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usedpidemo · 3 days ago

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Brand new day (Twice Sana & Dahyun)

23.5k words

—————

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

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

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

Too spent for words, Minho just grunts.

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

Now.

"I’m quitting."

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

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

"What did you just say?"

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

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

The stunned silence shatters like glass.

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

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

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

Questions overlap, sharp as shrapnel.

"Did something happen?"

"Did the evaluation go that bad?"

"Is it pressure? We can help!"

"You can’t just leave!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right there, everything shatters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her sincerity is a warm balm on a raw wound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Try 'please.’ Universal language."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

Eight years is a lifetime. Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

JYP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

Hey Mate,

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

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

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

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

Take care of yourself.

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

(Stray Kids)

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

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

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

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

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

No pressure, seriously!

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

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

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

But your feet stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice cracks. "I stole your dream."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re good people. Always were.

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

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

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

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

"Thanks, bro. Best. Night. Ever."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Sana & Dahyun ♡

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

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

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

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

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

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

Changbin whistles. Minho smirks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Always," you rasp.

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What’s that?" you warily ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

The greeting is smooth, impersonal.

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

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

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

Flashbacks flicker, unwanted:

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

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

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

Blending in. Right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The note unfolds:

Surprise Again! ✨

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

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

Meet us? Please?

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

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

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

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

Sana & Dahyun ♡♡

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

Then you see them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look up, confused. "Know?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Enjoy Paris!" Tzuyu simply smiles.

"Find some good cheese!" Momo adds.

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

Mina simply waves, her serene smile saying it all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, you settle on Dahyun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

Then Twice takes the main stage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Finally.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s tight. Unbelievably, suffocatingly hot.

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

She begins to move. Not frantic, not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her command is sharp, undeniable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

Then, the shriek.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The awful sight completely upends you.

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

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

Your fault.

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

You left.

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

Parker luck.

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

If you’d been there—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

Relief hangs palpable in the air, fragile but real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rough night, farm boy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————

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

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

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

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

"Hey—kiddo."

He blinks slowly. "Hey, big bro."

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

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

Your head bows, weighed from countless failures pressing down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#kpop smut #smut #twice smut #sana smut #dahyun smut

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jyunhology · 3 days ago

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oh, honey lady ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ smg (m)

summary: when you get stood up and cancelled on one too many times, your friend takes it upon herself to get you to enjoy a night out. but you’re faced immediately with the source of your woes pressed up to another and a bartender who catches on quickly. the latter offers to dance with you; will you say yes?

a/n: have been getting a lot of feels for mingi lately .. i blacked out n wrote this aft watching the recent ateez whodunnit because jesus christ that man looked FINE acting as a bartender.

wc: 6.1k

warnings: MINORS DNI!!!! bartender!mingi, softdom!mingi, sub!reader, reader's (ex) bf is a loser, reader lowkey traumatised from her (ex) bf, mingi is very understanding, consumption of alcohol (however, they’re not drunk during the deed, just a little tipsy), grinding in a public space (a club lol), lots of teasing, oral (f! receiving) / cunnilingus, fingering, praise, use of pet names (baby, honey, doll), bit of fluff in the middle, clit stimulation, unprotected p -> v sex (pls wrap it up irl), creampie, slight aftercare, mingi is so soft and patient with reader .. ❤️

No matter how much you knew this wasn’t your fault, you still can’t help but find fault with yourself — looks, personality, fashion. You passed it off the first time as something akin to a mistake, a miscalculation with the overtime your boyfriend, Hyunjae, had to do because of his recent promotion.

With mumbled apologies into your hair and fairly enjoyable sex, you thought everything between you both was going to be okay. It was just one dinner date, plus, he made it up to you with a fancy trip over the weekend and several, impressive gifts.

But you think you should’ve known better, because it happened a second time not even a month later, and the cycle repeats itself: sin, repent, and fall back into temptation all over again.

The only mistake you were making was thinking too highly of Hyunjae, assuming temptation was reports and hard work for extra cash, and not having a fucking affair with another woman in the printing room.

By the time the third incident came around, your friend was quick to propose a night out the next day despite your protests, but you know it came from a place of love. With the way she comforted you with memes and funny reels and words of advice, you realised it was the first time you’ve laughed since the supposed dinner at seven.

Ignoring the sinking dread settling in your heart the next afternoon, you shoot a simple ill be out late tonight to Hyunjae before dragging your body out of bed. You moved on autopilot, then, choosing not to acknowledge that he didn’t even return last night, preoccupying yourself instead with picking out your outfit.

And it was easy enough with a clear vision in your head; you weren’t afraid to dress up even after getting together with Hyunjae. This time it wasn’t any different — miniskirt, a cute fitted top and boots — that you already felt a bit better upon arriving at a bar for some pregame. The alcohol felt good, the company was better, and the both of you were already giggling and tipsy when you entered the club.

“Isn’t this way better than crying over that dumbass?” Yunjin nudges you gently before offering you a small smile.

You sigh, “I guess. I just don’t want it to be a recurring thing and make you responsible every time.”

“At least you know your limit now,” She loops an arm around you to keep you close as you two walk deeper into the club. “Still, as much as I love you, it was difficult trying to get you out of the club because you’d only be talking in counts of 8.”

Ever the teasing friend, you nudge her back before breaking into laughter together, heading right to the bar for a lighter drink. It’s buzzing with orders left and right with the (possibly) poor newcomer trying his best to work the counter with all its confusing buttons. But he’s saved by another, a taller, more experienced bartender who was definitely carved by gods.

You try not to gawk, though, feeling guilty even when he shoots the two of you a small customer-service smile. “Give us a minute, alright? We’ll get to ya soon.” The moment he’s turned around, Yunjin shakes your arm excitedly.

“What? What?”

“Don’t ‘what?’ me! Tell me you didn’t see the way he was looking at you.”

“Yunjin…” You sigh. “You know Hyunjae and I aren’t broken up—”

“Yet.” She interrupts with that single word and you shoot her a half playful, half serious glare.

“Okay, but, I have no business looking at other people just ’cause I’ve been stood up thrice.” The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, recognising that it really didn’t sound good out loud.

“Yeah, but don’t you think those are enough times to call things off?” She faces you completely now with both hands on your arms, trying to look you in the eye while you shrink, flustered and a bit embarrassed at how easily you seem to crawl back to Hyunjae.

Because you felt that if you let this go, you’d never feel this way ever again, having someone else walking out your life again like clockwork.

Your fingers tense subconsciously; clenching, unclenching. You settle for taut hands to your friend’s, removing them with the little fight left in you. “Yunjin, can— can we please drop this for now? I came out to forget my boyfriend for a bit, and then I’ll go back home and everything will be f—”

But the universe has other plans for you, conversation cut short from the handsome bartender asking about your orders now.

“Sorry to interrupt, ladies. What will you two be having?” In the midst of wiping his hands on the towel, he leans over the counter just as Yunjin gives her order, but you swear over the booming music, the bass reverberating, the screamed lyrics, you hear familiarity.

It’s funny how habitual you can become with someone; hearing that same laugh in your skin on slow mornings and during reruns of B99 that you can’t help but search the dancefloor frantically.

You weren’t even sure why you did it, but you think you were chasing that familiarity and safety of having someone even though they were shit at showing up.

But along the desperate scans you do with your eyes, you register that you were simply accustomed to having Hyunjae in your life, accustomed to coming back again to an empty house. Yet, you can’t even remember the last time you said I love you to him.

And always trust your gut, because that sinking feeling from earlier comes back tenfold when your eyes lock onto two people on the floor with bodies leaving no space.

Hyunjae has no qualms about getting caught, his hands roaming all over her body and practically grinding from behind that you feel your knees buckle a little.

“Yunjin…” The lights were too blinding, the music now too loud, but you don’t have to say anything to know she’s already helping you onto a bar stool. When she turns to where you were looking, her jaw tightens and wordlessly places a hand on your lower back.

You go through emotions, fast — denial, and then anger and then a hint of sadness. But what you’re mainly feeling is a thirst for revenge knowing he thinks you’re a coward, a girl desperate for love.

Maybe you are, and there’s nothing wrong with mourning what you had. Though, being cancelled on three times within two months and spewing lies about overtime, ignites your resolve easily.

All the while, the bartender watches the interaction carefully, skilled hands still able to fulfill people’s orders, but he’s got you and your boyfriend all figured out. Not that he meant to eavesdrop, though, exchanging a glance with your friend until you raise your head with unshed tears.

“Thought I lost you there for a moment. That your boyfriend?” He nodded in the general direction and had probably used that line countless times, but you give credit where credit’s due; he was attractive and didn’t choose to comment on your glossy eyes.

With semi-long hair, pretty moles and plump lips, you want to enjoy this seat a bit longer, proposing a silly idea as you nod.

“Ex-, now. Do you have any chance to get them both kicked out?” You smile, small and unsure, but he replies with an even sweeter smile laced with sympathy that makes your heart skip just a little.

“No can do. If he’s not causing trouble, our bouncers have no reason to throw him out. Sorry, ladies.” For a moment, he’s back to being professional and tries not to steal glances at you as you blink away tears and attempt to appear unaffected.

He serves the drinks he’s already made, helps the counter boy again with orders until he hears your friend beg again when he comes ’round to your side.

“Oh please, Mr Bartender!” He raises an eyebrow, eyes trained on the both of you while capping his shaker before shaking. You purse your lips teasingly despite your blurred vision and the heat on your cheeks, “She can be pretty persuasive.” God, you didn’t even know what you were feeling at the moment.

He shrugs. “Well, tell you what — I get off my shift in about fifteen, and you’re looking for some retribution. Why don’t we do a little dance of our own?”

With a sigh, you ponder over your cards — Hyunjae might be pleasantly surprised and you’d end up with a hot bartender in your arms to boot. But if this is only going to leave a hole in your heart after everything, what really was the point?

“It’s your call, doll. If you’re still holding this,” He holds up a slim piece of metal that matches the club’s colours with its letters engraved in stark white, “by the time I come back, I’m taking you onto the floor for a dance. Deal?”

It’s dropped into your palm before you flip it over, running a thumb over the debossed name.

“Mingi.”

“You got it.” Mingi gives you a dazzling grin and a wink while you stifle a smile.

You spend the next ten minutes debating your options that you can’t count the amount of times Yunjin had to get your attention back on her. Revenge sounded delicious before.

Now? Now you’re waddling deep in doubt, worried about the aftertaste; all you wanted was to go home and sleep this whole thing off. Even the name tag was weighing heavy in your hand.

But the late nights cooking dinner, sitting alone at restaurants and the sheer indifference Hyunjae’s currently dancing with, did you in.

If you were chickening out only so someone this terrible stays, then you might regret this single night with someone else who already has shown you more respect than Hyunjae ever did.

The music is a bit clearer to you, now, and less suffocating as you call out to the bartender with five minutes left until his shift ends. You play with the pin at the back, unfastening and popping it back into place repeatedly.

“I’ll take a Lemon Drop.” A knowing smile, a swipe of your card, sugar sweet on your lips. It hits great, and with a bit of liquid courage in you, you wait.

Mingi is quick to show up by your side a few minutes later, but he manages to take your breath away all over again with a more casual look.

Jewellery, messy hair and unbuttoned shirt down to his pecs that gives you a glimpse of a pretty little pendant resting nicely on his chest and rings adorning his fingers.

“Care for a dance?” His deep voice up close already has your stomach turning, opening your hand to show how you still had his name tag and he grins. “Keep it for now.”

You barely hear the whisper into your ear, but without any second thought you place your hand in his, the metal of his rings sending shivers right up your arm and down your spine. A faint cheer from Yunjin encourages you on, already feeling the addicting beats of the music playing.

Mingi is considerate above all else, looking back to see if you were still there, clearing a path for the both of you until you’re a few bodies away from Hyunjae. But standing out here now brings another wave of panic and embarrassment.

