops into my head, I don’t overthink it…” You explain, feeling completely self-conscious, breathing out a sigh of relief when the elevator doors finally open, revealing a large hallway with only one door on either wall. 

“Penthouse 901,” the bellhop announces, shoving the key into the lock and pushing the door open for you and Elle.

“Holy crap,” Elle squeaks. 

“Thank you,” you tell the bellhop, handing him a 10,000 won tip, hoping it’ll cover the cost for Elle’s loose lips. He bows and exits the room, leaving you and Elle to gape at the extravagant room alone. 

“This is kind of amazing,” you whisper, eyeing the white marble floors and granite countertops in the massive kitchen. 

“Kind of amazing? It’s fucking incredible, Y/N,” Elle corrects you. “They even sent us a bottle of champagne.” 

“For a reporting job?” You wonder aloud, still not quite grasping the intricacy of the penthouse you were situated in. 

“Who knows?” Elle answers, “I’m not complaining.” 

You shake the slight unease you feel, and start to unpack your belongings, makeup bag, and toothbrush, some of the first things you grasp. “I’m going to find a bathroom in this castle and get ready. You should do the same,” you chide, pulling your hair into a loose ponytail. 

“Meet you back here in an hour?” Elle shouts, already at the opposite end of the mini-mansion. 

“Sounds good!” You holler, pushing open a door and gasping at the bedroom in front of you. Satin sheets, dark maroon walls, wall-length mirrors, and a massive television screen glaring at you with purpose. “Wow,” you whisper, openly admiring the intricacy of the carpet and bedding. “Later, Y/N,” you order yourself, refocusing your whirling mind on getting ready for the interview mere hours ahead of you.

You had drafted a multitude of questions for said interview while on the flight, thankful that Elle had drifted asleep for the entire duration you were in the air. God knows you would’ve gotten nothing done had your coworker been awake. 

Aside from clothing and a tad bit of makeup, you were ready. Beyond ready, in fact. So why were nerves still prickling at the back of your psyche and rendering you a shaking mess right now? 

You want to break down and have a good cry, but you know that’ll serve you no good. You have a job to do here, and you weren’t going to let M-Buzz and Elle down. Maybe if you did a great job you’d have more extravagant trips to look forward to, Elle included. 

You splash your face with water from the connecting bathroom, and look at your face in the mirror. Nerves definitely had done their work on you, your pupils were still slightly dilated from your strange near-panic attack and you had cold sweats.

Thankfully, you had packed your favorite lavender body oil, which always seemed to soothe your anxiety when huge work or life obstacles such as this clouded your mind. A pat of the scented liquid against your throat and wrists, a natural makeup look completed with a mauve lip, and your new black pencil skirt paired with your pastel pink blouse and a high bun had you feeling rejuvenated and even excited for the interview. You didn’t even trip once in your nude Miu Miu heels on your way from your bedroom to the living room. 

Elle waited, as she said she would, in the entryway of the luxurious penthouse. “I thought you said Powell was going to hook us up with a one-bedroom?” 

“She did,” you tell her, “can you please not use the phrase ‘hook us up with’ in a sentence, please?” You groan. “It sounds like you’re talking about us fucking the room.” 

“You are especially frisky today, Y/N what’s gotten into you?” She asks, wiggling her brows suggestively. 

“Nothing has gotten into me, Elle,” you shout, “I’m just excited to do the interview, that’s all. I wanna bring up astrology signs and stuff,” you explain, “it’s going to be fun!” 

“For you,” Elle quips, leading you out of the room and into the elevator. “Not everyone is as involved with astrology as you are, you know.” 

“I’m not involved with astrology,” you huff, “readers like to learn this stuff about their celebrity crushes. It’s not far-fetched,” you grumble. 

“I’m just teasing you,” she laughs, nudging you. “I’m sure the interview will be fun. I know you were plotting out questions and topics the entire flight.” 

“Wha-”

“You type loud,” she shrugs. “It’s good to be prepared, don’t be embarrassed.” 

You want to argue with her for the sake of your ego, but you know she was right. She’d embarrassed you, not necessarily a hard feat for her, given how well she’d come to know you. 

“Powell wants me to try and interview them in mainly English, but she said that if I think it’s easier to do it in Korean, that would work, too.” You tell Elle, kicking at the elevator floor as it continues its slow descent. “I don’t like it when she leaves me to make the big decisions.” 

“Oh, Y/N. You always do this.” Elle groans, rubbing her hand against her face.

“Do what?” You ask, slightly defensive.

“Psych yourself out before the interviews you do. You second-guess everything, and then the second we walk into the interviewing room, you completely shift. It’s like you were never worried in the first place, you just… go with the flow?” She explains, “it makes the worrying you do beforehand incredibly frustrating. Especially knowing how confident and driven you are outside of interviews and work.” 

“I’m sorry…” You say, sad that you’d made her even an inkling upset. 

“Don’t be, it’s very you. I’m not frustrated you experience it, just frustrated you don’t seem to credit yourself enough on how spectacular of a job you do all in all. And as far as the English or Korean topic goes, the guys have been learning more English from what I’ve learned, so they might surprise you and make the decision for you.” 

“I appreciate that,” you tell her, because truthfully, you do. “I’ll try my best not to be a mope the rest of the tour, I swear!” You hold out your pinky, grateful that she doesn’t leave you hanging as you lock in your promise. 

The elevator finally dings, and the two of you step out, crossing the lobby quickly and hopping into the black SUV that waits outside of the hotel with your name in the passenger window. The driver greets you, quickly explaining his job at Big Hit, which literally consists of driving interviewers and members of Big Hit to and from locations during tours and press conferences. 

“We appreciate you driving us,” you tell him in Korean, leaning towards the front seats so you can see him better, and noting his slight blush and the creases that form at the corners of his eyes as he takes your compliment. 

“We will be arriving at the Big Hit building in ten minutes,” he tells you, “it’s a pretty short drive.” 

“That’s great. We’ll make it on time, then.” You smile, repeating his statement in English for Elle as she watches the night scenery flitter by her outside of her window. 

“Do you think they’ll be as beautiful as they are on screen in person?” Elle asks.

“More than likely,” you answer her, “but we aren’t here to pine over them. You’ve got a soulmate back home to worry about,” you chastise her.

“Yeah, but you don’t.” She replies dryly after a few minutes pass, “and I am still single, you know.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave her off, “you and Cam have both made that abundantly clear.” 

“Shut up,” she mumbles, pulling her cardigan tighter around her body while she sulks. “It’d be weird if we got together.” 

“Why?” You ask her, interest piqued, “Because you work together? Don’t give me that.” 

“No, because I dated his brother in high school.” 

You were not expecting that. Whatsoever. 

“You dated his brother?” You ask incredulously. 

“Yes, his brother. Adam.” She snaps. “Didn’t end all too well.” 

“I’m sorry, Elle,” you tell her honestly, “I didn’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t joke about it.” 

“It’s okay, there are reasons Cam and I don’t bring it up.” She shrugs. “Oh, look!” She points, and you follow her finger, seeing the mostly-glass-constructed building that’s lit up down the expansive driveway you’ve turned onto. 

“That’s a lot of windows.” 

“Nice assessment.” Elle laughs. 

“Thanks. It was exhausting to make.” You joke back, pulling your notebook you kept with you during interviews, out of your purse. 

“I can’t believe we’re going to meet them,” Elle smiles, “I’ve been listening to them since 2 Cool 4 Skool was released.” 

“I listened to Wings when it was released, but aside from that, research is my extent of BTS knowledge.” You tell her. 

“Wait, what?” She asks, taken aback.

“I just kinda stopped listening to music and paying it any attention after my dad passed away in high school.” You shrug. “They released that in my senior year, so I gave it a listen. It was good, but I don’t know. I didn’t want to listen to music like I did when my dad was around, I guess.” 

The car comes to a stop before Elle can reply, and your driver steps out to open your door. You bow, thanking him and heading towards the Big Hit worker who waits for you and Elle at the front door to the Big Hit establishment. 

“Y/N?” The young woman asks. 

“That is me.” You answer kindly, shaking her offered hand. 

“The boys are waiting for you and your co-writer in the main room. I am Mai, and I will be guiding you there and staying on hand for any questions you may have during the interview.” She tells you.

“That’s wonderful! Thank you.” You answer her, following her and signaling for Elle to do the same as she leads you over the threshold and into the marvelous entryway of the building.

“This way,” she directs you, stepping down a small flight of stairs and into a ridiculously well-lit room, every piece of furniture and decor white, save for the three chairs and two sofas that are burgundy. 

You can feel sets of eyes on you as you enter the room, but you wait until you’re sat in the lounge chair that Mai directs you to stand in front of to raise your chin and look the boys in the eyes. 

To say they’re gorgeous is quite possibly a disservice to them. They’re ethereal, otherworldly. 

“Hello,” you address them, your voice surprisingly steady given your inward disarray from simply looking at them. “My name is Y/N L/N, I’m a reporter from M-Buzz, an up-and-coming news source in Manhattan, New York.” 

Some of the boys are glancing at you with confused expressions on their faces, and you can swear that two of them look at you with complete shock and bewilderment. You save yourself a lengthy self-analysis and repeat your introduction to them in Korean.

“Woah! Are you fluent in Korean?” One with a giant smile, black hair, a yellow Gucci crewneck, and an exuberant voice asks you. 

“Hoseok, we haven’t even introduced ourselves,” another rebukes the man who must be Hoseok, his voice a velvety, rich sound that nearly has you blushing. 

“I’m so sorry!” Hoseok rushes, bowing to you, “My name is Jung Hoseok, or JHope! It’s nice to meet you.” 

You smile gently at him, “It’s nice to meet you, too, Hoseok.” 

“I’m Kim Namjoon, or RM,” the one with the rich voice tells you, bowing as Hoseok did. He’s very well defined and the tallest of the bunch. His lips are drawn up in a smile, but you can tell that they’re shapely. You absentmindedly notice his hands, the size of them, and the muscles that shift in his arms as he plays with his hands in his lap. 

“Don’t keep her all to yourselves,” another voice rings out. You glance at the owner of the new voice, pleased with what you see, though you’d never say that aloud. His lips are full, eyes bright, and hair a butterscotch blond. “I’m Kim Seokjin, but ARMY calls me Jin, or Worldwide Handsome.” 

You smile, returning his bow. 

“I’m Kim Taehyung!” A man with a bandana tied across his forehead to keep back his chocolate brown hair smiles, eyes bright and boxy-smile infectious. “ARMY calls me V.” 

“I’m Jeon Jungkook!” The muscular figure next to Taehyung introduces himself, his smile wide and cheeks flushed as you shift your gaze to him. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.” He smiles even wider, a feat you thought impossible. 

“I’m Park Jimin!” The next introduces himself, his smile sweet, but something lying beneath his eyes tells you that sweet is something he can be far from. His hair is a light pastel pink, his eyes crinkle as he smiles at you, bowing. You recognize that he’d been one of the men to look at you in shock.

You look to the last figure, sensing his eyes still on you. They are. He looks to you with the same expression Jimin had prior to the introductions, eyes serious as they take you in. “Min Yoongi,” he says simply, nodding his head towards you. 

You smile at him, slightly uncomfortable with the way he and Jimin seem to be fixated on you. 

“It’s nice to meet all of you. This is my co-writer, Elle.” You motion towards your protege. “She doesn’t speak Korean.” You explain. 

“Ah,” Namjoon speaks up, “they aren’t all fluent in speaking English yet, but they’ve been practicing and understand most of it. We can do the interview in English and then translate what needs to be translated into Korean. If that works?” 

“That’s great!” You answer him, breaking into English to explain the conversation to Elle. You smile when the guys all introduce themselves to her in English. The beginning of the interview goes about how all interviews ever go. 

The cameras are set up, you redo your introductions, and you ask the basic questions. Favorite colors, favorite songs on their current album, favorite songs of theirs in general, celeb crushes, etc. 

You’re excited when the first thirty minutes pass and the interview opens up to the part you’re most hyped for. Astrology. This had been fun to come up with. 

“So, for this next part of the interview, I’d like for us to talk about our astrology signs in order from oldest to youngest. The fans are really excited about this.” 

“Dinosaur Jin!” Taehyung shouts, earning guffaws of laughter from everyone but Jin. 

“You won’t be laughing when you’re 26 and exhausted,” he pouts. 

“So, Jin-hyung is the oldest. When’s your birthday?” You ask, preparing your notepad. 

“December 4, 1992.” He tells you, and your brain momentarily comes to a stop. 12.4.92 plays on a loop in your mind. “That makes you a Sagittarius,” you tell him, “your sign is an archer! Your element is fire, your birthstone is topaz, and your ruling planet is Jupiter, the biggest one.” 

“As it should be.” He quips, wiggling his eyebrows at his bandmates. 

“Who’s next?” You ask, nerves building. 

“Suga!” and “Yoongi” are immediately shouted out, and the man in question tears his eyes from you to look at his members. 

“Huh?” He asks.

“You weren’t paying attention again, hyung! You have to tell Y/N when your birthday is,” Mai interjects from her director’s chair.

“Oh, sorry.” Yoongi mumbles, turning back to face you, gaze heated. “My birthday is March 9, 1993.” 

You freeze, more of the code on your mind ringing in your ears. 3.9.93. 

“That makes you, uh…” You trail off, thinking. “Pisces! That’s it. Yeah, your sign is two koi, your element is water, your birthstone is amethyst, and your ruling planet is Neptune!” 

“Cool,” he answers emotionlessly, still gazing at you, looking nothing short of perplexed. 

“Next?” You call.

“Hoseok!” Namjoon tells you, looking at his friend proudly.

“My birthday is February 18, 1994! I think I was already told that I’m an Aquarius!” He explains happily. 

You’d love to reply with enthusiasm, but the numbers are rolling in your mind, and now you’re tying the letters into them as well. Jin’s birthday was the first set of numbers on your wrist, but his initials were S.K? Wait, no. If you used Korean, as you should, his initials were K.S.

Your feet lift you out of your seat and out of the building without a second thought, and you race for the car, already asking the driver to take you back to your hotel immediately. He looks concerned, but acquiesces, pulling out of the driveway swiftly. In your haste, you’d left your notebook and Elle, but you’d shoot her a text or call her once you got back to the penthouse. You’d needed to do some research and figure out if you were right on this.

Because there was no way in hell that BTS, in its entirety, was your soulmate(s).

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Kim Seokjin. December 4, 1992. The name and birthdate correspond perfectly with the first set of initials and date. You could chalk it up to coincidence, but looking more into it had your heart threatening to leap from your throat. 

Min Yoongi. M.Y. The second set of initials, another match. March 9, 1993. Another flutter rose in your chest.

Jung Hoseok. J.H. February 18, 1994.

Kim Namjoon. K.N. September 12, 1994. 

Park Jimin. P.J. October 13, 1995. 

Kim Taehyung. K.T. December 30, 1995. 

And Jeon Jungkook. J.J. The stutter at the end of your frustratingly long list of numbers. September 1, 1997. 

You’d need a massive bottle of vodka to wash down the events of this evening. The Big Hit driver, Shei, you’d learned his name on the drive back to the hotel, had asked you numerous times what was happening. You couldn’t blame him; you’d essentially shoved him back into the SUV and ordered him to take you back to the hotel as if your life depended on it. 

He didn’t hesitate; you’d figured that wasn’t in his code of conduct. He obliged immediately, peeling out of the Big Hit Entertainment driveway without a care to give. 

He did want answers, as any person under the amount of stress and complete confusion you’d forced onto his shoulders would be. But how were you supposed to explain that during the most pivotal and important interview in your career to date, you’d discovered and found that not only did you have a soulmate, you had seven! And to make a confusing situation even more confusing, all of your soulmates made up one of the most sensational boy groups ever? Shei would probably make a U-turn on the freeway and take you to a psychiatrist, which, now that you think about it, could be helpful. 

“You left me!” Elle shouts through the phone, “I had to wing the rest of the interview, and the boys all got really quiet after we finished the astrology skit!” 

“Wait- finished it? How?” You question her, momentarily forgetting about the inner soliloquy. 

“You left your notebook in your chair! I told them about your horoscope and then mine.” She huffs. “That’s not what matters, though! Don’t try and get me sidetracked. You left me alone, and I didn’t know what to do! I just listed out your questions like a robot!” 

“You told them my horoscope?” You choke out, breathing becoming more difficult with each passing second, she doesn’t answer.

“What the fuck, Y/N? Weren’t you going to? The notes said to compare and contrast our horoscopes with theirs!” 

You mentally slap yourself, angry with yourself that you’d forgotten your notebook and that you hadn’t prepped Elle better, for her own sake, before the interview.

“I’ll make it up to you, I swear…” You sigh. “I just… I had to come back to the hotel.”

“Why?” Elle argues, and you feel the bitter pang of guilt well in your chest. She’d never spoken to you so harshly, and what hurts more is that you know she’s not in the wrong. You were unprofessional. “What was so important that you left me and BTS hanging? You know, we’re going to have to speak to HR about this?” 

Fuck. You really didn’t think your actions through at all.

“I can speak to HR,” you reassure her. “There’s no excuse for leaving the interview like that. I know that much. I just- I don’t know! Have you ever had a fight or flight instinct kick in?” 

“What? No?” Elle answers. “I don’t understand what that has to do wi-”

“I had to leave, Elle.” You explain, exhaustion and jet lag sinking in and catching up with you. “I just-I went into a weird shock and I needed to leave.” 

Elle remains silent for a few minutes, and you almost check the call to make sure she hasn’t hung up on you. “Okay…” she sighs. 

“Thank you-”

“No, no, no. Don’t shove the thank you’s onto me right now. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, still. I’m not completely stupid or oblivious, Y/N.” You can hear her grimace through the phone line. “I saw the way that the guys froze up when I told them your birthday.” 

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“And I know for a fact that Yoongi and Jimin looked at you like you’d shocked them with tasers when you gave them your name!” 

“Elle-”

“No! Don’t ‘Elle,’ me. Explain to me what’s going on!” 

You grip the phone tightly against your ear, afraid to say what you know is most likely the truth. The words are about to slip out of your mouth, but a sob emerges instead, shocking you and most likely scaring Elle.

“I just- there’s so much going on and I don’t know what to do.” You stammer out, shaking on the loveseat you’re curled into. “I can’t even begin to tell you what’s going through my mind right now.” 

“Holy shit, it’s that bad? Did one of them hurt you?” She asks, and you can vaguely hear her asking, no, more like ordering, someone to drive her to the hotel.

“No!” You shout, “No! They didn’t hurt me. I’ve never met any of them before.” 

“You swear?” She asks, voice slightly wobbly with worry. 

“I swear on my life,” you reply instantly. “It’s just way too much to explain over the phone, can’t I just tell you when you get back?” 

She hesitantly obliges, but forces you into staying on the line with her until she gets off the hotel elevator onto your floor. You can tell she’s been worrying her ass off when she walks into the living room of the penthouse, eyes wide, pupils dilated and breathing labored. 

“Now,” she breathes loudly, “care to explain what the actual hell is going on?” 

You scooch over, patting the cushion next to you, and Elle sits down, gaze worrying at your teary eyes and confused face. 

You bite your bottom lip, wondering if showing her would be easier than explaining. You know she’d seen the lengthy piece of ink on your wrist before at work, but you’d explained to her that you were just an error in the universe’s system. Certainly, no one in existence, even someone with the largest imagination, would deduce that you had seven famous soulmates. 

“Just- look.” You breathe out, deciding on ‘fuck it,’ and shoving your armsleeve up to your elbow. You twist your wrist, giving Elle a very clear view of the long list of numbers and letters. She takes her time, eyeing all of the black print before looking at you, still confused. 

“Kim Seokjin,” you point towards the first set of initials, “born on December 4, 1992.” You point to the corresponding date. She knits her brows together, refocusing on the puzzle on your arm.

“Min Yoongi,” you point again, “March 9, 1993.” 

“Jung Hoseok,” she whispers in awe. “Kim Namjoon, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, Jeon Jungkook… Holy shit.” 

“And now you see my dilemma.” You conclude, cocooning further into the giant hoodie you’d shrugged into once you got back to the suite. “I always thought that this,” you wave your left arm around dramatically, “was just a sign that I was pretty much condemned to isolation. But, nope! I’ve got seven fucking soulmates and they’re all ridiculously famous. How the hell is any of that supposed to work?” 

“Wait,” Elle stops your monologue, “does this mean that they’re all each other’s soulmates? Or is it just your initials and birthdate on their wrists? Or…” she starts, “maybe nothing of yours is on their wrists.” 

“Well-”

“No! Because Jimin and Yoongi looked like two fish out of water when you told them your name, and the rest of them looked the same after I’d told them your birthday.” She explains. 

“So we can assume that my initials are on their arms?” You question aloud. “I don’t know if I want to jump to that conclusion yet.” You huff, “This all just seems so… ridiculous? I don’t understand how I’d end up with BTS as my soulmate, or is it soulmates? I didn’t think you could even have more than one!” 

“It’s not unheard of,” Elle tells you. “My great-grandmother had both her first husband’s and second husband’s initials and birthdates.” 

“Yeah, but those are two people,” you say, remembering when she’d told you of her great-grandmother. It’d been on a work trip some months back, if you remember correctly. “I have seven people tattooed across my wrist. And I didn’t plan on marrying seven times.” 

“Maybe you don’t have to.” Elle reasons, “We don’t know how their relationship works. We don’t know if they’re just working together or if they’re something more. We don’t know how many initials they have on their arms. They cover them with makeup before every public appearance they make.” 

“I guess you’re right…” You grumble. “I just don’t understand. Why me?” You ask no one in particular. 

“Maybe you’ve got enough moxie for seven guys,” Elle jokes, nudging you playfully. “C’mon, Y/N. You’re hot! A complete catch. Why shouldn’t you have seven devastatingly attractive men pining for your affections?” 

You roll your eyes, groaning at the thought of seven fully grown men trying to get your attention. “It’s a headache waiting to happen,” you tell her, rubbing your temples. 

Both of you jump when Elle’s phone rings. You look at her, confusion running amok through your mind. She shrugs, answering the call with a smooth ‘hello.’ 

“Oh! Hi!” Elle chirps, mouthing ‘Big Hit’ to you. “Ah, that’s so generous of them!” She smiles, “Yes, of course. Nerves can get to anyone,” she points a glance at you. “Tomorrow? That works!” Pause. “Thank you so much, I can’t express how much we appreciate this opportunity.” 

She taps off the call, turning to you immediately with a blinding smile. 