You were really about to do this, but—

What if he doesn’t like the way you danced? What if he’s a clean freak and would rather not have his hands over your already sweaty sides? What if Hyunjae creates a scene?

The thoughts are never-ending, swirling in your mind until you can feel Mingi’s hand enclose around your other hand, halting you from adjusting your outfit, from scratching at your skin.

It’s hot, too crowded for a dance floor and he knows that you’re nervous again with the increased proximity to your boyfriend.

Without words, Mingi brings your hands to rest on his shoulders. “Is this okay?”

You nod. Bodies beside you cause you to inch closer to him and his hair is so soft. Your tongue tingles from the lemon’s sourness and you want nothing more than to balance it out with his mouth that smells of rum.

“Hey, I realise I haven’t gotten your name just yet.” The smile he has isn’t teasing, cocky, and you manage a small one back. He leans down to get your answer.

“It’s (Y/N).”

“Pretty. Follow my lead.”

And slowly but surely, you get out of your shell as you both lose all formality with the ear-splitting songs. The cocktail makes your hands wander, trailing over his nape, over his broad shoulders. He still hovers.

You don’t know whether it’s Mingi, the dim lighting or the song but you don’t hesitate to force his hands to your sides and he takes it as a sign.

He’s pulling you close until you’re pressed to his front, head immediately going for your exposed neck, and the laugh that escapes feels so different from Hyunjae, so free that you giggle with him.

It turns from wanting to Hyunjae to see you could do so much better to genuinely enjoying your time with the bartender that you don’t register the shock forming on Hyunjae’s face when he spots you just a few people over. Mingi doesn’t miss it, squeezing your waist softly to bring it to your attention.

“B-babe? What’re you doing here?” He acts like he doesn’t even know the girl dancing with him, yanking her off of him as he tries to preserve his dignity. But you knew better — you’ve seen her face at company dinners, on his Instagram story.

“Why are you here?” He sputters out an answer, not expecting you to fight back. Hyunjae’s smaller than ever now.

The bartender resists the urge to scoff at his lack of explanation, about to tell him to piss off when you push at Hyunjae with a finger. “I’ll tell you why I’m here. Witnessing you and the girl you told me not to worry about. Talking crap about overtime just to fuck her in your workplace.”

“W-What? That’s bullshit, where’d you even get that from?!”

Thank God for Mingi’s Lemon Drop, because you shove Hyunjae harder than before, angering the people behind him who push him back towards you.

“Guess you’ll never find out how. Get your shit out of my apartment and leave before tomorrow morning or else I’ll be telling your boss about inappropriate workplace conduct.”

Hyunjae rolls his eyes and waves you off, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I hope the job market’s ready for someone who promised overtime hours only to soil the printing room. Keep checking your emails babe.” You purposefully drag out the pet name he likes to use on you, which now sounds cheap and tacky. Mingi can’t help a cackle from escaping, tugging you closer as if you’re his.

And you might just be by the end of this night.

Hyunjae doesn’t bother to one-up the bartender one bit, only throwing Mingi a scowl before elbowing himself through the crowd. Unknowingly, your body relaxes, melting into the other’s arms easily and wanting nothing more than to turn off your brain for the night. It makes Mingi smile.

You’re bolder when the night deepens. It starts with running your hands down his chest and grasping softly at his waist. There’s whispered lyrics into your skin, letting him trail kisses down your jawline to your sternum and you feel like you’re on top of the world.

His body’s flush against yours, tensing and breathing hard. The heat’s suffocating and the kisses sweet, hovering over just where you both need each other desperately.

“Heard you’re a dancer,” Mingi mumbles, sneaky hands going past your hips to your ass and kneads. You laugh.

“You heard whatever Yunjin said? It was one time,” You reminisce about the time you went out for her birthday before getting shit-faced drunk and talking to her only in counts, “and she was struggling to understand what I was saying.”

It takes a beat for you to take the leap. “Want me to show you?”

A pretty laugh leaves his lips, “Your dancing or your innate ability to only talk in eights?”

Fuck, he’s handsome and funny.

“Har-har, very funny.” The moment’s playful but charged with underlying tension that only increases once the song changes. With a hand, you lift his head from your neck, taking advantage of his surprise to turn around.

Pushing up against him, you make sure he’s feeling every part of your ass on him, swaying your hips until you get a small groan from him. Tempted, Mingi places his hands along your waist, helping you grind down on him while arousal pools in your panties.

He’s enamoured with how well you fit against him, even more so when you lace your fingers with his, tugging one up to rest on your chest.

He takes the bait with how you turn your head, boasting your pretty lips with eyes closed. But you’re not letting him get what he wants that easily, finger pressed against his lips.

“Did the Lemon Drop do this, hm?” He’s back on your neck like it’s his home, slurring his words in that deep, deep voice of his that you want nothing more than to hear that for the rest of your life (and hopefully in your bed tonight).

“Maybe.” You can’t help but chuckle triumphantly, but it’s cut short when he suddenly yanks you back to his front; shit, you can feel his hard-on — he’s big.

You subconsciously gulp and pull him closer (not without a mildly surprised “oh”), overwhelmed with the feeling of his chest against yours, of his hips moving in tandem with yours, of his breath on your lips.

“I’m full of surprises, too.”

“That was so corny.” Biting your lip, you try to stifle a smile but it bleeds out past your lips, “You’re lucky I still want to fuck you.”

“Aw, only fuck?” He feigns sadness as he bats his eyelashes at you. That question probably would’ve made you think twice, but with Mingi’s little pout, the vodka in your system and Rihanna in the background, you throw all complicated feelings out the window.

“Shut up, Mingi.”

That elicits a low chuckle. “Gladly.”

He collides with you immediately, lips moulding into yours like two parts of a whole that you stumble a bit from the force. But you waste no time in reciprocating with neediness of your own, tugging him down to you with hands tangled in his black hair.

You could care less about your ex, about Yunjin excitedly texting you from the bar, nor the people around you.

Not when Mingi’s slipping his tongue into your mouth and your pussy’s just desperate for relief that you moan softly into his mouth.

“God, you sound pretty,” He pulls away for air, but he’s already hooked onto your taste, leaving pecks on your lips again and again. His hands rest comfortably on your sides, caressing, squeezing. “Need to hear that in my sheets.”

You mutter a soft fuck before licking your lips, “Your place?”

Mingi hums into your lips, “You have my name tag, baby. It’s up to you,” and grins when he sees you jolt. The pet name affects you. He knows.

Fuck it. You need this man now.

With a quick text to Yunjin, everything that happens on the way to Mingi’s doesn’t exist. The ride was both a torment and a blur when his hand trails so closely to where you need him and his hips adjust uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. You’re so horny that you’re sure you’ve sobered up already.

You lunge forward once the front door’s closed, eagerness undermining both your abilities to remove your shoes, too preoccupied with devouring the other.

Mingi tastes like sage and citrus, a flavour you’ll keep locked away forever; he breaks the kiss reluctantly, and that taste travels down your body, taking his time.

Mingi’s anything but composed, though, larger hands wrapped around your middle while he takes in your scent and sweat, nose pressed against your heaving stomach.

Just a mere bartender, a one-night stand acting like a lover when he fully goes onto his knees and zips open your boots. Torturously, agonisingly slow, and removes them even slower.

By the time the second shoe’s off, your hand has already messed up his hair. You push him to you, he pulls back.

“It’s my time to tease, doll. Patience.” You whine softly in disagreement, letting him plant soft kisses along your ankle, up to your shin and knees and finally your inner thighs that threaten to tighten in his hold.

“Mingi…” You don’t mean to sound so desperate off the bat, but your cunt’s pulsing and the AC’s sending goosebumps all over your skin and possibly the hottest man alive is on his knees in front of you.

“Fuck, baby, I can smell you from here.” Like a gentleman, he helps you to shimmy out of your miniskirt and underwear before tossing it somewhere and you’re suddenly self conscious about being all exposed.

But Mingi simply doesn’t care about decorum as he lifts your leg, prompting you to place it on his shoulder. He marvels at your arousal illuminated by the doorway lighting, stifling a moan.

“Look at you.” Sighing, he plays with your folds, trailing a finger up and down and smirking when he feels you shiver under his touch. “So perfect. All this for me?”

“Y-Yeah, just for you,” Your words are muffled from your hand, trying to hold back your sounds but Mingi isn’t having any of that. He thinks your ex-boyfriend may have something to do with it.

“Let me hear you, alright, honey?” Mingi takes your hand and interlocks it together with his, a promise that you’ll be the star tonight. “We’re safe here, there’s no need to hold back.”

You nod just as he blows into your cunt, making you clench around nothing and he smiles. “For now, let me eat my meal.”

And Mingi eats, convincing yourself that you’ve definitely driven a hole through his shoebox cabinet with how hard you were leaning against it. Your hips buck against his face, tongue flicking over your clit as you relish in the pleasure.

“Oh my G-God, Mingi…” You can barely hold eye contact with him as he latches onto your pussy like a vice, addicted to your taste, your sounds and how you drip endlessly all over his tongue.

“That’s it, doll, tell me how good you feel.” Mingi continues to inch closer on his knees, trapping himself under your thighs as his tongue works wonders.

With an experimental finger, he circles your pulsing hole and pushes in ever so slightly, making you almost keel over from the overwhelming feeling.

“Fuck, Mingi, that feels so—!” Your moans fill his house together with the lewd sounds of your pussy, feeling the vibrations of his hums on your sensitive clit. His thumb plays with it as he comes up for air, adding a second finger easily before starting to pump them with determination.

“That feel good?” He’s brutal in his thrusting, but it’s not even a minute when he returns with his merciless tongue again, swearing that you were seeing stars from this alone.

If Mingi was this pussy drunk, who knows how you’d feel when he’s in you? You tremble at the thought, fingers pulling at his hair until it stings.

But Mingi loves it, loves seeing your eyes flutter close and your toes curl in sheer pleasure as the prettiest mewls fall from your lips. You’re full on grinding into his face now, holding onto his hand like a lifeline, while there’s the audible slick sounds of your juices.

It’s hotter than it was on the dance floor, and fully knowing you’d be buckling to the ground if it wasn’t for Mingi’s secure hold on you. Because you can feel yourself getting weaker and weaker the more the coil in your stomach turns, clamping down hard on his fingers.

“I-I’m close, baby—” Your words slip, every part of your body tingles and he pants out a plea.

“Call me that again for me, doll.” He’s ravishing you, ruining you for any other person and you wouldn’t have it any other way. His rings feel so cold on your cunt, while his mouth’s hot and he’s dizzy off of you.

“Gonna cum, baby,” If your friend couldn’t understand you while drunk, Mingi’s chest puffs with pride making you babble nonsensical things while you’re both tipsy with his name being the only coherent thing, “Mingi, Mingi, Mingiiii.”

The name becomes a chant together with needy whines that’s drowned out by your soaking pussy. Mingi lets the force of his palm stimulate your clit instead, and the visual of seeing him on his knees with this tongue out—

“F-fuck…” Your orgasm hits you in sudden waves, sending you jerking against his hold even when his fingers don’t slow down, “Feels s’good, Mingi—”

“There we go, baby, keep cumming… Taste just like honey.” Mingi groans and drives his tongue along your folds for a taste, but now he takes and takes, savouring whatever you have to give. Sweeter than his Lemon Drop, you taste so heavenly that he wants seconds.

But you have other plans, trying your best to regain your balance and simultaneously drag him up by the biceps. Mingi traps you in between the cabinet, and you trap him with a passionate kiss. Moaning into his mouth at your taste while he soothes your aching thighs with his gentle touch.

“Bed. Now.” Your cheeks warm as he laughs against your lips at your request.

“You got it, doll.” With a hand outstretched, you grab hold and let him lead you just like the club. Along the way, you slip on your underwear just so you won’t be butt ass naked and he throws you a small smile. Except this time, you’re not performing for anyone, not for Hyunjae, not for yourself, and hopefully not for Mingi.

Though, if riding Mingi’s tongue had you thrashing left and right, you think you’d be safe, knowing he’ll take care of you.

His room feels strangely familiar — posters and records plastered up everywhere with a portable closet and pretty lights. There’s a few guitars in cases with one displayed proudly while his desk is littered with cute trinkets and a gaming set-up. It’s a lived-in bedroom, worn down from years of tape on walls and accidents from silly dance moves.

“Hard to believe I’m an adult with this room, huh?”

You smile at him, finding it endearing he’s still kept his hobbies and favourite things close to him. “No no, it’s charming. I like it.”

You continued, “I don’t think having a ‘serious’ job like bartending immediately eliminates your other hobbies.”

Mingi shoots you that boyish grin again, “You think my job’s ‘serious’?” and mimics your air quotes.

“Well, you are handling alcohol — it seems pretty serious, don’t you think?” There’s no choice but to giggle when Mingi’s expression turns from all-knowing to pondering. “And— And there’s always the usual brooding persons that come in to vent their problems to you.”

Mingi bursts out laughing at that with an attractive rasp to it, plopping on his Queen size. “You’re not wrong about that. I guess I’m sort of like a therapist too.”

Like a magnet, you feel the pull into his arms just as he whispers a c’mere, finally able to see his face properly when you stand in between his legs.

The glistening juices on the bottom half of his face make you flush just a bit, but up close, Mingi feels so familiar. Not the way Hyunjae was — that was habit disguised as familiarity.

But despite your unconfirmed fate and the possibility of never seeing Mingi again, he enchants like no other. Fuck, you were talking crazy.

The other seems to see your dilemma, reaching for your hands. “We don’t have to do anything, you know?”

His touch is so tender, it makes your heart ache, “I know we only danced to scare off your boyfriend but I genuinely did want to know you. And… I know you feel it too, but I don’t wanna pressure you after seeing such a shitty thing in the club.”

“You’re… not wrong, Mingi. It has been only a few hours and you’ve already made me feel more worth than he ever did but, I’ll need time to process my feelings too.”

Slowly, you remove your hands from his but only to straddle him in the next second, whining softly when he tugs you closer if that was even possible.

“But tonight, I want you to fuck all the feelings out of me. I don’t wanna think, I don’t wanna—” You heave a heavy sigh, swallowing when you think back to Hyunjae and his colleague.

Mingi applies light pressure to your side to ground you. “(Y/N), hey, it’s no problem. Your wish is my command, tonight.”

“And after—”

“We’ll talk about the after later, don’t worry your pretty little head ’bout it.” You don’t even realise he’s flipped you over but he takes his time to remove his pants and boxers, ego stroked just a little when he sees your wide eyes at his size.

“You’re…”

“I know, baby. We’ll take it slow, alright?” Mingi is steady even as he reaches over for a condom, but you stop him.

“Wanna feel all of you.” He swears his heart bursts at your cute pout. “I’m clean and on the pill, that okay?”

“More than okay. I’m clean too. You sure you’re okay?” He asks as he tugs your panties to the side, interrupted briefly from your impatient hum.

“Yes, Mingi. Please just fuck me already.” Your voice is less bratty, more pleading, but it strikes a chord within him. He obeys immediately.

“Okay, okay!” His deep laugh elicits one out of you, too. At least you don’t stop him from taking the lube — he spurts a good amount and strokes himself with a soft grunt, mixing in with his pre-cum. Relief. “It’s gonna hurt. Need you to breathe and relax, okay?”

Mingi’s already much thicker than your ex, and you hiss slightly at the stretch once he inches his cock in. But it’s nothing you can take, eyes trained on how he’s pushing through slowly.

“F-Fuck, baby, you gotta stop clenching. So tight—” You whimper at the sight, but Mingi uses his body to push you down, distracting you with deep kisses that subconsciously relaxes your body. His intoxicating smell and presence does the rest of the job.

“Taking me so well, good girl.” He mumbles into your skin as you become obsessed with the way his body engulfs yours, towering but certain.

His pendant’s movements are messy, colliding with your chin over and over but Mingi is just so deep it doesn’t register in your head. “Just a little more, honey, you got it.”

In the next minute, Mingi’s loud groan fills your ears, bottoming out in your walls that feel so warm that he never wants to pull out.

His furrowed eyebrows with sweat lined along it paired with his beautiful parted lips is enough to make your cunt pulse and heart full — making a pretty man like him lose his mind over you, desperation and profanity spilling over.

“M-Move, baby, please—” With a slow thrust of his hips, he has to drop his head to yours because you just feel too fucking good wrapped around his aching length. Both your shaky breaths mingle as he sets a comfortable pace that allows you both to feel every part of the other.

And his languid movements have never felt slower and more intense, the obscene noises of your soaking pussy stuffed full reverberating off the walls. It surrounds you like a cloud, making the feeling, the sensations rise to an all time high.

It’s worse when Mingi folds your legs to your chest, the image of his shaft disappearing into your pretty little pussy searing itself into his brain.

Mingi keeps his promise to you, taking your one-worded pleas and turning them into repeated “ah’s” with no room for any word or any doubt left in your mind. By now, he’s pistoning in and out of you, your release from earlier merging with the lube until both you and Mingi are filthy and soaking, juices flowing down your thighs and right into his sheets.

“You’re so wet, holy f-fuck—” His eyes are the ones struggling to stay open now, drunk off of everything you that he can’t even move his hips properly, stuttering every now and then.

There’s the delicious squelches every time his skin meets yours, the dizzying pap! pap! pap! that hypnotises you. “Listen to how wet your sweet pussy is, baby.”

You’re past words, only babbling incoherence as Mingi grunts above you, continuing to fill you up with his cock. His thrusts start to turn erratic, so lost in the feeling that the grip on your legs loses its hold. You take the chance to wrap them around his waist, barely catching his pendant and yanking him towards you.

“Kiss me stupid, Mingi.” The long, drawn out moan against your lips sends heat bubbling up from inside you. And the kiss he lands on you leaves fire along your skin, burning indefinitely until a particular thrust has your eyes rolling back.

“Cumming— f-fuck—!” It comes out in broken sobs as you see white, cumming so hard on his pulsating length that your juices spray everywhere and your legs shake uncontrollably. The slight sheen along his cock starts to form a ring of white and he whines at your warmth.

Everything — the craving for you, your tight cunt, how you leak all over him — makes him cum right after. “I-I’m gonna pump you full, baby— shit…”

Your eyes can’t help but roll back again at the sensation of Mingi painting your insides white, cum spurting so deep in you that you can feel it flow out. It’s so warm that you squirm as he holds your hips down, making sure your hole gets every last drop.

Without pulling out, he admires your sweaty top that’s been pushed past your tits, your heaving chest and the remnants of your trembling thighs with a lip bite accompanied by a smile.

Silently, he caresses your outer thighs, slowly bringing your feet down to rest on his soaked sheets. You whimper when you feel him pull out, the salacious sight of cum leaking out from your pussy comes out in blobs; it takes everything in Mingi to compose himself.

Because you were utterly fucked out, eyes constantly blinking with a light-headed expression that tells him he might’ve fucked you dumb. Your little sounds are just adorable that he rubs his cum just one last time over your folds, claiming you.

“Okay okay, baby, I got you.” With a peck to your forehead, Mingi promises to come back with a wet rag and some water and the last thing you remember is sage and citrus wafting through the air as he plants a sweet kiss to your lips. “And then tomorrow, we’ll figure everything out, okay honey?”

You drift off easily, but you’ll find that for now and possibly forever, Mingi always keeps his promises.

A dream — you think, when you wake up, but you recognise that the bedroom is not yours and the ache in your body persists. But to your dismay, Mingi is nowhere to be found. Not until you hear faint humming coming from the kitchen and smell the lovely aroma of pancakes.

“Morning, baby.” Mingi says like you’ve always been in his life, like you’ve lived here for many years, like you’re familiar to him.

“Y-Yeah, good morning, Mingi.” Awkwardly, you take a seat at his island, but as you watch his broad back cooking breakfast for his one-night stand, you relax for a bit.

Mingi piles a few pancakes for you effortlessly, sliding the plate to you, followed by the butter and then holds up maple syrup in his left hand and honey in the other. The question is unsaid, but you nod towards his right with a small smile that’s returned.

“Eat.” With a plate in his hand as well, he plops down beside you as if one-night stands don’t complicate feelings and makes things messy.

But Mingi, the bartender, with a pure heart and even lovelier soul (you have yet to discover this), eats a meal beside you like you’re tied together by fate (maybe).

(You are).

Now, his deep voice sounds small, but sure. “And then we’ll talk feelings after. And we can talk about the ‘after’ after.”

A deep breath for good measure and luck. “And also maybe about the date I’d wanna bring you on.”

by. janus, from me to you ♡ also major thank you to this video which made me lose my mind n inspired this...

#ateez fanfic #ateez mingi #ateez x reader #ateez x you #ateez scenarios #ateez mingi smut #mingi smut #song mingi x reader #song mingi smut #song mingi x you #mingi x reader #mingi hard hours #ateez drabbles #ateez mingi x reader #ateez smut #song mingi fanfic #mingi ateez #mingi x you #song mingi ateez

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robinismywifesworld · 6 hours ago

Text

Ms. Manager (No Dating Rule!)

Saja boys x Female! Reader

Summary: Other men really need to stop hitting on you or they're gonna lose their minds.

Warning: Saja boys, possessive! saja boys, jealousy, yandere behaviour, oblivious! reader, dumb! reader, crybaby? reader, death (not reader or the saja boys), grammatical errors probably and incorrect spellings, english is not my first language, probably more.

Author's note: The first part reached over 3,000+ notes in just two days (I don't know if that's a good thing or not) but thank you nonetheless! This happens before the first part. This is not proofread lol

Part 1

Coming into the Korean pop music business as a group's manager wasn't exactly what you planned that would happen to you, it wasn't the job you dreamed of but it paid rent and the boys you were looking after weren't that bad, they were extremely clingy and a tad over protective for someone they appointed as their manager for 6 months. It was unexpected but the 5 boys seemed nice enough that immediately made you accept their offer as their manager, their looks were just bonuses.

Apparently, being their manager also requires you to bring them food (Baby said so) and while they offered to come with you, you disagreed because you didn't want to disrupt their dance practice. They gave you their money, of course.

So that's why you were currently in the supermarket, pushing the trolley as you tried to remember what it was that the boys liked to eat. It seemed only Baby loved the hot sauce after getting a free taste on one of the few times they came with you to the shops.

"You can buy what you want with the money too, pretty." they said before you walked off, handing you a butt load of money that wouldn't be able to fit in your wallet.

And that's what you did, throwing your favourite food after food inside the trolley with a giddy smile before stopping to think what your boys liked.

A tap on the shoulder interrupted you from your thoughts making you turn around to see an admittedly handsome man who seemed about your age, ginger hair, brown eyes and fair skin. He's a foreigner, that much was obvious. You blink in surprise and confusion, "Uh, hello? something wrong, sir?" You asked, voice laced with its usual softness and trying to speak in english.

The male cleared his throat, "Uh.." he was momentarily distracted by your looks and cute voice. "Uhm, ye-yes... I-" He cleared his throat again.

You raised an eyebrow, 'Is he alright?' you thought.

"I think you're really pretty and... I was wondering if you'd like to go on a date with me..." He finally says, cheeks tinted pink. British.

Your eyes widened, feeling your own cheeks heat up at his words and accent. This is the first time in years since someone had asked you out, someone this handsome and has a british accent! That's practically the sexiest accent in the world, at least that's what your friend said to you.

"Oh! My name is Brandon, I'm not from here and I just... I thought you very pretty and I'm rambling.." He stammered out, face reddening even more. "I don't know, I just- I wanted to try and have a friend... it doesn't have to be a date-date, just a friendl-"

You don't have an understanding of the whole english language but you definitely got the gist of that.

You interrupted him with a kind smile, "I accept!" You exclaim, trying to hide your excitement.