“The boys worked their magic and have told Big Hit not to file a complaint over your work manners,” she laughs, “and they’d like to meet up again tomorrow for a rerun. At a restaurant they’re having rented out!” She squeals.

“They’re renting out a restaurant?” You cough out, completely taken aback. “And they stopped a formal complaint from being filed?”

“They’re your knights in shining Gucci tuxedos.” Elle laughs.  

“Not funny…” You snap. “That’s too much to expect from them…” you sigh.

“You didn’t expect anything,” Elle reasons, “they’re being nice, and honestly? They might be trying to break the ice.” 

“What ice?” You groan, offended at her cliché wording.

“You know, the awkwardness that today probably blew up like a helium balloon. You did literally sprint out of the interview after Hoseok mentioned being an Aquarius.” 

You blush crimson at the reminder, “Thanks for that.” 

“Hey, you’re the one who turned into Usain Bolt during an astrology reading. Not me.” 

“Fuck off!” You shout, throwing a couch pillow at her and hitting her directly in the face.

“Uncalled for,” she whines, hitting you back with it. “You have to go see them.” 

“No, I don’t!” You argue, “I have options. I could flee the country, or the continent! Go home, pack my little townhouse, and move to Alaska.” 

“Alaska?” Elle asks, exasperated. “Really?” 

“It’s far enough away.” You shrug.

“Don’t pull this! You should at least meet with them and see what they think of everything. I’m sure they’re as confused as you are.” Elle chides. 

“Fine!” You shout, standing from the couch and heading for your bedroom, “but don’t be shocked if I’m in a shitty mood in the morning!” 

You hear her laughing as you seclude yourself into your room, the events from the day rendering you beyond exhausted. You let out a big sigh, climbing into your bed and under the covers. You’d be meeting up with the boys for the second time within 24 hours tomorrow. 

You honestly couldn’t tell whether you were excited at the nearing reunion, or completely fucking terrified.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You bolt straight up, cold sweat dripping off your body. You’re confused initially, remembering very vividly how you were drowning a second ago. It takes a few minutes for your body and mind to adjust, the realization that you were dreaming slowly resounding in your mind, slowing your breathing, and calming your racing heartbeat. Your fingers loosen their vice-like hold on the silken sheets beneath your trembling body.

You were in Seoul, and you’d landed, you glance at the clock on the bedside table, roughly 7 hours ago. The number ‘7’ lights up in bold script behind your eyelids. 7 soulmates. BTS.

Your mind whirls through the damn near delusional happenings of the day before, trying to piece together some sort of explanation or resolution to your dilemma, but you come up empty handed. You scoop your phone off the bedside table, immediately opening ‘Google’ and typing in what you assume you should type given your… predicament. 

‘What does it mean to have more than one soulmate?’ glares at you, the brightness of the phone screen only adding to the discomfort you feel when researching such a topic at 5 AM. You turn the blinding graphics down, making a sound you can only compare to a car engine failing to start, as the only search results that pop up are for people who have anywhere from 2-4 sets of initials and birthdates. 

Okay, having 4 was probably frightening, too. You couldn’t be too harsh on Google or the human race for not having dealt with your specific situation. 7 soulmates? You’d never even considered the possibility of such a pairing. 

The same questions Elle had the night before race through your mind as you sit in the hotel bed, at 5 AM, in Seoul, alone.

What if they didn’t have your initials on their arms? What if not all of them had your initials on their arms? What if they were going to make you choose between them?

You felt sick. Sick to your stomach. Not wanting to soil the expensive bed sheets in your room, you rush to the connected bathroom, kneeling pitifully in front of the toilet and emptying your stomach into the porcelain bowl and water below. 

You rest against the cool tile of the floor once the heaving has stopped, hair sticking to your forehead, and your head aching. You reach lamely for a courtesy bathrobe that’s tied to the bathroom door, wrapping it around you like a blanket, and use a pile of hand towels as a makeshift pillow, before falling asleep on the bathroom floor. 

“Are you okay?” Elle shakes you awake, her blond hair pulled into a ponytail, and eyes wide and worried as she looks at you.

“M’fine.” You grumble, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Just had a bad dream.” 

“So you fell asleep in the bathroom?” She asks you, confused.

“No, I felt sick when I remembered what happened last night…” You breathe out. 

“Ah,” Elle sighs, “yeah, I can’t imagine what’s going through your head right now.” 

“Too much,” you answer her, slowly sitting up. 

“I’ll make you some breakfast!” She chirps. “That gives you time to get ready for the meeting with the boys later!” 

“Shit, I almost forgot about that. Why’d you have to remind me?” You groan, standing up and grabbing your toothbrush. 

“You need to at least talk to them, Y/N. They saved our asses from possible suspension at work and they clearly want to speak to you about the whole… situation.” She mumbles. “Plus, maybe they’ll tell you some stuff we can use in our articles.” 

“Tell me?” You question her, toothpaste spilling out of your mouth and onto your pajamas. “You’re going with me!” 

“Uh, no. I’m not.” Elle shrugs at your shocked expression, “I don’t need to be there, and frankly, I shouldn’t be there. They asked to meet with you, they didn’t ask for me by name as well; and there’s some pretty, er, intimate things they might want to ask you.”

“What?!” You choke, the toothbrush falling from between your lips and into the sink. 

“I don’t mean it like that,” she laughs. “Although that’d make for an interesting read.” She jokes, “I mean, they might want to get to know you personally. Me being there would make things incredibly awkward.” 

“Can’t you at least wait for me close by? You could be my savior if I need to get out of there quickly…” You explain, spitting your toothpaste into the sink and rinsing your mouth. 

She looks ready to protest, but you silence her by placing your hand over her mouth. “I brought you on this trip with me, Elle. Not as a coworker, but as a friend. It’d mean more to me than I could possibly begin to explain if you’d be on standby for me while I’m talking to them.” 

She rolls her eyes at you, but nods her head in agreement. “You owe me, big time.” She scoffs, “Now take a shower, and I’ll make you some breakfast.” 

The woman is true to her word. Once you’re out of the shower, smelling fresh, and dressed decently enough (a cream colored sweater and a new pair of tight jeans you bought before the trip), she places a massive plate of waffles in front of you. 

“Eat.” She orders, sitting next to you at the kitchen bar, and digging into her own plate.

“I’m nervous,” you explain, poking at your food, but taking a large bite when she eyes you. 

“I don’t blame you at all. Just try not to hyperfocus. Their wanting to meet with you and helping us avoid trouble yesterday speaks volumes. They more than likely just want to talk. Nothing extreme.” 

You nod at her reasoning, thankful that she’s there to at least try and keep you level-headed. 

“I’ll be just a few blocks down,” Elle tells you, the Big Hit driver, Shei, had put up the partition in the SUV, allowing the two of you what little privacy you could have.

“Thank you,” you tell her earnestly, meeting her friendly gaze.

“You’ll be fine,” she reassures you, “they’re really nice guys from what I saw last night.” 

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I feel so stupid.” You groan, curling in on yourself in embarrassment. 

“So you don’t want to hear about how worried they were when you split?” She asks you. You peek through the sleeve of your hoodie, interest rising. “Ah, looks like I’ll have to explain later.” She smiles, “We’re here.” 

You drift your gaze out the window, noting the bodyguards and Big Hit employees trying to blend in with the outside world. The restaurant, as previously discussed, has clearly been rented out. Upon seeing the SUV, one of the Big Hit employees, a woman you haven’t met, sends a signal to Shei. He seems to understand immediately and turns into a nearby alleyway. It takes you a moment to realize that you’d be entering through the back of the eatery. 

“I feel like a sack of drug paraphernalia.” You mope, getting unbuckled and ready to squirm your way out of your seat. You turn to Elle, nerves bubbling. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m done here.” You tell her, meaning every word. 

“Sure, sure. Just get in there before a fan sees you and bombards you.” She laughs, nudging you out of the door that Shei has opened for you. 

“Thanks,” you mumble to him, allowing another employee to lead you through the back door. The restaurant itself smells absolutely amazing, you couldn’t even begin to fathom how amazing the food would taste once it touches your taste buds. A few kitchen workers bow to you, and you return the kind gesture, feeling extremely out of place in the pristine kitchen. 

Soon enough, tile floors turn to wooden panels, and you look up to meet some of the eyes you’d run from the night before. Namjoon’s gaze is gentle on you, Jin’s is approving, taking in your figure as you stand before him. Taehyung and Jungkook are too busy playing some sort of napkin game they’ve created to acknowledge your entrance. Hoseok waves enthusiastically, a massive grin split across his bright face. 

Jimin, beautiful as ever, smiles his eye-crinkling smile that has your stomach doing cartwheels within the confines of your body. Yoongi’s eyes are serious on yours, hands fidgeting atop the table they sit at; his hair is hidden beneath a beanie that makes him look more boyish than he did yesterday. 

“Er- hi.” You say awkwardly, waving slightly at the men once you stand in front of their table. 

“Ah!” Jungkook jumps, dropping the napkin-ball once your voice hits his ears. 

“Ha!” Taehyung whoops, jumping in his seat excitedly, “you lost, Kookie!” 

“Can’t you two be normal for once?” Jin asks, shaking his head disapprovingly, but affectionately, at the two youngest members. 

“That’s a ridiculous request, hyung.” Jimin smiles, nudging Jungkook lightly. “Besides, weren’t you playing table football with Kookie and V last week?” 

Jin blushes a rosy red, clearly embarrassed he’d been outed. 

“It’s okay,” you rush to reassure him, not quite understanding your sudden need to alleviate his discomfort, “I still play Nintendogs on my DS.” 

Jin raises his eyebrows at you, along with most of the members, save for Yoongi, who still looks at you with a nervous expression. 

“Isn’t that the game where you can have a Shiba?” Taehyung smiles, “I’ve always wanted one.” 

“That’s the one,” you reply, feeling your own embarrassment flare up as the ridiculously attractive men all keep their gazes on you.

“My friends in school would play those games all of the time,” Jimin smiles, pulling a chair at the head of the table out for you before returning to his seat. “Do you like to play games, Y/N?” He smiles a toothy smile, and if you weren’t a reporter whose life consisted of reading subliminal messages, you wouldn’t have caught the sensual innuendo beyond the question.

“Jimin-ah, let’s not talk about games right now,” Yoongi speaks up, flickering his impassive glance from you, to Jimin, to you again. 

“Yoongi is right,” Namjoon nods. “We were worried last night that you wouldn’t show up.” He explains as you take your seat, keeping your hands in your lap so you don’t fidget too much or too obviously. “Some of us were worried we’d scared you off before we’d even had the chance to properly introduce ourselves. It’s safe to say we’re relieved you’re here.” 

You smile, somewhat consoled, knowing that they’d been nervous, too.

“Is there anything you’d like to eat?” Jin asks, “We’ve ordered 8 servings of rice and vegetable stir-fry already. The chef said it’d be a half hour or so.” 

“Rice and stir-fry sounds great,” you answer him, “could I get a cup of water?” You ask, your throat feeling dry from your ebbing nerves. 

Jin nods his head and goes to retrieve a pitcher of water and some glasses from the kitchen. He pours your drink gingerly, long fingers holding the pitcher with exceptional care.

“From your exit during the interview, we’re assuming you know why we invited you?” Namjoon asks, eyes kindly analyzing your posture.