Brandon smiled back, "h-here... my number, call me? I mean w-we can meet tomorrow for that date.." He said as he handed me a piece of paper with his number that he wrote before walking towards me.

You gave him a nod and a small wave as he walked away with a skip.

You opened the door to the boy's dance rehearsal, carrying three bags of food (the two bags were for you). The boys stopped their practice and immediately went to fight each other on who could help you, practically pushing each other away before Abby grabbed the bags from your hand with a charming smile, "I'll handle them for you, pretty." He said as the rest scoffed.

"Thank you!" I smiled, "So how's practice going?"

Jinu sighs at the question, moving to stand beside you. You could practically smell him with how sweaty he is, no- you could smell all of their musky smell. "It's fine," He huffs, trying to cover up the fact that it was not doing well at all with how much the rest of the guys stressed him out a lot.

"I did tell you I could hire a dance instructor for you guys," I hum, trying to ignore their scent.

Baby rolls his eyes, "Don't. I don't want other people in here." He mutters. I don't want you talking to anybody else, especially if it's a guy.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it," Romance reassures as he took the place on the other side of you. "Just watch us and look all beautiful for us... okay, Ms. Manager?" he adds with a flirty smile, placing a hand on your shoulder.

Mystery nods his head at what the heart shape haired male said.

I pout, "I just want to be useful, I am your manager after all..."

Abby chuckles, "you are useful, pretty girl. You're taking care of us right now, buying us all these food. You've been a good girl for us." He praised as Jinu hums in agreement.

Your cheeks heated up, they always seem to like mentioning everyday that you've been a good girl and it never stops to make your heart skip a beat.

Such a good girl, you like touching my muscles, don't you?

Thank you, pretty girl. I'm so proud of my good girl.

Don't stop doing that, it feels good... that's right, good girl.

The next day came by and you were giddy, all excited that the others couldn't help but notice it when you came by for another day of dance rehearsals.

Abby moved to flex his muscles, intentionally growing closer to you as the thin shirt made his abs more prominent. "What's got you all excited?" He questioned with a raised eyebrow as he looked down at your form.

"Well yesterday... a guy asked me out!" You exclaimed, "He was sooo handsome and he has this british accent that it just made my heart melt!" You place a hand on your chest for good measure.

The others stopped whatever it is they were doing to look at you, an unreadable expression plastered on their faces before Jinu gave you a small smile which was obviously fake but you didn't notice, practically buzzing with excitement.

"Is that so? I'm happy for you!" He says as he gave you a pat on the shoulder.

"We're actually going at this restaurant in town tonight and I'm gonna be wearing the prettiest dress," You giggle as Mystery grits his teeth in annoyance, trying to stop himself from barking angrily at whoever's taking you out.

They can't believe you had the nerve to just go on dates with some nobody, you were their manager so that practically means you're theirs. So that pretty dress you own is reserved for their eyes only. Who cares if that guy has an accent? They know they're much better than whatever nobody you found on the streets.

The day rolls by, the Saja boys couldn't focus on whatever dance routine they had to do because they have one goal in mind;

getting rid of the bastard who had the audacity to steal their pretty girl.

It was easy trying to find the guy you were going on a date with because you told them his description and where you were meeting, oblivious to their plans. They know you wouldn't accuse them of doing something because you were dumb like that and they love it.

Jinu was dressed as a waiter that they ganged up on to steal his clothes and his soul while the rest waited outside in a dark alleyway. You were still at your apartment, getting all dolled up for this ugly nobody who could never compare to their majestic beauty.

How did you ever find this piece of shit handsome?

The raven haired male plastered on a fake smile as he approached Brandon who looked nervous and sweaty, Jinu was glad he came here extra early. "Hello, sir. I just wanted to inform you that a pretty, young lady is waiting for you outside." he said in perfect english as the ginger male looked up at him in surprise before nodding his head to stand up, following after him.

Brandon looked confused as he was led to a dark and secluded place, he looks around. "Uh, where-" he turns to face Jinu and lets out a gasp, seeing 5 pairs of glowing eyes- yellow embers with orange slits that are razor-thin- glaring down at him from the shadows.

The brit lets out a nervous chuckle, stepping back. "I-is this a joke, mate? It's not really funny..." He mutters before his back felt the dirty and cold stone wall.

"You really thought you could take her... from me? from us?" one of them growls as they moved closer to him.

"Don't bother screaming for help, no one's here but us." another whispers tauntingly before they all simultaneously pounced at the male who let out a scream with other people none the wiser.

"I- I got stood up..." You whimper, having just gone to the restaurant and waited for hours for the guy but he never game. "I waited for him but he didn't come..."

You were in their house, practically dashing over to them in tears. They bit back the smile as you melted into a puddle in Jinu's arms who coo-ed and rubbed your back gently as you cried.

"A-and I was all dressed up too... h-he's such a jerk!" You sobbed, hiding your pretty face in his chest.

"It's gonna be okay, [Your name]" Abby moves towards you, fingers moving to take your chin, tilting your head to look at him so that they could see your pretty face even with the make up running down due to your tears.

Romance gave you a smile, "Besides, you've got us. You don't need some other guy to go on a date with, we're here for you." He said softly. "Oh look, you're ruining your make up now... but don't worry, you're still the prettiest girl in the world."

Mystery nods, "And... being on some date with a nobody would only deter you from your job as our manager... who's gonna take care of us now if you're gonna go off going on a date.." he mumbled, trying to act all upset.

You sniffle, "y-you're right... I- I'm suppose to be your manager... you guys are my priority." you mumbled as you wipe your tears away but the crying never stopped.

They all smirked, unknown to you. That's right. They are your priority and no one else.

"So you better not be getting into some dates again," Baby reprimands with an annoyed huff.

Because you're ours, pretty girl.

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distuff · 1 day ago

Note

HELLO? your saja boys characterizations are so perfect!!!! i really loved reading the 'sharing' post!!!

If i may request...Baby going absolutely soft and tame under the reader's affections as they trace the patterns on his demon form face and neck with quick little kisses, secretly just trying to see how much it takes for the nonchalant Baby to loosen his composure, and they get just what they were aiming for. I love the demons being slightly awkward or unsure of such affections as I imagine its hard to come by it in the demon realm.

Answer: Aaah~ Arigatou!! I'm glad you've enjoyed yourself!! ( _ _)人 It makes me happy to know their personalities fits! And oh boi- the sOftness!! I love this idea so much! Def see what ya mean w the boyz being awkward with affection since as ya said they probably ain't cuddling in demon realm lol Hope you'll like it readershi!

📍Requests: Please, check my Bio.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

Baby Saja: What's Affection?

Featuring: Baby Saja Reader: Gender neutral

🍼 Baby had barely any memories of his life before death - only fragmented flashes.

🍼 A betrayal from someone he once trusted. A faceless figure selling him off to another faceless nobody. Torture. Torture. Moulding. Screams. Blood. Endless cries.

🍼 The memories always ended the same: the sound of a thousand skittering legs crawling - burrowing - into his ears, past his eardrums. Screams. Tears. And then— Darkness...

🍼 Everything after that became crystal clear. He remembered standing emotionlessly before a vast wall of violent purple flames that crackled as if laughing. There was, however, another voice. Soft, almost like a balm on the pain his body hadn’t realised it carried. It coaxed him to step back.

🍼 So he did. He slid his right foot behind him, about to lean toward that soothing light - when another voice, one that burned, spoke: "WoUldn’T YoU LikE tO ForGet?"

🍼 The words hit like a club across his head. His eyes snapped open, head splitting with pressure as memories fought to surface. Rage he didn't knew was there surged forward. Screams and images - blurry faces he didn’t recognise but hated all the same - overwhelmed the soft pull of the first voice.

🍼 His hands twitched with the urge to tear something apart - to claw the answers to his questions out of someone, anyone. Instead, his fingers dug into his scalp, nails scraping skin until he felt something wet slide down his forehead, trailing along his cheeks, dripping to his bare collarbone.

🍼 "gO," said the flame again. His gaze locked on the radiant purple fire. A warmth spread through him - not comforting, but fueling - amplifying his rage, he didn't know he had while the soft voice behind him begged him to turn back.

🍼 He gritted his teeth. A faint, sharp face appeared within the flame, grinning with needle-like teeth. "Go aNd ForGeT, bY mAkiNg AmeNDs wITh thOsE whO WroNgED yoU… I shAll aLlOw It tO hApPen."

🍼 It spoke with such confidence he didn’t even question it. Just took one slow step forward. Then another. Until he stood directly in front of the one he would come to know as Gwi-Ma.

🍼 Warmth engulfed him. His shoulders eased, the tension slipping away as his body - cold without him even realising - began to warm up.

🍼 Then came the pain. Scorching. Burning. The purple flames had devoured him whole. It lasted only seconds, yet stretched into what felt like centuries as the cackling of the flames joined his blood-curdling screams..

🍼 And with the dying flames, the contract was sealed. Powers to take the lives of those who wronged him for his submission to whom he now recognised as his King. Warmth then became something wrong. It prickled. Burned. Even the thought of a touch made him recoil.

🍼 Not that anyone in the demon realm dared to touch him. Not when he started rising through the ranks faster than anyone expected for a freshly turned demon. It was laughable, really - he didn’t even know what the ranks were until much later. He was too busy hunting humans to satisfy the maddening itch in the void where his soul used to be.

🍼 He was no one. Just a follower meant to feed his King. Until Jinu came along, saw his face in the demon realm, and casually called him “Baby.”

🍼 Baby hadn’t realised it would stick. Even with demonic features, it seems he had a baby face. Perfect for luring in humans if you asked him.

🍼 He had no memory of his real face, no idea who he used to be. The only hints were physical reactions - flinches, preferences, inexplicable instincts. Forget my ass, Baby would grumble every time his body reacted to something he couldn’t explain.

🍼 So, when Jinu asked if he wanted to take a peek at the human world, Baby very easily said no. It wasn’t until Jinu literally begged that a sadistic smirk tugged at Baby’s lips, and he agreed - caring very little for whatever promises Jinu had offered.

🍼 But the lack of memory came with one very specific problem: He had no template to base his appearance on. Although Baby felt that even his demonic form probably held more resemblance to whoever he’d been before death than whatever polished identity Jinu had instructed him to mimic.

🍼 The mint hair felt right in tone, but not colour. His bright painted nails felt right too, though he preferred darker shades. His cheeks were too round, eyes too big - he remembered scowling the first time he saw his reflection and calling himself a “Fucking owl.” Eventually, he altered them, drooping them slightly. Enough to pass as doe-eyed, but more tolerable for him.

🍼His lips and nose felt… familiar. Almost correct. And his demon markings? He felt naked without them.

🍼 Ironic, considering they were symbols of what he’d become. Still, they were him now. Not this peach-skinned twink he wore for public appearances.

🍼 He lived for moments when no humans were around and he could drop the illusion. Let his features sharpen. Hair darken. Let the demon marks shimmer faintly when caught at the right angle.

🍼 But the thing that really got under his skin? That fucking honmoon wave surrounding the entire damn globe. Broadcasting its bullshit feelings - “Comfort,” “Love,” “Warmth.” Every time it pulsed near him, his brain went static, and his body curled in on itself. Disgusting.

🍼 He labelled what he felt as disgust, anyway. But he sure as hell wasn’t about to investigate it either. Those feelings? They made his skin crawl. Tried to fill the void in his chest - and he wanted nothing to do with them.

🍼 So when you slipped into his routine, so slowly he didn’t even notice until Romance offhandedly asked if you’d be coming to one of their shoots - Baby had been about to say no. But he froze. Because how the fuck should he know?

🍼 He hadn’t even realised how intertwined you’d become in his life until that moment. He hated it. He hated what you made him feel.

🍼 Even worse? He realised why he felt so pissy lately. It was you who made it impossible for him to relax the illusion. That was your fault.

🍼 So. What does a clever, soul-devouring, high-ranking demon do? ... That’s right. He told you.

🍼 Told you the truth - on the apartment balcony. At night, when the guys were out. Cornered you, really. He knew humans had that fight, flight, or freeze instinct, and he wasn’t about to be scolded by his seniors if you ran off because your little human brain couldn’t process anything that wasn’t a grey alien with antennae.

🍼 Let the illusion slowly fall away- Silver-blue eyes overtaken by a glowing gold, face subtly shifting, clawed hands flexing. Grey-toned skin bled over warm peach, washing it out in waves. Markings flickered faintly before settling - like ink spreading across wet parchment.

🍼 It went about as well as he expected. You looked at him - his pupils narrowed vertically, curious - And you promptly jerked back and fell off the fucking skyscraper.

🍼 Baby watched you over the railing, utterly bored, as you plummeted. Would they follow Gwi-Ma if they died? The thought flickered. The answer was obviously no.

🍼 So he jumped after you. Caught up with ease - just as your panic spiked, sharp and intoxicating through the honmoon. He pulled you against him mid-air, chest to chest. In the next breath, you vanished in a swirl of violet smoke - Only to reappear on the same balcony you'd hurled yourself from.

🍼 His expression didn’t change as you shoved him away, gasping, refusing to look at him. Baby would never admit it, but for a second, he wondered if telling you had been a mistake.

🍼 Because if you’d said you wanted to leave, even if you promised to stay silent— He wouldn’t have hesitated. He would’ve feasted on your soul then and there. So at least some part of you would stay with him.

🍼 Good for you, though. You calmed down. Asked questions. And Baby answered - just enough to soothe you, and somehow managed to make you believe he and the others only wanted to live like humans.

🍼 Yeah right. He nearly rolled his eyes at himself. They did want to live like humans, sure. But only so they could turn those annoying HUNTER/X fans into SAJA fans so their King could have enough souls to have a corporeal form.

🍼 Still. He told you exactly what he thought would calm you down. And it worked.

So you really couldn't blame him for looking at you like you'd lost every single brain cell the moment you asked him to show more of his demon features. The two of you were tucked away in his room - Romance and Abby off experiencing another so-called “wonder of the human world” under Mystery’s watchful eye, while Jinu was out doing who-knew-what for who-knew-why. Again. If Baby cared enough, he could’ve tapped into the honmoon and followed his veiled wave to sense what the other was feeling and where he roughly was. But right now, all of his attention was locked on you, mouth parted slightly as he gawked. He blinked, a brow rising before a faint smirk curved his lips as he looked you over. “Why? Want an excuse to go jumpin’ off the balcony again?” he asked, voice low, honeyed with a slight rasp. You seemed to be still a bit bothered by the subtler demon traits he let slip - like those faintly glowing golden eyes, the greyish tint to his skin, and the slightly curved black claws at the tips of his fingers. Still, most of his human features remained intact. Baby could always see the way your gaze lingered on him. Your body still, almost instinctively, while he shamelessly felt your bright blue wave in the honmoon barrier crackle with adrenaline whenever he let his human form ease a bit. The sensation was delicious, teasing, and just out of reach. He could feel it pulsing even now, tempting him. But you remained stubbornly leashed by the Huntresses. Tch. No matter. He wasn’t worried. With the plan they've agreed on, it was only a matter of time - and his gradually thinning patience until the cool blue would turn brilliant crimson. You then mirrored his "playful" smirk, pushing his arm lightly with a soft glare. "Ha. Ha. You’re so funny," you said, voice dripping in sarcasm. Baby leaned back against the pillow wedged against the headboard, posture relaxed as he grinned. “I know. I’m fuckin’ hilarious— Ack! Hey! What the fuck... was that... for..?” You'd flicked his forehead. He growled softly, reaching for the second pillow beside him, only to trail off with his words when you shifted suddenly - smoothly swinging your leg over and settling down on his lap. His head tilted back to look at you, eyes narrowing as you loomed over him with... Determination? ...What? His claws flexed, digging into the bedding beneath him. Instinct told him to throw you off. His abdomen tightened with tension, warning signals blazing. You were far too close, and he didn’t like it - didn't like how your expression was unreadable. Golden eyes flared brighter. Still, Baby didn’t act. He had a part to play, and unfortunately, that part meant he had to let some of the physical touching pass. Apparently, this was how modern couples showed... affection. Gwi-ma, he wanted to gag. He kept his face composed, barely restraining himself, giving you a sceptical look as you inhaled like you were bracing for— His hand shot out, clamping around your wrist before it could reach his left cheek. He knew exactly what you were aiming for. His mark - a jagged line like a centipede crawling from his neck to his temple, slithering beneath his shirt and connecting to the web of others across his back and stomach. “What... are you.. doing,” he asked, voice low and gravelly, each word pronounced deliberately as he locked eyes with you. To anyone else, you might’ve looked fearless. But Baby could feel the tremor in your honmoon wave. Fear and— oh? Anticipation?

HaaaH. How stupidly naive. Were you seriously getting off on this? His frown twisted into a crooked grin as he tightened his grip on your wrist - just enough to make a point. His other hand slid down to your thigh, claws grazing your clothed skin with a deliberate lightness that sent a shiver through your body. He felt it. That spark in your wavelength. The surge. He could’ve taken it - could’ve let that familiar fire devour him, choosing scorching heat over soft warmth any day - but just as he leaned in, lips parting to claim that blaze for himself- You placed your hand gently over his mouth. With that same nerve-fraying calm, you guided him back onto the pillow. What... he thought, blinking. Baby was confused - thrown off by how unreadable your wave had become. It rattled him, and his face gave it away. But instead of offering any explanation, you simply leaned closer, hair falling like a curtain around your face. The tips of your fingers trailed from his lips, down the column of his throat, settling softly where the faint glow of his marks began to appear. His focus slipped. The illusion cracked. In places he could usually hold it together, it now flickered and glitched - his control slipping as his body betrayed him. Baby hated it. Hated how he could overpower you, end you, devour your soul without effort. And yet, when the image crossed his mind and he tried to command his limbs to move- All they did was twitch. His hand tightened silently around your wrist, more a warning than an attack. His golden eyes flared, pupils narrowing to slits, claws twitching against your thigh as he watched your every move carefully. His body coiled, breath shallow, your hand sliding beneath his neck. His marks pulsed under your touch - more visible now, shining through the grey-blue tint of his skin like they were answering some silent call. It was laughable. Hysterical, even. His chest vibrated with a low, restrained cackle. His demonic body - eager, searching - called for marks that didn’t exist on you. You were human. You can't respond. And yet, his body did not seemed to get that. That's why when he saw the lack of marks, he couldn't but feel desperate - drawn in by that tender, painful warmth of your touch, but also aching to pull away from it. As if your calm was contagious, invasive. Baby gritted his teeth as you dragged your hand lower, pushing aside the collar of his shirt to reveal more of his glowing marks. He strained not to retaliate, not to lunge. You were touching him so carefully. He could’ve crushed your wrist. Should’ve dug his claws in, made you stop. But all he could do was breathe hard and watch through half-lidded eyes, your presence looming over him. You looked at him with that maddening combination of tenderness and steel, no hesitation left in your wavelength. It pulsed through the honeymoon barrier. And he felt it. Your fingers traced the glowing lines across his chest, up his neck to his right cheek, and it was like you were branding him - burning him with your softness. Pathetic, he thought, as his grip slackened. His body and mind were at war. The mind screamed: They'll betray us. Leave us. But his body... Baby exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering as he hesitantly nuzzled into your palm. His pupils dilated, just for a moment. Then they narrowed again, body snapping taut as your lips pressed gently to the mark on his left collarbone. Reflex kicked in. In an instant, he overpowered you - twisting your body beneath his with a snarl that rumbled deep in his throat. He pinned your arms over your head, legs locking yours in place so you couldn’t move an inch. His glowing eyes bore down into yours, slitted and wild, fangs bared.

The adrenaline was back - shuddering through your wave, cracking against the barrier - and it made Baby feel sick to his stomach. Disgusted. Yet he let that familiar, creeping fear settle on his tongue like a meal he devoured with too much hunger. That's right… he thought, tightening his hands around your bound wrists as he leaned closer, close enough that your noses nearly brushed. His grin was mocking, laced with something darker. “Did you had your fun?” he growled low, his mind too preoccupied with his aching body to try and sound playful. He needed to get closer; his marks pulsed, desperate for yours to answer back. His grip tightened just so as he dipped lower, his eyes locked onto your face, breath warm as he brushed his lips over your right ear. “I sure didn’t,” he growled again, voice rougher now, pupils thinning into sharp slits. Yet still, you didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. There was no anticipation. No arousal. Your wave felt hollow - like it had vanished entirely. And that silence in your energy made the void in his chest expand until it felt unbearable. He must’ve looked insane - his lips parted in shallow gasps, golden eyes blown wide and glassy. He rose up just enough to search over your body, frantic, desperate for the familiar spark that could sear him if he dared— Baby froze. He couldn’t move. Not a muscle. Your lips were pressed with quiet certainty against the mark on the left side of his neck. Like your life wasn’t in danger. Like you weren’t human. Like he wasn’t a demon. Baby shuddered fully as you strained your neck to kiss his left cheek, right as his breath stuttered and caught. His eyes, two black moons nearly devouring the gold, stared at you like a cornered beast. He didn’t even notice when he’d loosened his hold. But he had - because suddenly your hands were cradling his face like he was something precious. He didn’t know what to do. So he let you guide him upward, both of you slowly sitting on the bed. His eyes stayed locked on you, unmoving, unblinking - as though expecting a trap. As if at any second you might hurt him. But you didn’t. Instead, you smiled. Softly. Your left hand came to rest at his neck, massaging gently, while your right traced over the demon mark. Baby realised then - every single mark across his body had begun pulsing again, glowing faintly through the fabric beneath your hands. With a sharp inhale, Baby curled his clawed hands into the sweatpants, watching you lean in. He expected a shove. A scream. A betrayal. Instead, your forehead rested softly against his, your hair mingling with his own. Your eyes were closed. His stayed open, pleading silently - end this, do something, don’t drag it out.

But what broke him were the words you whispered between the two of you, "It’s okay, baby. You’re safe here… hmm~" The name. His name. No - pet name. And the meaning behind those words was what finally made his body go lax all at once. He exhaled and let his forehead drop to your shoulder. As if the strings holding him had been cut. His body slumped against yours, heavy, drained - and you didn’t waver. You held him. You expected this. One hand slid up into his hair, the other keeping him anchored as he pressed his face deeper into your neck, breathing in the intoxicating scent that was you. A shaky exhale left him. His arms curled around you, possessive and trembling, like you were his personal plushy and he didn’t quite know what to do with it yet. Something flickered in his chest. A soft flame. And in that quiet, Baby realised two things. First… His arms tightened protectively around you as he slowly opened his eyes. That glowing gold, dimmed but determined, stared into nothing. You were not going to be taken from him. Not by the King. Not by fate. Not by anything. Baby would stand against that pathetic excuse of a King if he had to. And second… His gaze dropped to the gentle blue hue of your soul. It was being wrapped - willingly - by the bright violet threads of their shared demonic energy. With a smirk you couldn’t see, Baby lowered his clawed hand to your chest. His markings responded, pulsing at his command. He watched with near-reverence as the blue began to shift - from a gentle blue - to a sharp crimson. The once serene hue of a honeymoon, now soaked in red devotion to him. His tongue traced over one fang as he trembled at the flood of emotion pouring from you - adoration, fondness, warmth. He pressed in closer and sighed in satisfaction. His other hand slipped from your back down to the mattress, touching your wave - letting it wrap around his arm and slide up his side right as he clenched his hand around it. He was ready when your body shuddered - before you collapsed into him completely. Straightening, Baby let himself fall backwards with you in his arms, landing softly against the mattress. Your dazed expression rested against his chest. Crimson line glowed gently across his marked skin, and Baby smiled, pleased. He brushed a strand of hair from your face and pressed his lips to your forehead. “Rest, my stubborn human," he whispered, "I promise I’ll be here when you wake up,” He reclined into the pillow as your eyelids fluttered, too tired to understand what had just happened.