“I, uh- yeah. I assume it’s about this…” You lift your left hand atop the table and push back the cream-colored fabric, revealing the numbers and letters that haunted you your entire life.

Two of the three maknaes smile once they eye the black ink on your wrist. Taehyung and Jimin looked to be far more comfortable in the situation than Jungkook, who still resembled a deer caught in the headlights. 

Hoseok makes a noise similar to a pelican, rounding the table and showing you his wrist. The letters and numbers are all the same as yours, save for one. Where you had his initials and birthdate, he had yours. 

“Show her,” Hoseok chastises his team, waiting for them all to mimic his actions. 

They do. You’re shocked as you realize with finality that you had 7 soulmates, and so did they. 

Whereas most people had another half, or third, and rarely a fourth, of their soul waiting for them inside someone else, you and the seven men in front of you had each other.

“I can’t believe we’re finally meeting you,” Taehyung smiles, hugging you to him. 

“Taehyung-ah, give her a minute.” Jin orders. 

You’re thankful he does. You weren’t disappointed in the men huddled around your dining chair, far from it, in fact. You did, however, feel the room closing in on you. 

“I just need a second…” You explain, rising to your feet, “Excuse me.” You bow to them, excusing yourself to the bathroom. 

Hardly recognizing the pale woman who stares back at you in the mirror, you douse your face with cold water from the sink, appreciating the relief it provides your heated and muted skin. You give yourself a while, not wanting to overexert your emotions and head back into the room quite yet. 

The air is cooler in the bathroom, anyway, and easier for you to breathe. You pull your phone from your back pocket, ready to text Elle and ask her to pick you up, but you glance at yourself in the mirror again, seeing the way that color is returning to your face and your breathing has regulated itself. You could do this.

Shoving your phone back in the confines of your jeans, you push the bathroom door open. The boys wait for you at the table, all of them quiet and anticipating your return. Taehyung catches your eye, his expression regretful and dejected. 

“I’m sorry I hugged you like that,” he tells you, voice radiating his honesty like a heater, “I just got so excited to finally know that you were real.” He explains, “The thought of you being uncomfortable didn’t occur to me. I’m so used to having the hyungs around, and being able to express everything that I forgot you didn’t have any of us to express yourself to growing up.” 

“It’s okay, Taehyung,” you tell him, meaning the words from the bottom of your heart. “I just get very anxious when new things blindside me.” 

He smiles at your acceptance of his apology, boxy features warming your heart. 

“So, how long have you all known about this?” You ask, pointing to your wrist.

“Since we banded together,” Namjoon answers. “It’s actually one of the main reasons we decided to debut.” He shrugs, “When I met Yoongi-hyung at a BigHit meeting and he saw my wrist, it was like I wasn’t alone anymore.” 

Yoongi smiles a gummy smile, looking at Namjoon. “I felt the same way,” he agrees, “growing up was difficult. I was ashamed of my marks and hid them. I thought they meant I’d never have a successful relationship. But when I saw Joon at the meeting, and he had his sleeves rolled up without a care to give… I just saw my initials and the rest we share, and I didn’t feel empty anymore. There was someone I could connect to.” 

“And then Hoseok showed up, loud and energetic,” Namjoon laughs. The man in question smiles, blush creeping its way onto his face. “We were both shocked,” he signals to Yoongi. “The chances of us meeting each other were slim enough, but a third showing up? It was crazy.” 

“You guys would have been lost without me,” Hoseok groans, “you’re both so messy.” 

Yoongi rolls his eyes, and Namjoon laughs. “Once Jin signed on, we kind of just let the rest play out. Figured that if luck stayed on our side, we wouldn’t need to look for ourselves.” Namjoon explains. “It was pretty smooth sailing for a while. Jungkook signed on, and then V. Jimin was last.” Jimin smiles at the mention of his name. “We only had one more person to wait for.” 

“After ‘Wings’ was released, we kind of lost hope,” Jin adds. “We thought maybe you weren’t real. We’d met people with your initials, but when we asked when their birthdays were, we got nothing.” 

You nod your head, “I grew up in Washington, went to college in California, and then moved to New York for work.” You tell them, grateful that they provide you with their undivided attention. “You know where I work, so there’s no need to explain that. There’s actually not much to explain, really. I move around a lot for reporting gigs, so I don’t have time for friends and stuff.” 

They look saddened by that, and your heart pangs in response. “It’s okay,” you reassure, “my life has been full of amazing experiences and opportunities because of my work.” 

“It sounds like it’s held you back, too…” Jungkook says, voice heavy with concern. 

“Only socially.” You reply, “I have a decent home and enough money to keep me going.” 

“Have you dated?” Jimin asks.

“Jimin-ah!” Jin scolds him, flicking his forehead. 

“It’s okay!” You tell him, “It’s a fair question. I haven’t seriously dated anyone. I’ve casually dated, though.” You explain. “Once it turns towards serious conversations and ‘what are we’s,’ I book it.” 

Jimin thinks over your answer, enamored by the casual way you gave it. 

“If we had known, we would have reached out,” Namjoon confesses, turning the conversation back towards the elephant in the room.

“If anything, I’m to blame,” you laugh. “You guys are globally famous, your names are everywhere, so are your birth dates. If I had paid more attention, we might have met sooner…” You trail off.

“Don’t blame yourself!” Hoseok consoles you, eyes unwavering as they convey his sincerity to you. “We’re meeting each other now, and that’s good enough for us.” 

You smile at his reassurance, appreciating how wholesome and bright he truly is with finality. 

“Thank you, Hoseok.” You tell him gently. 

He nearly transforms into the heart-eye emoji at you saying his name, his features softening immensely and leaving a dopey grin on his face. Jimin pats Hoseok’s shoulder, shining his crinkly-eyed smile at the older man.

“How are you feeling about all of this?” Yoongi asks, big brown eyes looking at yours with concern, the first discernible emotion you’ve seen on him since entering the room. It nearly knocks the wind out of you. The softness of his face mixed with the molten emotion beyond his eyes renders you wordless. 

“Erm-” you gape. “I, uh- I’m definitely still shocked, but I feel more at ease now,” you manage to push the words out of your mouth. “It’s way more comforting knowing that I’m not just a glitch in the system.” 

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“I always thought that I was meant to be alone,” you shrug. 

“But you have the mark,” he cocks his head, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen someone with my extent of it.” You explain, “typically people have one or two initials and birth dates on their wrist. I have seven. I figured that maybe I was just a reject.” 

He looks saddened by your explanation, “Well, you’re not.” 

“Yeah, Y/N! You’re not alone.” Jimin smiles. 

“You have us,” Taehyung adds, putting an arm around Jimin and Jungkook each.

“I also live in America,” you remind them, sipping at the water Jin had poured you earlier. “I can’t just leave my job and my home to come to Korea.” 

“Would you ever be open to the idea?” Namjoon asks.

You sit on the question for a minute, deliberating in your mind the pros and cons. The cons were intimidating. You would have to leave the job you worked so hard for, you’d leave behind your family, you’d leave behind Elle, and you’d be starting all over on a new continent. The pros, however… You could rebuild, make a new family because you weren’t around your biological family much anyway, you could still visit Elle and FaceTime her every day…

But you were getting ahead of yourself.

“I might consider it some day,” you answer Namjoon, noting the relief that fills every single member’s eyes. “But that’d be down the road a ways,” you add, “it’s not something I could just do at the drop of a hat.” 

The men nod, understanding and appreciating your answer. You don’t bother asking them the same, you know their love for their country and the people in it. It was visceral, unwavering, and stronger than any fan-artist connection you’d seen, ever. It’d be selfish to ask them to leave their livelihoods. They could still make music in America, but the emotions behind the music? The reason for making it? The heart of BTS would always remain in Korea. 

“We have another question to ask,” Jimin speaks up. You look at him and nod, giving him the go-ahead. “Well, you see, we were wondering if any of the initials on your wrist look different to you? Like maybe one seems thicker or darker?” He asks.

You furrow your brows, confused, but raise your left sleeve again and really look at the bold lettering. The food arrives as you examine your wrist, the waiter delicately placing your meal on the table in front of you.

Sure enough, a lettered pairing does stick out from the rest. You’re at a complete loss as to why you hadn’t noticed it before. You’d spent hours upon hours of your life glaring at the ink. How were you only just realizing the imperfection permanently etched atop your skin now that Jimin mentioned it? 

“Yeah…” You breathe out, looking at Jimin's waiting gaze. “I’ve never noticed it before.” 

“It’s pretty microscopic,” Namjoon explains. “It’s only really noticeable once someone addresses it.”

“That’s strange…” You murmur, looking back at your wrist. The letters only seem to have grown bolder, nearly looking italicised now that more time has passed. “It looks more bold now…” You explain, meeting the eyes of the man the bulkier text belongs to. 

He looks back at you, eyes softening as they look into yours. 

“Are mine thicker for you?” You ask him. 

“They are.” He replies. 

“What does it mean?” You ask Namjoon. 

“Well, we hunted down a woman in Daegu, she calls herself a ‘reader.’ She was pretty difficult to find, but Big Hit helped us. She specializes in the marks, has books upon books on them. She told us that there have only been a handful of cases like ours,” he tells you, “and that the bold initials are present every time. She said that the bold initials signify the strongest bond within the soulmates. For me, my strongest bond is with Hoseok.” He looks to the cheery man beside him. “As his is mine.” 

“What does that mean for you and the others?” You ask him, taking a bite of your stir-fry. 

“We’re all still soulmates,” he answers. “Nothing will ever change that. Hoseok and I just connected on a deeper level. It doesn’t mean we’re more intimate with each other, it doesn’t even mean we love each other more than we love any of you,” he motions towards everyone at the table. “It just means we’re closest with each other on a spiritual level. He’s like my twin flame. I think that’s what Americans call it sometimes.” 

You’re not unfamiliar with the terminology, but you never considered it true. You thought it was just an excuse for people to seek other relationships when they had a soulmate, or an excuse for some soulmates to be excessively smitten with each other. 

“Do you all have twin flames?” You ask the remaining members. They all nod. 

“Mine is Kookie,” Tae smiles. 

“And mine is V,” Jungkook replies. 

“Mine is Jimin,” Jin tells you. Jimin nods, “and mine is Jin,” he adds. 

“And you’re mine,” Yoongi tells you, eyes still soft and warm on yours. You flush under his direct gaze, turning into a melting pot of emotions. 

“How long have my initials been bold?” You ask him, voice wavering from the force of emotion that’s threatening to crack you open. 

“Since our debut,” he replies, taking a drink of his water. Full lips pressing against the fogged glass of the cup sinfully. He takes your ogling as a mere loss for words, “you’re here now, though. That’s all that matters.” 

You snap out of your reverie and realize that had you not been smitten by the way he drank his water, you most definitely would have been apologizing for taking so long to show up. 

“Even so, I’m still sorry for taking years to find you guys.” You tell them all, tearing your gaze from Yoongi’s soul-stirring one to address the rest of the members, your soulmates. “I do have a question, and I don’t want it to come off as rude.” 

“I’m sure it won’t,” Namjoon reassures you.

“Well, I was just wondering why you guys hide your marks? Elle said you guys cover them for interviews and public outings.” 

“We do,” he answers, “we didn’t want to go public with anything unless we had to, at least, not until you were here. We didn’t want to make any decisions unless we all had a say in them, especially given our careers.” 

You nod thoughtfully, appreciating his answer and the meaning behind it.