His smile widened. As your body surrendered to sleep, his arms instinctively tightened around you. Unbeknownst to you, your forms had become woven over - your beautifully crimson wavelength, having torn itself free from the barrier, drawn to him the moment he called. Oh, you... How adorable that all it took was a flicker of vulnerability in something humans believed to be untouchable for them to give themselves over so completely. So fucking naïve~ Baby mused, his grin turning sharp as he gently caressed your cheek with a clawed hand.

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #saja boys #request #ficrequest #baby kpdh #baby saja #saja boys x reader #baby saja x reader

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clairewritesfanfics · 2 days ago

Text

Old Friends

Your Character Settings: AFAB, Jason Todd's childhood friend, civilian, famous author

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

“When the cops told me they’d be sending over a bodyguard, I didn’t expect them to send in a superhero,” you said, setting down the frog-shaped pitcher on the coffee table.

You then took a seat directly facing Red Hood. Tall. Bulky. Vigilante. Alleged colleague of the Bats if you were going by the giant red bat logo across his chest. He looked almost comical on your thrifted loveseat, but he kept his knees together and folded his hands politely over them, as though that would help make him look smaller.

“I was told you were getting death threats,” he said.

“Authors get that kind of mail all the time.”

“But it got worse, right?”

You shrugged. “I can deal with that type of thing, I called the cops for a different matter.” You gestured at the envelope on the table.

Red Hood examined the contents. They were photos of a shattered library window, specifically, the Jason Todd Collection, which was a library that doubled as a shelter full of secondhand sofas and couches and two bathrooms. It’s been around for three months and completely owned and funded by you.

“I’ve heard about this place,” he said. “It’s amazing.”

“Thanks, I’m glad you think so because I want help finding the son of a bitch that broke in and beat up the people sleeping inside.”

“I’m pretty sure the cops already dealt with that.”

“They said they were going to deal with it, but a few officers took some pictures and didn’t even bother interviewing the victims.”

“I understand your concern for the victims and I don’t mean to be rude, but I came here to ensure that you were safe. It’s not exactly a secret that you own the Ja…” he paused briefly before continuing, “that you own the shelter. An attack on the place could’ve been a way of getting your attention. The shelter was attacked after your latest book release, correct?”

Your growing temper simmered and you reclined on your armchair. He was right. “Okay, I see where you’re coming from.”

“Ma’am–”

“Don’t call me that, makes me feel old. Just call me by my first name.”

He hesitated before saying your name and, “your new book’s controversial.”

“Yeah. Not everyone’s happy that I brought back a character from the dead. He was a fan favorite so half of my readers were happy to see him again, but the rest think that resurrection cheapens the plot.”

“I think you foreshadowed Hector’s return pretty consistently.”

“You read my books?”

He tilted his red helmet and you could feel him smiling under that thing. “I like love stories.”

“That–Jason!”

His whole body stiffened, but then a giant, furry thing emerged from behind his loveseat and started sniffing his shoes and thighs.

You sighed. “That’s Jason. He usually hides in my room when I have people over. C’mere, boy.”

Instead of running to your lap like he always did, your seventy-kilogram, stranger-fearing rescue folded its legs and laid its heavy head on Red Hood’s boot.

“Huh. That’s never happened before.” You eyed the hero suspiciously. “Can you talk to animals or something?”

He chuckled. “No superpowers, I’m afraid, guess he just likes me.” He bent down and gently rubbed the dog’s head.

Your throat rumbled lowly with mild jealousy. It took you a whole year before Jason would let you approach him without peeing.

Red Hood then asked, “So…Jason?”

“What?”

“Was that always his name?”

“No. According to the shelter that found him he never answered to a single name. When I got him, I refused to just call him dog or it, so I reinforced the name Jason.”

“...you named him after Jason Todd?”

“Yes, I did.” You crossed your arms. “Now, can we please discuss the reason why you’re here?”

“I didn’t mean to get on your nerves, I was just–”

“–curious, I know.”

“You must’ve really cared for this Todd.”

You thought of Jason, beaming as he handed you a cheeseburger, laughing at a joke you told him, and you smiled. “He was my best friend.”

Red Hood said nothing.

“He died a few years ago. He was the smartest person I knew and he… he didn’t even get to finish high school.” You exhaled and looked at your bookshelf. “I want the world to remember his name, even if it’s just from the dedication pages in my books and a small library.”

***

Red Hood made himself comfortable on the rooftop overlooking your apartment. You may not have cared about several death threats but he did, and he wasn’t about to leave you alone unguarded.

“So this is where you’ve been,” a sing-song voice interrupted his thoughts.

Jason clicked his tongue.

Nightwing wrapped his arm around his brother’s shoulder. “Heard everything from Babs. I can’t believe you approached her as Red Hood before you showed up as Jason.”

“Go away, dickhead.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Tsk.”

“She’s really cute, are her books any good though? Never found the time to read, well, anything. But Babs said–”

Dick’s words merged with the city’s usual background noise as Jason continued to watch you behind your balcony door.

He watched as you knelt down to help Jason the Dog slip into a red hoodie before pressing a tender kiss between its eyes.

He then opened his phone and scanned your weekly schedule. You were too reckless. You left a lot of your things out in the open. What if a freak found your planner?

He made a mental note to install some cameras when you leave to get groceries tomorrow.

Disclaimer: The image of Red Hood used in this post does not belong to writerclaire. It's by Dexter Soy and was lifted from: https://www.reddit.com/r/DCcomics/comments/h0iavp/cover_from_red_hood_and_the_outlaws_20_by_dexter/

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#red hood #red hood x reader #fem reader #jason todd #jason todd x reader #yandere #mild yandere #author reader #bodyguard red hood #bodyguard jason todd #bodyguard romance #bodyguard jason todd x famous author reader #childhood friend reader #childhood friend romance #dc comics #dc #dc x reader #dc universe #blurb

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jaeminvore · 2 days ago

Text

Credit Card Baby | Z.CL

“Who do I gotta fuck for barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter around here?”

PAIRING: Chenle x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Four days, three broke girls, two possible outcomes, and one solution. What are you willing to sacrifice in exchange for a night seeing a long-awaited Juno pose five feet away from your eyeballs? Your dignity, probably because it just so happens that one (1) Chenle Zhong could be the solution to your current girl problem. Only, you don’t really do well with charity. Nothing in life was free and everything had a price, but Chenle likes to think differently—that he's simply helping a friend out. Like the many times he did before. There should be sugar-daddy-sugar-baby joke around here somewhere.

alternatively: ‘three dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyyy’.’ — ‘A sugar-daddy (kinda) au with no age-gap, but with a financial gap that no one asked for’.

WORD COUNT: 15.5K

NOTE: first Chenle fic kinda nervous but also excited because I've been wanting to write for pookie for a loooong long while!! So I gathered all the remaining brain cells I have and came up with this hot garbage (affectionate). This is legitimately the most unserious piece of fiction I’ve written so far, so if you’re in the mood for some fun and entertainment centered around vibes n mild-horniness you’ve come to the right place! The title comes from a song with the same title which is funny to me because the song itself (Credit Card Baby by Wham!) is the complete opposite of the story I'm telling here LMAO

CONTENT TAGS & WARNINGS: mildly suggestive themes (as in, there's very little implication to sex and masturbation here if it bothers anybody. Just to put it out there so proceed with caution), crude jokes and language, crack treated seriously, comedy, college au, fluff, friends to a secret third thing, sugar daddy au (kinda), Chenle majors in business, MC majors in architecture, everyone yaps a lot... for some reason, Chenle’s also a micro-celebrity (streams and posts on TikTok), brief discussion of OnlyFans, but I am in no way encouraging it.

DISCLAIMER: none of this is meant to represent anyone in real life. This is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only.

According to an article you’d come across, an OnlyFans creator earned an average of one-hundred-eighty dollars a month. Multiply that four or five times, you’d have enough for one ticket.

“Alright,” you sighed, bringing your knees up as your eyes glued to what laid out in a neat pile right before you and the girls you lived with. “how much do we have all together?”

“Twenty-seven dollars and thirty cents. One banana flavored condom. Three sticks of gum—a chewed piece of gum, ew—a crumpled tissue and a… hairball.”

Jesus. This was getting ridiculous.

“Fantastic!” You clapped, looking at both girls with a wide smile and desperate eyes. “Anything else?”

“A maxed out credit card,” Minjeong sniffed as she threw the offending piece of useless plastic onto the pathetic pile. “That’s all we have to our names combined. We’re broke as shit.”

No, really. You had everything you needed for a flourishing career of flashing your nether regions to the world behind a paywall.

A laptop with a webcam. A pretty face. A small collection of toys. Very small. A pink two-in-one vibrating dildo the girls had gotten you as a gag gift for your birthday still in its packaging type of small. Vaguely resembling a swirly ice pop you’d get on a hot summer day, and you had lovingly named it ‘Pinky’ before it had gotten shoved into the depths of your drawer, never to be seen again.

Your imaginary audience probably wouldn't mind, right? So long as they’d get an eyeful of a pretty girl playing out starved men’s depraved fantasies.

Then again, the idea didn’t seem too hard in theory considering how far gooners were willing to throw a couple of dollars for a five seconds long clip. They wouldn’t even notice the difference between an overexaggerated moan resembling a cat’s mating yowl and a genuine moan of pleasure, far too busy jerking it until their keyboards were dank from their own mess. You’d be earning enough to broaden your pathetic sex toy collection.

Simple-minded people were easy customers and you sure had no problems capitalizing off of that.

It was a good plan. A perfect long-term plan even, if it didn’t earn less than minimum wage and if you weren’t racing against time.

“This sucks,” Yizhuo whined, throwing her head back and staring forlornly at the ceiling. “Where the hell are we gonna get that kind of money in four days?”

Minjeong raised a groomed eyebrow. “Can’t you ask your parents? Say it’s an emergency or something.”

Yizhuo’s head lolled to the side, frowning at her. “They still have me cut off, remember?”

And the thought wasn’t just devastating to Yizhuo who, up until a few months ago, had been living the life of a spoiled princess with the world right in the palms of her dainty, never-worked-in-her-life hands. Naturally, being the closest to Yizhuo where you all were practically sisters, you and Minjeong were tangled up in the punishment as well. That meant leeching off of her and her unlimited access to her parents’ money was ineffective until she learned her lesson.

After all, she was the reason why you and Minjeong had a roof above your head because apparently buying a house out-of-pocket was much more cost-efficient than renting, leaving you girls the responsibility of paying for groceries and sparing you just enough to spend for personal items. Yizhuo handled the rest as she had become somewhat of a sugar mommy.

“Apparently Daddy thought I was being very irresponsible with their money.” Yizhuo rolled her eyes. “Whatever that means—that I spend most of my time shopping rather than studying, which is so stupid when I already know the business like I know Daddy’s card details by heart! Why should I go to university when I’m set for life?”

She had gotten a job a week after spending what was left of her savings in a fit of panic. Lavishly, one could say, where the amount of clothes, bags, makeup and accessories had your eyes bugging out at the exorbitant prices printed on each receipt. Minjeong hadn’t been responsive all throughout. You didn’t think she was breathing either when she stared hard at a receipt from Prada.

Lucky for Yizhuo, Minjeong’s job at a thrift store had recently let go one of their former employees after her boss had caught them doing lines in the break room.

It was perfect for Yizhuo, low effort as she’d be manning the cashier and would occasionally keep the racks in stock. And best of all, she won’t be alone. She’d be with Minjeong which also came as a relief to you since it was a huge adjustment from not lifting a finger all her years on Earth thus far, to suddenly contributing enough to keep your mouths fed for at least twice a day.

“Wow,” Minjeong drawled, “your life must be so hard.”