“That’s thoughtful of you all,” you say, smiling as you look to each of them. “Thank you.” 

They smile back. 

“If you guys want to go public with it, I’m fine with that. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” You explain.

“Are you sure?” Jungkook asks, eyes and voice full of concern.

“We could cover your initials for now,” Jin suggests, “you are the youngest of us, so it wouldn’t be a hassle. And we could uncover it once everything’s more secure? For instance, if you move here?” 

You run over the option in your head, seeing no direct harm that could come from doing so. 

“That might be a better option,” you agree, “would that make you uncomfortable, Yoongi?” You ask him, concerned that it might cause your twin flame even an ounce of discomfort. 

“No,” he answers, and you can tell from the look in his eyes that he means it. “As long as you’re safe and happy, we’re fine with doing whatever we need to.” 

You melt at his words, finding immense comfort in them. It’d only been an hour of you being with them, and you’re already feeling an immense relief. Was this what it felt like to be around your soulmates? Was this what you’d been missing out on? 

You couldn’t even begin to fathom the difficulty Elle and Cam had when they were around each other. BTS had been in your company for not even a day, and you could already feel a gravitational pull towards them, anchoring you to them in a way that left you feeling complete. 

“Thank you,” you tell Yoongi, grinning at the flush that spreads across his full cheeks at your praise. “Thank you, all.” You tell the rest of them, your appreciation seeping through your very pores. “I can’t begin to express to you how much it means to me knowing you all support me so much already.” 

They smile at you, taken by your words. You can feel the mood in the room lift substantially, and you thank the heavens above for allowing this brunch to go so much better than originally planned. 

The rest of the food is devoured quickly by the eight of you, and it feels like all of 10 minutes have passed before the food is gone, and Elle is calling you nonstop. You reluctantly tell them you have to go, heart aching at the drop in their expressions at your announcement. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow! At the show!” You tell them, texting Elle to have Shei come get you. Their expressions brighten slightly, but you can still see that they don’t want you to go.

“How about this? I’ll give you guys my personal number, and we can start a group chat. Plan some hangouts and see where that takes us?” 

They nod enthusiastically, pulling their phones out and quickly inputting your information into their contact lists. You can feel your phone vibrating in your back pocket at least 10 times as you say your goodbyes and thanks. 

You bow to them, following the waiter out of the restaurant through the kitchen and into the back alleyway. Elle and Shei are waiting in the SUV, and Elle pounces on you as soon as you step foot into the large vehicle. 

“You are telling me everything when we get back to the hotel.” She orders, you’re about to object, but she covers your mouth with her hand, “Nope. That’s my payment for not getting a single update from you in two and a half hours.” 

You roll your eyes and mumble a ‘whatever,’ but her hand blocks out any sense you might have made. She laughs at you, finally pulling her hand away. 

“Did you have a good time at least?” She asks.

“It actually went really well.” You answer, blush rising. You turn towards your window, watching the scenery pass by, when you receive another text. 

You pull out your phone, unlocking the screen and entering your texting app. 

8 unread conversations greet your eyes. 7 singular text chains, and one group text. 

The first text you’d received in the restaurant is a simple ‘hi’ that’s signed ‘Jungkook.’ 

The next is longer. 

‘Hello, jagiya! It’s Taehyung!’ A purple heart sits at the end of the sentence. 

‘Worldwide Handsome here, checking in on his beautiful soulmate. Xxx Jin’ The next reads.

‘Y/Nie! It’s Hoseok! Text us when you get to your hotel safely! We had fun today :)’ 

‘Hello, Jagi!!!! Jimin here ;) We miss u already xxx’

‘Hi, Y/N. It’s Namjoon. Make sure to save our numbers so you don’t think we’re strangers texting you all the time. I’ll set up a group chat after I send this. :-)’ 

‘Hey, it’s Yoongi. Your twin flame.’ You smile at that, noting that he’s sent another since then. ‘You obviously know that, please disregard that message… oh, and check the group chat.’

You do as you’re told, and smile at your phone. There are introductions, but what sticks out most to you is the picture of you and Yoongi gazing at each other at the table. Judging by the angle, Jungkook or Taehyung must have taken it. It’s flattering and captures the ambience of the early afternoon. 

You hug your phone to your chest, emotion flowing through you hotly. You reply to the texts and follow Namjoon’s advice and save their numbers. The group chat goes crazy after you reply, Taehyung and Jin spamming it with animated gifs, and Jimin sending a few selfies. 

You don’t miss the pointed glance Elle sends your way as she watches your face dance with happy emotions during the car ride home. 

Typically, you’d snap at her in embarrassment, but the happiness and complete full-feeling you’re experiencing now prevent you from feeling anything short of euphoric.

[nopaintjustpain]

Okay so addressing this rb— good point, @dysfunctionalcreature!!! Your comment made me realize I may have based this whole meta on an assumption I made, or a widely accepted fanon, as is often the trap people fall into with their favorite longform media. So I went back in the transcripts to check the source material for evidence to back up my little thesis!!

Please enjoy the following textual analysis, courtesy of a bored English Major who doesn’t get to use their literary analysis skills much irl:

Ep 121:

If you would turn your attention to figure 1!!

Fig. 1.1: This line implies, to me, that Georgie visits often enough to have a sense of who does or doesn’t generally visit Jon in the hospital

Fig. 1.2: This implies that Georgie checks in with Jon’s nurses regularly enough that they would’ve notified her of a new visitor on the way in if they had seen Oliver

Fig. 1.3: Here’s Georgie displaying a significant show of protectiveness over Jon while he’s helpless. Arguably, this could also be chalked up to her (justifiable) hostility to anyone End-affiliated, and her desire to get Oliver Out of her General Vicinity. But it’s worth noting that if her *only* motivation is to be Away from Oliver, she could’ve just given him a minute alone with Jon like he asked. Instead she goes on the defensive. She practically chases Oliver out of the room, rather than flee and leave Jon alone with a potential threat. For all she knows in this moment, she could very well be putting herself in serious danger by getting between Oliver and Jon. She knows the minute she lays eyes on Oliver that he’s Bad News, but she doesn’t hesitate. Just because Georgie doesn’t feel fear doesn’t mean she can’t recognize risk. She knows EXACTLY what she’s risking in this moment, and she does it anyway. That, to me, feels like a significant show of loyalty and care. You see this defensiveness continue on here in Fig. 2:

Fig. 2.1: Okay so after that tense interaction, we get THIS cute little line where Georgie talks to Jon in his coma, knowing he may or may not be able to hear him. It’s generally encouraged to talk to coma patients. And if I remember correctly, her like delivery is casual. Conversational. Implying that she’s comfortable talking to his functionally-dead body. She’s Been Here. She intends to continue Being Here. In addition, the sentiment she’s expressing in this line is also one of care and protection! She cares about who he’s spending time with. She wants him to be surrounded by people who are good for him, not pulling him deeper into danger.

Fig. 2.2: In a continuation of my earlier point in 1.3, here we see Georgie run AFTER Oliver after she’s finally got him to leave. If we extrapolate our earlier assumption that she knows very well what a risk this is, we again see reinforcement of her loyalty to Jon. Here, she’s afraid Oliver may have done something to Jon while she wasn’t there, or left something sinister behind. At the very least, she clocks that Oliver recorded something or left something behind, and she’s not gonna let that slide. Again, she goes against her own discomfort for Jon’s sake.

And last but not least, here’s the lines in Ep 122 that essentially define Jon and Georgie’s falling-out:

Not much to say on this tbh. The lines speak for themselves. Georgie is honestly, genuinely disappointed to see him wake up no worse for wear. And WOW does that hurt. But he’s awake now. He’s cognitively whole. He’s making his own decisions. He’s not helpless anymore, which means he’s no longer her responsibility. And now that he’s no longer her responsibility, she finally gets to make a Choice about whether she’s going to continue trying to be a caregiver for him in light of this information. She runs a risk assessment on the spot and realizes… no, she’s not willing to make those sacrifices for someone who A) isn’t physically or financially dependent on her and B) poses a danger to her via his very existence.

I remember her delivery of that “Goodbye” having a certain ring of finality to it, and Jon calling out after her sounded pretty heartbroken and desperate to stop her from walking out. Because he knew that once she was gone, that was it for them. But ultimately he lets her go.

So, in summary: No, it’s never explicitly stated in the text that Georgie stuck by his bedside for six months. But I got that impression from details in the source material which, to me, feel like a strong implication.

So yay! Glad to know I wasn’t just pulling this meta out of my ass lol. I was just kinda trusting my recollections when I wrote the original post, but it’s vindicating to look back on the text and find evidence to back it up.

Hey.

Do you ever think part of the reason Georgie stayed by Jon’s bedside through all 6 months of his coma but then abruptly walked out of his life when he woke up is because she was fully expecting to be a caregiver for him during a long, grueling post-coma recovery process?

Do you think part of the reason she was so spooked by him waking up (relatively) unscathed is because she had mentally, physically, and emotionally prepared herself to take him in? That her best case scenario — what she had planned and hoped for — was that he’d wake up with severe cognitive and/or physical deficits, as one would expect from someone who survived an explosion and six months in a coma? That he’d have to re-learn how to walk or talk or eat or hold a spoon on his own? That he would *need* someone, and even if it wasn’t what she wanted for herself or him, she had decided she would step up and be that person for him?

It can be so jarring when you build up a vision of your near future around one assumption, only for that assumption to be completely shattered by reality. Do you think she constructed a future for him in her head, and when he woke up “fine”, she was so startled by the breaking of her expectations that it felt almost like a betrayal? And the sheer uncanny impossibility of him waking up “fine” made her think that her friend was dead after all?

Do you think that after Martin stopped coming around and Georgie found herself alone at Jon’s bedside, she realized she was all he had left in the world? The only one who held onto hope that he would survive in some form? The only one who thought he could wake up, severely disabled by his experiences but free at last? The only one who thought he deserved the chance at a mundane life after all of this, even if that life would look radically different? Do you think she grappled with the reality that if she didn’t step up for him, no one would? Do you think she spent long hours coping with the fact that she was going to have to take on new responsibilities and make new sacrifices for him, but she was willing to do it for an old friend who deserved better than the hand he was dealt? Do you think she mourned her old vision of her future, before she reconstructed that vision around caring for him?

Do you think she started talking to Jon’s doctors about what she could expect if she brought him home after he woke up? What kinds of disabilities he would live with, and what the prognosis was? About his quality of life afterwards? His road to recovery? Do you think she made up her spare bedroom with a severely disabled person in mind, and then started looking into hiring a part time caregiver to come help her make sure Jon got the help (she assumed) he’d need? Do you think she did all kinds of research into brain injuries and their aftermath? Physical therapy for people with severe atrophy? NG tubes for re-feeding severely starved people? Occupational therapists?

Do you think part of the reason she was so upset when he woke up (relatively) unscathed, lucid and talking and breathing on his own, maybe a little physically weak but still much like his old self, is because she had realistic expectations of what his life would look like after his injuries? And seeing him suddenly defy all odds by waking up into a full cognitive and physical recovery — a completely unrealistic hope that she never even considered as part of the realm of possibility — only reinforced the idea that the old Jon was dead, and this new Jon wasn’t safe for her to be around?

Do you think it hurt when she realized she couldn’t bring him home?

I think about that.