“Ugh,” Yizhou groused, crossing her arms as she leaned against the foot of the couch with a moue reminding you of a spoiled child being told ‘no’. “You don’t even know.”

Judging by the look on Minjeong’s face, she was not having Yizhou’s tone-deafness in the slightest, and while you silently shared the sentiment—that the youngest of the household could have refrained from flaunting her privileged life, you didn’t want any casualties that could potentially turn into a court case. Because as sweet as Yizhuo was, she could be just as evil and vindictive to anyone that wronged her in some way.

“At least your parents let us keep the house,” you joked, patting Yizhuo’s knee with a smile. She at least appeared genuinely apologetic by the situation. “Any ideas on how we could get at least fifteen hundred dollars for three barricade tickets in”—you glanced at your calendar app—“four days?”

“Girl, you are asking for a goddamn miracle,” Minjeong sighed, “even Jesus took three days to resurrect.”

You nodded sagely and added, “took him six days to create the world,” which got a confused noise from Yizhuo.

“I thought it took seven?”

Minjeong shook her head. “No. He rested on the seventh day. Didn’t you go to Sunday School?”

“Not really. I barely lasted half a day.”

Well, all of you were definitely losing the plot here, quoting holy scripture, or whatever, but Minjeong was right; none of you were divine beings capable of pulling miracles out of your proverbial asses in time when the goddamn concert was in four days.

One could argue that you were given a long enough timeframe to save up for pre-sale, but when you had a friend like nepo-baby heiress Yizhuo Ning who had connections everywhere, it was guaranteed that you'll get the best seats at a concert of a big-named artist with her influence regardless of the limited time frame. Perhaps backstage passes if Yizhuo liked them enough. And she liked this one. A lot. She could never resist Sabrina Carpenter’s big blue eyes and bouncy blonde curls.

So, no. None of you had the forethought of pulling out the ‘Saving Up For A Concert For Dummies’ manual. Not when you had Yizhuo and her endless pockets full of hard cash to fall back onto.

Then she lost access (temporarily) to the Ning family vault, with barely anything saved up from her job because her spending problem wouldn’t vanish with just a snap of her father’s fingers, apparently. Now here you were: sitting in a circle on the plush, mauve, floral embossed carpeting that must have costed a fortune with crumpled dollar bills and junk you found deep in your purses like you were all trying out a crude summoning ritual for fat wads of cash.

Nothing could get worse than this. You’ve been through worse than this.

“We could sell feet pics?”

“Hell no. Feet freak me the fuck out,” Minjeong shivered.

You plucked the condom from the pile and lifted it up at face-level. “Would a used condom sell a lot to some weirdo freak out there?”

“Maybe,” Yizhuo replied the same time Minjeong said, in absolute disbelief that one of you would ever think of something so unhygienic, “I wouldn’t know, I’m a lesbian.”

“Yeah, no.” You wrinkled your nose. “You would not catch me pulling out a condom with some guy’s jizz in it from the trash. Ew.”

“How about a sugar daddy?”

“Eh. I’m not really into older men.”

“You saying you wouldn’t let the guy who played M-C-U Bucky Barnes hit?”

“Oh sure,” you said, sarcasm dripping thickly with each word that followed, “let me just hit up my buddy, my pal, Sebastian Stan on Instagram. Maybe I should call his phone number too! Y’know, the number that I don’t have.”

“Okay, sheesh. You don’t need to be so mean about it,” Minjeong mumbled.

“Oh! OnlyFans!” Yizhuo suggested with reverence as if she figured out how to attain world peace, earnest as her eyes rounded with excitement. “I’ve heard plenty of success stories. It can’t be too hard for any of us.”

A beat of silence, and then—

“Not it!” Minjeong exclaimed, touching the pad of her index finger to the tip of her nose.

“Not it!” came Yizhuo’s shrill voice a close second, copying Minjeong.

“Not it—fuck!” you wailed, half from being the sacrificial lamb and half because you smacked yourself in the fucking face from momentary panic which the girls didn’t seem to catch, too busy shrieking and hugging each other in relief. “No fair.”

“Oh, I think it’s plenty fair,” Minjeong shrugged, pressing her cheek against Yizhuo’s. “You were just slow.”

“And if anything, this’ll be easy for you!” Yizhuo cheered.

“Easy? okay—this“—you motioned wildly to your own body—“isn’t for the masses.”

Minjeong snorted. “Oh, sure. Tell that to the three guys you keep on rotation.”

“They’re just three guys. God forbid a girl has a healthy sex-life,” you whined. It was either wither away when you weren’t agonizing over your Architectural Design course—any of your courses, really—or fuck around with the guys you’ve met through mutual friends as your mode of relief. “and why does it have to be me? I’m sure either of you could pull off being an O-F model.”

“One,” Minjeong raised a finger, “don’t ever call me that. Even if it’s in a hypothetical sense. And two, the thought of men being the majority of my audience unnerves me. I don’t think you could make it so only women could see me, so fuck that.”

“Fine. I’ll allow it.” You turned to Yizhuo with an expectant look. “What about you?”

She returned it with an unimpressed one, bordering on disbelief the longer you stared at her, waiting to say her piece.

“You’re kidding, right?” No, you were not. Was there a joke hidden in those three words forming a question? Not that you knew of, so you gestured for Yizhuo to get on with the program. “I’m like, the last person you should send to the wolves.”

“Why not?” You pouted. “You’re like, the most charismatic of us three. Got a pretty face too, if that wasn’t obvious enough.”

“Uh-huh, yeah—calling me pretty won’t change my mind,” Yizhuo said, firm and that meant she won’t tolerate any more of your pushing, yet the pretty blush tinting her cheeks told you enough that you almost got through her. “I’m an heiress to one of the largest Chinese conglomerates back home. How’d you think that would look for me?”

Bad, I’m guessing, and you knew this first-hand.

There was an approximate six-thousand mile distance from where Yizhuo was brought up to where all three of you resided, yet that didn’t stop the Chinese media from getting their updates on how Yizhuo Ning was faring as an international college student.

You had a few run-ins with the paparazzi just dying to get dirt on Harbin’s sweetheart, fought with some too which had caused quite a buzz on both Weibo and Xiaohongshu when pictures of Yizhuo stumbling down the stairs of a frat house, looking drop-dead gorgeous were shared. No one could tell she was barely clinging onto sobriety. Or that she had already emptied her stomach twice in one of Sigma Chi’s bathrooms and a plant that surely had seen better days being under the care of jaunty frat boys who barely knew the concept of photosynthesis.

There was also a handful of you elbowing one of the paparazzi in the face when they had gotten too close. Your face, thankfully, had been blurred out. Same with Minjeong’s who had been trying her absolute damndest to keep you from getting aggravated assault charges while being tipsy herself.

If they had somehow caught wind of Yizhuo being involved in something so obscene—and you knew they would eventually—her life would be over. And yours. And Minjeong’s, because God forbid her parents might as well treat you as their own children with how often their darling daughter talked about you during their weekly check-up calls.

“And my parents would literally kill me if they found out their only daughter isn’t as virginal as they thought!”

“But you haven’t been a virgin since sophomore year.”

Yizhuo rolled her eyes. “They don’t know that, obviously.”

“And so that leaves me to be the breadwinner of this fucking household,” you said, heaving a conceding sigh. “God I hate you rich people.”

“I know you do. You say ‘eat the rich’ at least three times a day like it’s ‘grace’.” Yizhuo didn’t even sound remotely annoyed by your diss, basking in the relief of not taking your place and sacrificing her dignity. “It’s just until we get the tickets. Then you can be boring and gate-keep yourself until we have to slut you out again.”

“My body is a temple,” you said, feigning offense as you crossed your arms, cupping your breasts in a protective hold while Minjeong cackled. “Besides, OnlyFans might be easy on paper, but executing it? Four days won’t be enough. There are many factors involved and engagement won’t be that easy from how oversaturated it is. I’d be a no name. It’d probably take me months to get the amount we need and Miss ‘have you ever tried this one?’ would be in Europe by then.”

“And you did the math for that?”

“Only since we took all the shit out of our purses.”

“Right, because you always do the math for everything.”

“It’s a reflex.” You shrugged. You could even say it had been ingrained in you, haunted by the fact you almost failed Calculus I. You struggled less with it now, spending all summer drilling numerous Youtube tutorials into your brain and electing one of your classmates as your tutor. “How do you think we’ve survived this long without your parents’ money?”

Yizhuo shrugged. “Fair enough. Nerd.”

She gets a pillow to the face for that.

“Well,” you said with a clap. “If that’s all, I gotta go in”—you glanced at your watch and then panicked as you scrambled to get up—“five minutes ago. Fuck, I’m gonna be late!” The pop in your knees made you wince when getting on your two feet, making a bee-line towards your bedroom and stumbling over Minjeong’s thighs in the process.

“For a dick appointment?”

“If you count AutoCad fucking up my chances for a four-point-oh, then sure.”

So maybe you had lied about the dick appointment, but in your defense, you actually had shit to do.

It just so happened Renjun also majored in Architecture, and that you shared all of your classes with him because if you were walking into five years of hell, you sure as hell weren’t going to suffer alone. You were simply hitting two birds with one stone.

If only those two hypothetical birds you hypothetically murdered coughed up fat wads of cash enough for three tickets, then you’d be set.

You let out a defeated sigh. “I need fifteen hundred bucks.”

Renjun, who just got back from a shower, blinked at the bold request.

“Say that again? You need how much?”

“Fifteen hundred bucks,” you repeated.

Renjun's face twisted as he stuck his pinky into his ear and wiggled it around. “I’m definitely hearing things ‘cause there’s no way.”

You rolled your neck to blankly stare at him. “I can say it again in Mandarin, if you want.”

“Please don’t,” Renjun shook his head, not minding that you were trying really hard to set him on fire with your eyes. “That’s like, using what I taught you for evil.”

“Well that’s too damn bad,” and you repeated what you said in near flawless Mandarin.

The conversation should have ended there. He just had the most underwhelming orgasm to-date due to whatever weird headspace you were in throughout your—ahem—session that made it less passionate and more robotic, but getting blue-balled was considerably worse than having to act as your last-minute financial adviser.

He simply could ignore anything that had just left your mouth when your attention was set onto the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling, but the unfortunate thing was that Renjun was nothing but indulgent at the moment.

Dregs of lust in his brain prevented any of his usual no-nonsense approach and it certainly didn’t help that he could never say no to a girl—a pretty girl, no less—no matter how insufferable they were. Specifically you with his sheets wrapped around your still naked body. Renjun was still a man, and his IQ could still lose a few points if a girl so much looked his way.

Since you were both things, a girl and pretty, he calmly graced your dilemma with an answer.

“I can only give you orgasms, I’m afraid.” He said with a pout you knew was meant to be patronizing, mocking almost, especially with a detached lilt to his voice.

This wasn’t new to you as it was one of his methods to get under your skin. He knew you hated it, and you could definitely tell he’d prefer to discuss something else. Or nothing at all, but he had already poked the bear which meant he had to listen to you whinge until you either 1.) get it out of your system yourself or 2.) or he did something about it, and Renjun knew exactly the choice he made, yet that obviously didn’t work.

“What’s the fifteen hundred for anyway?” he conceded, barely tampering down the reluctance of circling back on your current financial struggles while rubbing his hair dry.

“Barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter,” you said shifting onto your side so you could face him properly. “VIP too if possible. For me, Ningning and Minjeong.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenching. Saying other girls’ names post-coitus should be considered an act of violation or something, but he digressed.

“I thought Yizhuo got you tickets already?” His eyes snapped open to regard you with a lost look. “Before the whole cutting her off from her parents’ money fiasco?”

“Well, no one was really expecting her to go broke. She didn’t think it was a priority when she could just get the tickets last minute.”

“And since they took away access…”

“No money for us until further notice.”

Both of his eyebrows rose at the sheer ridiculousness of Yizhuo, self-proclaimed number one Sabrina shooter who could not go one day without singing Feather as much as her lungs could take, not being able to cop tickets. “The concert is in four days.”