[russosimp]

Caught (g!p Steph Catley x reader)

Summary: You've been in love with Steph for ages. You can't take your eyes off her during Ellie's wedding and get surprised by her reaction. 18+

Warning: smut, g!p Steph, walking in on someone, masturbation, guided masturbation (r), unprotected p in v

Wordcount: 3.5k

Note: Like I said before, Steph in that dress... The majority voted for g!p Steph, so here you go!

You are mesmerized. You should've probably been spending more time admiring the lovely brides but Steph has caught your undivided attention, you just can't tear your eyes off her.

While you are sharing a suite, you both have different bedrooms. Steph took her sweet time getting ready earlier before the wedding ceremony, so she told you to go on down without her, giving you the chance to see if anyone needed any help as there so often are last minute things that need to be done at a wedding. Obviously, she was right and you ran around searching for a specific hair pin for one of the bridesmaids.

That's why you didn't see Steph until she found you right before the ceremony to take her seat next to you. Your mouth instantly went dry when you saw her walking down the aisle to join you in her designated seat. 

Yellow really is her color. Her tanned skin making her dress pop and her shine in the best way possible. Of course her figure always looks great, but somehow it looks even better in this dress. The small sliver of skin between the top and the bottom piece was really the cherry on top, it was good you were already seated when you first saw her.

It's now hours later, the ceremony came and went, dinner had been served, and now you were just celebrating the happy couple. Everyone was drinking and dancing, having the time of their lives.

Ellie's wedding truly is one of the most amazing weddings you've ever been a part of, the venue is stunning and the party seems to be getting better with every minute.

You finally tear your eyes off Steph who is currently dancing with your Arsenal teammate Vic and look over to Hayley who has been telling you something about her vacation that you missed almost entirely because your attention was elsewhere.

She looks at you, unimpressed. "You weren't really listening, were you?"

"I was!" You defend yourself. "You were just talking about... the trip to that one beach?"

Hayley rolls her eyes. "That was like three minutes ago."

You feel yourself flush and rub your neck, embarrassed to have been so distracted.

"You know, you could just tell her."

"We've been over this, Hayls, why bother? She's straight and way out of my league."

"You don't know that for certain if you don't ask though."

You roll your eyes, you've had this conversation too many times to count. You've had a crush on Steph for years, probably way too long to still call it a crush, but admitting that you're completely in love with her would just make it far too real. She's been in a relationship and even engaged for most of the time you've known her, so there was never a reason to even think about doing anything about your feelings.

But ever since Steph's been single, your mutual friends have been bothering you about it. They're all pushing for you to tell her about your feelings as if you would ever jeopardize your friendship like that.

Instead of giving Hayley an answer, you grab the drinks you had been waiting for and return to the dancefloor. Both Steph and Vic cheer, now that you've finally made your way back with their drinks.

The rest of the evening pretty much goes by with you dancing with your friends and avoiding the looks Hayley is giving you whenever you're even remotely close to Steph. Which is pretty much all evening. 

It's a miracle you manage to stay so close to Steph most of the time without making an absolute fool of yourself at the look of her in that dress. You mostly avoid looking at her body and you're also pretty used to shoving your feelings deep down, you do play for the same club and country after all, so you often see a lot of her.

But Steph doesn't have any mercy and starts to dance all around you as the evening progresses, making your head spin.

Your body moves on its own to the beat of the music, in sync with hers. You are enjoying yourself, you definitely are. Maybe a bit too much though. Steph backs herself into your front when the beat drops and all of a sudden you're very aware of her ass on your crotch. 

You feel all the blood of your body rush to your pussy when Steph starts to grind her ass against you. She must feel that you stopped moving for a second because she looks over her shoulder and winks. Then she blindly reaches for your hands and places them on her hips.

You shake yourself out of your stupor and start to move with Steph, bodies in sync, while your mind is going into overdrive. Her hips feel great beneath your hands, almost like they belong there. You squeeze them once, seeing if all of this is actually real and you could swear that Steph throws her head back because of the squeeze.

The whole thing feels a bit like an out-of-body experience, Steph pressed against you, dancing together, her body in your arms. It feels like something out of your wildest dreams if you are perfectly honest.

You let your hands wander up and down Steph's sides a bit and come into contact with the exposed skin on one of her sides. You feel your breath hitch. Obviously you've touched multiple times, you've cuddled before, as you're close friends. But her dancing right in front of you and grinding into you just feels different.

The heat of the room and the heat of your body are starting to get to you. Combined with the alcohol you've consumed, you feel your head spinning. You're actually throbbing and feel yourself getting more and more turned on.

Before you cross any boundaries or make Steph uncomfortable in any way, you decide it's time for you to go to bed. You tell Steph and Vic that you're tired and while they do ask you to stay longer, they also understand and let you go easy enough, it's already late after all.

You make your way back across the estate and to the hotel quickly, with an uncomfortable feeling between your legs and ready to be alone.

Not stopping in the shared living room, you make a beeline for your bedroom and close the door behind you firmly. Without second thought, you begin to strip out of your clothes.

Normally, this would be the time to take a quick shower before heading to bed. But being on the dancefloor with Steph has left you hot and very bothered in a different way and you need to take care of yourself first.

You leave your clothes on the floor, not really caring about tidiness right now. When you're completely naked, you get on the bed, resting your back against some pillows.

You start by letting your hands wander over your body. You cup one of your boobs with one hand while your other hand makes its way down your body. You play with your nipple a bit, getting it hard. Then you repeat the same treatment on your other boob. Your thoughts wander to Steph and her dress for the day. That truly was something else.

Since you know that you've been wet for a while now, you don't need much preparation. Instead, you just let one finger glide through your folds and feel just how wet you are. You are so turned on by Steph dancing and pressing against you, that you're pretty much soaked. You imagine that it's her hand teasing your cunt instead of your own.

You've felt bad in the past when Steph accidentally made her way to your head while you were masturbating. Usually after you've come down from your high and were cleaning yourself or something. But you really can't help it, Steph's been the fuel for you being as turned on as you are, and so your thoughts stay on her.

You let two of your fingers slowly glide in-between your folds, teasingly close to your clit, but not touching yourself there just yet. Your hips start to move pretty much on their own, searching for friction and pleasure. Your breathing quickens as the pleasure grows and you can feel the coil in your core tighten.

You give your clit a couple of strokes, making your hips jump at the sensation. Then you slide your hand down even further, entering your cunt with two fingers. slowly pumping in and out.

You imagine Steph's hands on your body and her cock inside of you. The thought makes you moan loudly as you feel yourself nearing your orgasm. "F-fuck, yeah, Steph!"

Suddenly, when you're completely lost in the feeling of your own hands all over your body and the images your head is creating, everything happens all at once.

The door opens and Steph is talking before she has even entered the room.

"I heard my name and saw your lights were still on, I thought you wanted to sle- " Steph interrupts herself at the scene in front of her and stares at you with wide eyes. Unlucky for you, the bed is of course angled towards the door so Steph gets a good view of your suddenly very exposed cunt.

You stop all your movements, completely shocked at being interrupted by Steph of all people. Your fingers are still in your cunt so you pull them out unceremoniously and scramble to get the blanket to cover your body.

"Oh god, I'm- so sorry!" You stammer, mortified, not looking directly at her.

Steph turns around but doesn't leave the room. "No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have barged in like that. I'm gonna leave you to it."

You're holding your breath as she leaves. The door has almost closed behind her, when she stops in her tracks.

"Wait. I heard my name." She turns around, now with a small smirk on her face and some new found confidence. "Were you thinking about me?"

You look at her with wide eyes, not knowing what to answer. You open and close your mouth a couple of times, but no words come out. You had hoped that she had forgotten about that so that you could leave this whole encounter behind you and never talk about it.

Steph steps back into the room fully and closes the door behind her. "You were, weren't you, darling?"

The look in her eyes is different now and so is the tone of her voice. She sounds intrigued and a bit cocky. Steph lets her eyes travel over you even though you're covered now. You feel hot under her gaze. You shift beneath the blanket, not knowing what to make of the situation.

Steph steps closer to the bed. "Take off the blanket."

"W-what?" You look at her, puzzled by her request.

"Well, I think if I was part of your fantasy, I should be allowed to look, shouldn't I?" She grins at you now and lets her hand wander to her crotch. She palms herself through her dress, squeezing a little. You can't really see anything because she always wears compression shorts when she's wearing dresses. 

But is there a possibility that finding you like this is turning her on as well? You wouldn't dare to dream but with the way she's behaving that's definitely where your mind is going.

Your eyes widen even more at the thought and you feel your heart beating out of your chest. You slowly grab the corner of the blanket and look at Steph one more time. You can't really believe the situation that you're in. But Steph being so confident normalizes the situation for you somehow. Her just going with it makes you question everything less than you usually would, she puts you at ease somehow.

Steph looks you over with slightly parted lips, her hand still palming her crotch. Then she nods at you which you take as the encouragement you needed.

You slowly lift the blanket, exposing yourself to Steph once more. It's not like you haven't seen each other naked before, you play football together after all. But the position you're in leaves you very vulnerable of course. You resist the urge to close your legs, leaving them spread apart like you had been just a few minutes ago.

You look at Steph's face to gauge her reaction. She seems very fixated on your cunt.

"Oh, darling," she breathes out, "you're so wet. Is that all for me?"

You nod slowly. Steph seems so into it, into you, that your anxiety about the situation slowly but surely disappears, you can let yourself fall into this completely now.

"All for you, Steph." You breathe out quietly. "This dress just- you in this dress does something for me."

A genuinely surprised smile spreads over Steph's face and she looks down at herself. "Oh this one?"

You nod eagerly, wanting to make her understand. "It's- you're so hot, Steph. So hot."

"Well, thank you, baby." Steph blushes a little but then shakes her head. "Now, where were we?"

The look on her face changes from soft and bashful to one of more confidence. "How about you get back to touching yourself for me?"

You can only nod.

"Let your fingers glide through your folds, darling. Just slowly, teasing yourself."

You do exactly as Steph told you and tease yourself. The first touch has you twitching slightly as you were close to finishing when she walked in on you and you just abandoned what you were doing. You’re reminded just how sensitive you already are. You moan at the sensation.

Steph follows your fingers with her eyes, nodding appreciatively. "Keep doing that while I undress myself. Don't speed up or anything though."

Of course, you follow Steph's words and slowly tease yourself. You also start to roll your hips in sync with the movements of your hand again.

Steph on the other hand reaches around herself to find the zipper of her dress. She opens it and it starts to fall down around her. You immediately notice that she isn't wearing a bra, which makes you breath hitch slightly.

When the dress is pooling around her feet, she steps out of the pile and reaches for her compression shorts next. You can see the bulge in her shorts much clearer now and lick your lips in anticipation.

She pulls down her shorts in one go and her cock springs out. She's already completely hard and you can't help but feel almost proud that she's gotten this hard just from walking in on you.

You squirm on the bed and moan at the sight of her. Her long and hard cock looks great in her hand and you can only imagine how amazing it would feel inside of you.

"Look how hard you've made me, baby." Her hand automatically wraps around her shaft and she begins to slowly stroke herself.

"You're being so good for me, baby. How'd you feel about fucking yourself on your fingers, hmm?"

You nod, becoming more and more desperate, the longer you have to tease yourself.

"Start with one finger, darling." You do as she says and push only your middle finger inside of your cunt, closing your eyes at the feeling, rocking your cunt into your hand with each stroke. "There you go, nice and slow."

"Steph, pl- please, need more." You whine desperately after just a couple of strokes.

"Oh, you want to add a second finger already?"

"Yes, please!"

"Open your eyes for me first, baby." You do as she tells you and look at her. She's still standing at the foot of the bed, slowly stroking her cock.

"Look at me while you add that second finger. I want to see you."

You look her directly in the eyes as you push two fingers inside your cunt now. A long moan leaves your mouth, the stretch from two fingers feeling much better than just the one.

"Fuuuck, feels so good!"

"There you go, baby. Fuck yourself on your fingers." She tells you, now breathing harder as well even though her speed hasn't increased.

You do as she told you and start to fuck yourself a bit faster now. Your hand brushes over your clit from time to time, making you twitch each time. You can feel yourself getting closer again, much like you did before Steph interrupted you.

"Yes, baby, I want to see you cum. Make yourself cum for me!"

Steph's words hit you deeply and you feel the coil in your core tightening. You pull out of your cunt and rub your clit with your glistening fingers, now desperate to cum. Pleasure shoots through your body as you rub your most sensitive spot.

"You're doing so well, baby, cum for me."

Your hips move on their own accord now as your orgasm hits you. You moan loudly and throw your head back, eyes closed.

"Wow..." Steph trails off. "That was- so hot, baby, I- "

She doesn't finish her sentence which makes you open her eyes.

You find her looking at you, still stroking her cock, seemingly not close to cumming.

"Come here please?" You ask her, feeling small under her gaze all of a sudden.

Steph lowers herself onto the bed and crawls over to you. She comes to a halt in between your still spread legs, kneeling in front of you.

She seems unsure what to do exactly which is very endearing to you as it is such a stark contrast to the confident woman who just guided you to an orgasm.

"Come here?" you repeat your question and open your arms.

Steph holds herself up with her arms but she still lowers herself over your body. You whimper when you feel her naked tits on your own and her rock-hard cock pressed to your stomach now.

She looks at you and gives you a small smile.

"Was that okay, darling?"

You laugh at her question. "Steph, babe, that was more than okay. But I would like it very much if you kissed me now."

With your reassurance about everything that just happened, she doesn't need to be asked twice. She quickly closes the gap between your faces and kisses you deeply. Your hands come to the back of her head to pull her impossibly closer.

You open your mouth and invite her in. Your tongues explore each other for a while until you both have to pull away when air becomes an issue.

"I've wanted to do that for a while." You whisper your confession. "I hope that's okay."

"More than okay, because so have I." Steph smiles down at you.

Warmth spreads through your body at the confirmation of her feelings. You pull her in for another kiss.

This time, it's more passionate, tongues battling for dominance. You let your hands wander down her back and squeeze her ass. She lightly rocks into you, her cock still trapped between your bodies.

You pull away from the kiss and whine against her lips. "Fuck me, please."

Steph sits back slightly and spreads your legs a bit more, eyes never leaving your cunt that's completely exposed and open in front of her now. "Beautiful." She whispers

Then, she grabs her cock and aligns it with your cunt. She slowly pushes in and then stops, letting you adjust to her size. You moan at the feeling of her cock finally in your cunt, filling you up like it belongs there.

"You can move." You tell her after a few moments and she does. She starts off slowly but with pretty firm thrusts, making you whimper with each one.

"I'm- so close already, I- I'm not gonna last long." Steph breathes out in-between thrusts.

"Cum inside of me, please, I want you to fill me." You pant out and pull her mouth down to yours once more, kissing her deeply. You muffle the moan that’s left her mouth at your words.

The kiss doesn't last long though as the both of you are panting too hard to maintain it. Instead you start to rub your clit again, chasing your orgasm to cum together with Steph.

Her thrusts get quicker and more erratic now, she's clearly very close to her orgasm. You can feel her cock running along your inner walls and clench around her.

"I- I'm so close, fuck, so close."

Pretty much as soon as she says it, her cock twitches inside of you and with one final, deep thrust into you, she cums. You can feel her load hitting your walls, making you moan.

You're right behind her, cumming with a cry of her name while she's still fucking through her own orgasm.

Steph collapses into you. Her mouth is close to your ear and you can feel her hot breaths from panting so much against you. For a couple of minutes you're both just breathing and coming down from your orgasms together.

Then, Steph pushes herself up a bit and leaves a short and sweet kiss on your lips. She smiles down at you.

"I know, this isn't the right order or anything, but will you go on a date with me?"

You laugh at her words. "I would love to."

[xuchiya]

the bare minimum? || choi jongho || one-shot

| genre: fluff. slice of life. small tinge of angst. | mentions: no label yet but jongho is making it official soon.

word count: 3.9k

You tossed your phone onto the bed — harder than you intended — the dull thud swallowed by your pillows, but not enough to silence the frustration blooming in your chest. The group chat, once filled with light gossip and memes, had taken a sharp turn. It always did. One moment you were laughing about someone’s new haircut, and the next, it was unsolicited advice cloaked in concern.

"You don’t fall for someone because of their bare minimum."

The words stuck to your skin like sweat — irritating, impossible to ignore. You could still hear your friend’s voice, sharp and sure, echoing like an uninvited narrator in the background of your thoughts. Maybe they were right. Maybe they were just trying to protect you from another heartbreak, another almost-relationship with someone who gave just enough to keep you around.

You dropped onto your bed with a quiet thud, limbs heavy, head even heavier. The ceiling above you blurred slightly as your eyes stared past it, unfocused, as if hoping it might offer answers the world refused to give.

Your fist rested lightly on your chest — not clenched in anger, but curled in quiet hesitation, like your heart was trying to protect itself from breaking open again. You could still hear their voices. Friends who had seen you unravel before, who had picked you up when your heart had turned into a battlefield of “what ifs” and “should’ve known betters.”

"You always love too hard. You give too much."

Maybe they were right. Maybe you were walking straight into the same fire that burned you before. The memory of that past version of yourself — raw, fragile, sleepless — made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to go back to her. You weren’t sure you could survive her again.

You exhaled slowly, then turned your head to the side, not expecting much — just something to distract you from the chaos inside. That’s when you saw it.

A photo strip, slightly bent at the corner, tucked beneath the edge of your journal. Four small squares — moments frozen in time — each frame capturing pieces of something you didn’t quite have the courage to name yet.

It was from that afternoon at the mall. You’d passed by a photo booth and without hesitation, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward it, “Come on,” you had grinned, heart racing. “We’ve got time for four clicks.”

The first was a blur — you both weren’t ready, caught mid-laugh. The second, he leaned in closer, eyes soft, almost too soft. The third, you were the one looking at him instead of the camera. And the fourth was the one that stuck. His hand resting over yours, your shoulders touching, your heads on top of each other as you both smile as the camera flashes, faces calm like the world could end and you wouldn’t notice.

You reached for the photo strip now, fingers brushing over the glossy surface. The quiet warmth of that moment crept into your chest like light seeping through cracks. Maybe you had loved too hard before but Choi Jongho made it feel different. He made things more soft. Safe and real.

And maybe — just maybe — this time, it wouldn’t end the same. 

Because Jongho

He was not the bare minimum. Jongho didn’t just show up. He stayed — in silence, in mess, in moments when it would’ve been easier to walk away. So no… maybe you shouldn’t fall for someone who only gives you crumbs.

But Jongho? He was the whole damn bakery.

Like that when it always starts with something small. Just small things. Quiet, almost forgettable to anyone else — but to you, they mean the world.

i

You’ve always been the one to fall asleep first. It wasn’t even a question anymore. Two hours before Jongho’s usual bedtime, your eyes would start to flutter shut mid-conversation, your words slow into sleepy mumbles before trailing off entirely. You’d curl up into your blanket like muscle memory, drifting off before the clock even struck midnight.

And Jongho never minded.

Not once.

While your breathing settled into a soft, rhythmic pattern across the call — or when he saw your "last seen" flicker away for the night — he’d simply plug in his charger, shift his weight on the bed, and settle into his own quiet time. Sometimes he worked on homework. Other times, he’d scroll endlessly through his phone — music playlists, dumb memes, chaotic group chats, random reels that made him laugh under his breath.

Then, like always, he'd come across something and think, "She'd like this." But he wouldn’t send the video right away. No. Jongho knew better than to let your phone buzz at 12:42 AM and risk waking you. He remembered the way you stirred the last time, half-conscious and confused, whispering “Huh? What’s going on?” with your hair a mess and voice thick with sleep when he came over to work on your project and you tend to take naps mid-way.

So instead, he did what he always did. He tapped ‘copy link’ then pasted it into messages. And added /silent before pressing send. Just a small detail. Just a tiny slash and a word most people would overlook. But it mattered — because you mattered. Because he cared enough to make sure your sleep stayed undisturbed. Because even when you weren’t awake to notice, he was still thinking of you.

Sometimes it would be three or four links in a row — a chaotic thread waiting for you like breadcrumbs in your inbox. Funny reels. A puppy wearing a costume. A scene from a show you once said you loved when you were twelve. No message. No “LOL” or “this reminded me of you.

Then you wake up, check Messenger first thing in the morning, scroll with tangled hair and bleary eyes, your thumb pausing on the softness of his words. And even before a smile reaches your lips, the warmth hits your chest. A whisper escapes. A soft, disbelieving question, like a prayer only meant for yourself.

A feature most people don’t bother with. But he does. Every single time.

Because he knows. Knows you’re a light sleeper. Know the way your body tenses even in your dreams when your phone buzzes at night. Knows how sacred your sleep is after long days that drain you from the inside out. So he never sends messages with noise. No pings. No vibrations. Just… silence.

And still — even at 3:02 AM — when his mind is wandering, when the world outside is asleep but his thoughts are too loud to silence, he writes.

About music. About the stars. About you.

Short, half-formed sentences. Late-night ramblings about his day or a song that reminded him of you. Thoughts that probably made more sense in his head than they do on the screen. But they’re there. Waiting. Gentle, sleepy words sitting quietly in your inbox like petals placed on your doorstep — fragile, deliberate, sincere.

ii

Then there’s movie night.

Which, with Jongho, is never just movie night.

It’s Discord screen shares and careful audio checks. It’s him adjusting his mic again and again until your voice—already muffled by the layers of your blanket—says, “It’s okay, I can hear you,” even though the connection crackles every now and then.

You weren’t in the mood to go out. Not just today — but most days. Your body was still shaking off the last traces of a stubborn fever, skin too sensitive, eyes too heavy. And even if the sickness hadn’t kept you in, the world outside still felt too loud, too uncertain, too much.

You were never really the type to seek noise or crowds anyway. Your soul was quieter, more private. You liked your room — the way the walls curled around you like a soft shell, familiar and safe. That space had become your theater, your whole damn planet on the days where even the hallway outside your door felt overwhelming.

It was in the way he queued up movies you mentioned once during your lunch break when you were scrolling on your phone and would show him some clips of the movie you wanted to see, or the way he synced subtitles just right so your reading pace could keep up. It was in how he'd listen for your yawns — the sleepy kind, where your responses turn into soft hums and you forget the plot entirely — but he never teased. Never say “you’re boring” or “you always fall asleep halfway.” 

Instead, he’d smile to himself, watching the tiny green light on Discord flicker less and less as your voice faded away. When he was sure you were asleep, he would slowly slide the volume bar down to zero, like dimming the last light in a room you’d just left behind. The scene might still be playing — dialogue, explosions, laughter — but you were already somewhere in your dreams. And then, in the soft glow of his monitor, Jongho would mute his mic.

You don’t know this. You don’t hear the chair creak as he leans back, or the way he stretches his arms over his head with a quiet sigh. You don’t see the subtle clicks as he adjusts the Discord channel permissions — limiting who can join, just in case someone stumbles in and shatters the quiet he’s carefully protected around you.

You fall asleep thinking you drifted off during a movie. But really, you fell asleep in a space Jongho built — gently, intentionally, like tucking someone in without ever touching them. A space made of low volumes, hushed breaths, and unspoken devotion.

You sleep in silence. Not realizing just how much love went into making it that way.

iii

Or when days weren’t filled with softness, you and Jongho had snapped at each other over nothing and everything—too-little sleep, too-many worries, a single text read the wrong way. The fight had been quick and messy, like dropping glass– sharp words scattering across the floor, impossible to sweep up without cutting yourselves.

So you’d gone quiet, convinced a little distance would soothe the sting.

The sun had long since set when the knock came—three hesitant taps that rattled through the hallway. You froze on your steps, frowning in confusion. You padded to the door in mismatched socks, glancing up at the wall clock, heart pounding worse than it had during the argument, I mean who knocks at 8:47 p.m. in this neighborhood?

You cracked the door—and time stuttered.

Jongho stood on the mat, chest rising in ragged pulls, summer sweat plastering his fringe to his forehead. His T-shirt clung to him, half from the humid night, half from the frantic back-and-forth he’d just confessed to.

“I—uh—think I looped your street… twice.” He gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he felt out of place. “Can you remind me which house is yours?”

You blinked. “Why are you here?” The question slipped out, small and startled. He stared at his own shoes, scuffing one against the concrete. “To say sorry,” he murmured. “Text felt… too easy. Too small for how badly I messed up.”

The porch light buzzed overhead; a moth circled lazily between you. In that glow you noticed the smudges of city grit on his sneakers, the faint tremor in his hands where adrenaline still rattled his bones. Your heart cracked open—clean, sudden—like a mug slipping from the counter and shattering the silence of the kitchen tiles. All at once you pictured him missing the correct turn, doubling back under flickering street lamps, stubbornly refusing to give up because ‘I’m sorry’ deserved eye contact, not pixels.

Who does that? Jongho apparently. Someone who refuses to let mis-fired anger be the last thing hanging between you. Someone who thinks an apology should travel the same distance the hurt did—maybe farther. Someone who, even lost, chose to keep walking toward you.

You stepped aside without a word, letting the porch light spill into the hallway, “Come in,” you whispered, voice cracking like the rest of you. And as he crossed the threshold—sweat, nerves, and all—you realized getting lost might have been the surest way for both of you to find your way back.

iv

And you couldn’t forget that moment where you were in the zone — or at least, trying to be.

Hands busy, screens glowing, a half-empty mug of cold coffee pushed to the side of your cluttered desk. Notes scattered like fallen leaves. The air was thick with unspoken pressure — from deadlines, from expectations, from the loud, echoing voice inside your own head that wouldn’t shut up until everything was perfect.

You barely noticed how still the room was. Just the quiet hum of your laptop fan and the occasional clack of your keyboard breaking the silence. Your breathing was shallow, your jaw tense, your fingers flying — until they stopped.

Because your stupid, stubborn hair had slipped loose again. You’d tied it up in a quick bun hours ago, but now, strands had come free and were sticking to your cheeks, brushing across your forehead, falling right into your eyes every time you try to focus. You pushed it back once, then again, more impatient each time.

A sharp breath escaped your nose. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t even make a sound loud enough to complain — just a little annoyed huff and a flick of your fingers, trying to twist the strands behind your ear. But it didn’t stay.

Jongho lowered his phone on his lap, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to your bed. Jongho had been there the whole time, on your bed watching you spiral in slow motion. You hadn’t even realized he was still there, honestly — he was so good at just being, without taking up space. Not in a way that begged attention. He never did. His gaze kept drifting back to you — to the way your shoulders rose with every exhale, to the faint frown etched into your forehead, to the way you huffed, frustrated, as strands of your hair fell again.

So when he moved, you barely caught it. No words. No teasing. Just the subtle shift of the mattress, the creak of floorboards, and his footsteps approaching — soft, unhurried.

You felt him before you saw him. He stood behind you, and in that still moment, the world seemed to pause. Not in an awkward way — but in the way it always does when someone does something gentle for you. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t question it. You just let it happen.

And then — his hands.

Fingertips brush across your neck as they gather your hair, removing the non existing messy bun on top of your head. Slow. Careful. He moved like he’d done this a thousand times before — like your hair had a rhythm he’d memorized. There was no tug, no tension. Just the warmth of his palms and the deliberate sweep of fingers, smoothing down flyaways like they were delicate petals.

He pulled your hair into a low ponytail, tying it off with the scrunchie from his own wrist — one he always kept there, whether he admitted it was for you or not. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t styled. But it was secure. It fits. It was exactly what you needed — even if you hadn’t asked.

Your breath hitched slightly when his fingers lingered for just a second too long. The tie settled at the nape of your neck — light, comforting. But it felt heavier somehow. Like it carried meaning, “Your hair always distracts you when you’re trying to focus,” he said finally, his voice just above a whisper. Soft. Almost sheepish. “Thought I’d save you from it this time.”

You didn’t turn around. Because at that moment, everything in your chest unclenched. All the noise in your head quieted, like a radio fading into static. The tension in your shoulders eased. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself together until he stepped in.

And it wasn’t just about the ponytail. It never was. It was about the way he paid attention. The way he remembered. The way he didn’t ask, didn’t wait, didn’t make a scene — just helped. It was in the silence. In the space he made around you without ever asking for space himself. And somehow … somehow his hands on your hair felt more like home than your own ever did.

You took a slow breath, exhaled, and returned to your work — not because the pressure had vanished, but because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. And as you sat there, posture a little more relaxed, focus finally returning, you smiled to yourself.

You sighed, long and tired, the kind that left your chest feeling a little lighter and a little emptier all at once. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of your night lamp, and the ceiling above you stared back in silence — like it was holding your thoughts for you, just for a moment longer.

You weren’t even sure why your heart felt like this — full, but aching. Like you were overwhelmed by something too soft to name. Your chest heaves in a deep inhale before another sigh escapes.

“What got you so worked up that you sigh like you have fifteen unfinished projects and three babies to feed?” You yelped — actually yelped — twisting to the side, heart skipping like a scratched record. There, leaning casually against your bedroom door frame, was Jongho.

Arms crossed. One brow raised. The corners of his lips quirked in that boyish way that meant he was trying not to laugh at your startled reaction. His hair was slightly tousled, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, and his whole presence felt warm — like a late-night tea you didn’t know you needed.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked, pulling your blanket up like it could shield your flustered expression.  “Long enough to watch you battle the air with that dramatic sigh,” he teased, pushing off the door and strolling toward your bed. You opened your mouth to deflect, but nothing clever came out. Just a small huff as you turned to face the ceiling again, blinking fast, hoping the blush on your face wasn’t obvious under the lamplight.

Instead, Jongho sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to pull you out of your cocoon. His fingers brushed lightly against your ankle through the blanket — grounding, patient.

“You okay?” he asked, this time quieter. And you nodded, then whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Just remembering things.”

“Good things?” he asked again, his voice low now, more careful — like he was stepping into a space inside you he didn’t want to rush. You nodded against your pillow. “Too good.” There was silence then. Not awkward. Not empty. Just… still. Full of air that felt too thick with things left unsaid, and yet, somehow, safe.

Jongho’s hand brushed over your blanket again. This time slower. His thumb pressed gently into the edge, grounding himself there, “Guess I’ll just have to keep making more of them, huh?” he murmured with a small, hopeful smile.

Your chest ached — the kind of ache that feels like warmth stretching. You glanced at him, eyes catching the light of the lamp. “Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time?”

He blinked. “What?”

“All of it,” you whispered. “The silent messages, the scrunchies, movie nights, showing up when you didn’t have to. You’ve been... making memories for me.”

Jongho’s mouth opened, then closed. Like the truth had been sitting on his tongue this whole time but he wasn’t sure if now was the moment. But something in your voice, your eyes, must’ve made the decision for him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I have.”

You felt the words settle into your chest like puzzle pieces falling into place. He exhaled, fingers now tugging lightly at the edge of your blanket, a nervous habit. “And I think… maybe I don’t want to keep doing all of that as just a friend.”

Your heart stumbled. “Jongho…”

“I mean,” he laughed gently, eyes flicking up to meet yours, “I think I passed the ‘just a friend’ stage back when I started carrying backup scrunchies for you.”

You could feel your heartbeat in places you hadn’t noticed until now — your fingertips, the hollow of your throat, deep in your stomach. It was the way Jongho said it. Quietly. Carefully. Like he wasn’t just asking a question — he was handing you something fragile. Something real.

“Can I… make it official?” His voice was barely more than a breath, but it cracked the air between you like a soft truth being unfolded. He was still seated on the edge of your bed, one leg turned toward you, but not pressing. Always waiting. Always gentle. His eyes searched your face not for permission, but for clarity — for a sign that you felt it too. That all the small things he did hadn’t gone unnoticed. That he hadn’t just been loving you in silence.

You stared at him for a moment, your chest too full to speak.

He looked nervous. Not because he was scared you’d say no — but because he wanted this to mean something. All of it. The /silent links he sent at 2 a.m. because he didn’t want to wake you. The way he tied your hair without a second thought because he knew how it distracted you. The scrunchies on his wrist. The muted screen shares. The apology he walked in circles just to give you in person.

He’d been writing a love story in the margins — and now he was finally turning the page to show you.

You sat up slowly, blanket sliding off your shoulder. The cool air kissed your skin, but all you could feel was the warmth of him — of his words, his presence, his intention, “Jongho…” you said his name like a secret, like something precious you didn’t want to drop.

“I’m sorry,” he added quickly, voice tighter now. “I know the timing isn’t perfect or — or maybe I should’ve asked sooner, but I just—”

You reached for his hand. Instinctively. Like it was the next natural step. His fingers were warm. A little clammy. He’d been nervous the whole time.

“You already were,” you said quietly, watching the way his eyes flickered at the sound of your voice. “You’ve already been mine. You were just… waiting for me to catch up.”

His breath hitched. You didn’t need to say more. That one sentence carried everything — your knowing, your feelings, your realization that all this time you weren’t just falling for Jongho — you were already in it. Fully. Deeply. Unknowingly wrapped in the love he’d been giving you in ways no one else had.

A laugh slipped out of him — not mocking, but light, airy, like he finally exhaled something he’d been holding for too long, “So…” he said, glancing down at your intertwined hands. “Do I get the whole package now?”

You smiled, laughing softly even— slow, genuine. The kind that crept up from your chest, not just your lips.

“You do.” Something in his face softened completely. Like his entire being melted — his shoulders relaxed, his lips curved into the smallest, most beautiful smile, and his eyes stayed locked on yours like you were the only thing that made sense anymore.

And then, he did something simple.

He brought your joined hands up and pressed his lips against your knuckles — just once. Not possessive. Not dramatic.

"How can anyone say this is the bare minimum?" Not a single thing that is close to being bare minimum. Because it really isn’t in the first place.

It’s love, tucked into silence. It’s choosing you — even in the quietest hours.