“Oh don’t I know it.” When it rang like a giant alarm in your head, it was hard to not think about it. “I’m thinking of taking out a loan from my bank.”

“Absolutely not,” he snapped and tossed his damp towel onto your face. You shrieked and clawed it away because, ew, gross. “No way in hell are you going into debt because of a concert. Are you fucking crazy?”

“It’s not like I can ask someone to buy them for me either!”

Renjun just barely resisted the urge to groan at the fact your persistent yapping almost ruined your then stellar bed chem.

“Like, who would be dumb enough to buy me a ticket? Let alone three?”

It’s surprising how you were able to come up with coherent sentences aftergetting your brains fucked out, but Renjun had always thought you were a weird one. Stamina on good days, yet a common cold could have you acting like you were knocking on death’s door.

“I’m sure I can name at least one person,” he said, thoughtful.

“Does this person have two-toned hair, perchance?” you wheedled, rolling onto your stomach to cup both of your cheeks with your hands looking like a flower in bloom for him. “Is his name Renjun Huang? A-K-A my favorite guy in the whole wide world?”

“You’re cute,” Renjun snorted, sitting on the foot of his bed. “But no.”

Your bottom lip jutted out in a pout. “You’re no fun.”

“There’s Jaemin,” he offered.

You grimaced. “Too needy.”

“Haechan?”

“Too mean.”

“And you still go to that asshole?” Renjun asked, incredulous.

“He’s a good lay?” you offered, sheepish almost under the glare of his disbelief and the full force of his eyebrows. “C’mon, at least one ticket for your best girl?” you cooed, laying it on thick with a flutter of your eyelashes. “The other two can probably work something out.”

Minjeong and Yizhuo were your girls. No one could ever doubt the love you had for them, being housemates for two years and counting, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It’s every man (well, woman) for themselves and if there was an opportunity right in front of you, might as well take it.

“Yeah…” he trailed off with a wince and you already didn’t like what he was about to say when he glimpsed at you and then at some random spot behind. “about that—“

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t,” you ground out.

Renjun pretended like he hadn't heard you. “Someone from the student association gave me a ticket.”

“And you’re going?” You hoped he wasn’t.

As if he read your mind, Renjun’s mouth parted in offense. “It’s Sabrina Carpenter. It’s a great opportunity to clout chase.”

Oh he was definitely going to be insufferable on Instagram, talking about it for days on end. Just like you would be.

“Seriously?” you exclaimed, both hands covering your face, muffling your scream. This felt way worse than the time you almost didn’t meet the deadline of a plate submission that made up a large chunk of your grade. “Is everyone and their goddamn moms going except me?”

“Guess so.”

You peeled your hands away to Renjun scrolling through his phone in mild interest.

“Can you at least pretend to feel sorry for me?”

Renjun let his phone drop in between his crossed legs. “My condolences that you won’t get to see Sabrina do her Juno pose five feet away from you.”

“You’re the worst,” you groaned, sitting up and holding the blanket tightly to preserve your modesty. “I’m literally out of options and you’re already kickstarting the FOMO.”

“And what were your”—he waved absently to the air—“options exactly?”

“There was the OnlyFans route—and before you say anything else,” you gave Renjun a look that was sharp enough to make him think twice about his needling. He said nothing, thankfully, but his pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows said a lot. “yes, I did the math and we all agreed—surprisingly—that it would be impossible to earn that amount of money before the concert. Then Minjeong suggested a sugar daddy, but I’m not really up for being a geraitric’s pretty play-thing. What if he dies mid-sex—”

You got cut off from Renjun doubling over with laughter. “Sugar daddy? Why don’t you just ask Chenle then?”

“Why should I ask Chenle?”

“Why shouldn’t you ask Chenle?”

“That’s why I’m asking you,” you quipped back.

Renjun laughed again. A rich, belly-deep equal parts loud and grating. “You cannot be this dense,” he said as he calmed down. “I just mean—you guys are close, right? Close enough that he bought you a replacement T-square.” He watched you, amused, as you considered the question. Renjun can almost see the gears turning in your head, chin resting in his palm and using his leg to balance his elbow.

“It was an emergency,” you stressed with an eye-roll, though you didn’t exactly fight the fond smile settling on your lips at the memory of Chenle getting rung up for a new sixty-four-inch long acrylic T-square while you perused the rows upon rose of cute stationery. You hadn’t meant for your old one to snap cleanly in half, but when there was a guy who didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and, well, there was a reason why the running joke of a T-square doubling as a weapon was still relevant to this day.

“Doesn’t he pay for you guys when you hang out?”

Renjun snorted. “Sure. If you count him demanding us to Venmo him later.”

“Huh. He usually just pays for us both.”

Actually, now that you’ve thought about it, his housemates hadn’t ever gotten the privilege of Chenle covering for any of their expenses, much less a cheap meal from a well loved hole-in-the-wall restaurant. You didn’t think it was favoritism either. Was that a thing in friendships too? You had no idea, and you never had to ask when Chenle never thought twice to remind the waiter or waitress that he was paying for two. For me and her—he would nod his head towards you—only and leave the rest to settle their shared bill among themselves.

“Huh.” you repeated.

“Yeah-huh,” Renjun echoed with one corner of his mouth lifted up in a smirk. “Seriously, if you’re that desperate to see Sabrina up close, I’m sure he can work something out for you. What’s fifteen hundred gonna do?”

You both knew the answer to that. Nothing, because although Chenle wasn’t as high profile as Yizhuo and her family was, you had a vague idea on how deep his pockets ran if he barely spared a glance at his receipt from Gucci for a track-suit set he’d been meaning to get. He might as well have slapped you in the face with a thick stack of one-hundreds.

It would have invoked the same feeling of being too poor to even breathe inside the store and it had been a relief you thought of dressing up that day too despite the fact you’ve pulled an all-nighter to complete a handful of plates for design class the night before. You were at least spared from any judgment from the sales reps.

Still.

Renjun clicked his tongue, sensing your mental turmoil. “Just ask him. If he says no, then there’s your answer.”

Just ask him. Easy for Renjun to suggest when he wasn’t the one stewing away in a puddle of anxiety. He already had a ticket! Of course he’d think nothing of it.

Walking into Yizhuo’s obscenely large living room, you were once again reminded how excessive it was.

There was a grand piano in there, for fuck’s sake, in the far end after the actual living area with the plush seating, yet none of you could play any elaborate musical pieces except for Twinkle Twinkle Litter Star. Right next to it was a sunken conversation pit with a modern fireplace built into the large concrete column and there were a series of floor-to-ceiling windows and glass sliding doors encompassing the pit.

Other than overlooking the luscious, grassy backyard, the doors led straight to the deck where a round pool resided as its main attraction. There was a goddamn fountain just beside it, too. Who needs a fucking fountain in this economy anyway?

Actually, everything about the house was ridiculously extravagant for three college girls to live in. Your bedroom included. Yizhuo ended up giving you one of the bigger rooms and you were sure the drafting table you bought off of a grad student for cheap would do its job and cramp it up, but you knew the saying about gift horses and Mom raised you better than complaining about convenience being handed to you on a silver platter.

The round floor table of the conversation pit was vacant, though there were scattered papers, notebooks, textbooks and all sorts of pens on top of the reflective glass surface. That meant either one of the girls was home. Or both, as Minjeong’s and Yizhuo’s voices grew louder by each step towards the kitchen.

“Guess who might have found a solution to our ticketing problem!”

You slid onto the cushioned seats of the breakfast nook—a breakfast nook, Jesus—right across from Minjeong sipping her to-go cup of thai milk tea. She wordlessly slid on towards you. You took a generous drag of the stuff.

“Actually, it was more of Renjun’s idea—which I am effectively stealing.”

Yizhuo, who was in the middle of plating a hefty amount of pad see ew, looked like she swallowed something toe-curlingly sour. “Oh so you were with Renjun-ge.”

An easy smile curled on your lips as you lifted a shoulder to shrug, sweetly batting your eyelashes. “What can I say? The guy gives good head—” (“I did not need to know that.”) “—anyways, my idea.”

“Mine was probably better.”

“Oh yeah?” you drawled, egging Yizhuo on. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Breaking into the thrift store and stealing everything from the cash register.”

“What?”

“She claimed if her parents found out about her crimes, they’d have to bail her out from prison and then restore her money privileges,” Minjeong glared at the youngest who simply whistled to Espresso as she carried on with the food. “Then I had to remind her of her reputation.”

“Good thing you did ‘cause that’s the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard,” you said and you made sure it showed on your face as Yizhuo wilted underneath your tangible disappointment that she would even risk an integral part of her privileged life when she had used it as a counter-argument to the whole OnlyFans thing. “So we’re going with my solution to our broke-ness—Chenle Zhong.”

Yizhuo did not look pleased whatsoever. “What does Caillou have to do with Sabrina Carpenter?”

You ignored Minjeong shrieking with laughter. “Chenle’s got money,” you said as if you were talking to a toddler barely getting a grasp on words having their designated meanings. “And do you know what we need to get tickets? Money, and Chenle has a lot of it.”

“It took Renjun for you to realize that Chenle could be our solution?” Yizhuo exclaimed in disbelief, head in her hands. “Oh my God—it took Renjun telling you, then you telling us that he could be our solution? How could I’ve been so stupid?”

Her head jerked upwards, ponytail swishing along and gave you a look so sharp and abrupt that you jerked in surprise. You fixed your posture so fast that your grandmother would have been proud. For once. “You’re definitely asking Chenle.”

“Uh—first of all, why me? Don’t rich people have, like, some sort of kinship with one another? Like, hey, can I borrow ten-thousand dollars? I’ll pay you back with five-percent interest.” That definitely wasn’t how deals between rich people were made, but whatever. “Second, why not you, money bags?”

“He’ll never say yes to me,” she said brusquely, clicking her tongue. “I kicked his ass a bunch of times in PUBG and he’s still bitter about it. It’s not my fault he sucks absolute balls. There’s like, a compilation of him complaining on stream about how I was cheating”—Yizhuo made air quotations—“on TikTok. It’s so funny. Actually, I’ll send you the link—”

You turned your gaze towards Minjeong for help, eyes widened a fraction for an added pathetic flair as the younger one focused on scrolling through the damn app.

“Don’t look at me. Chenle’s just cheap with everyone—actually, maybe except for you,” Minjeong pointed a long, black almond tipped nail in your direction. “the favorite.”

“You say it like it’s an insult.” You slurped your milk tea at an obnoxious volume, shrinking in your seat. “Maybe he’s just nicer to me because I’m nice to him unlike you two.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?” Minjeong said, eyeing you curiously.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She moved her gaze elsewhere. “Nothing.”

You squinted. “Uh-huh.”

“Anyways,” she said, pointedly keeping her gaze forward. “He started it. I asked him if I could borrow money for my Lyft and he laughed in my face.”

You pressed your lips together to keep yourself from laughing too because, yeah, the image was a little funny. “You’re exaggerating,” you said evenly.

Yizhuo made a half-wince, half-smile sorta thing with her face. “Are we though?”

“Lele’s not that much of an asshole,” you defended. “He drives me home. You could have hitched a ride with us is all I’m saying. And if I can remember correctly, he still gave you more than enough for your Lyft.”

“He didn’t have to laugh at me, then.” Minjeong looked like she was heavily debating whether she should smack you upside the head, or not. “For someone smart, you’re real stupid.”

You frowned. “Hey.”

The argument still carried on deep in your weekly ‘everything shower’.

“Face it, babe. He’s like your personal A-T-M.”

“Chenle doesn’t always get me things.”

You were aching in places you never knew existed as you passed the foamy loofah over your skin, yet the girls had denounced what it meant to have boundaries, making themselves at home in your bathroom to prove their joint points.

Yizhuo scoffed from where she sat on top of the closed lid of the toilet. “The shampoo you used earlier? That was imported from Japan.”

“So? He noticed I ran out the last time he was here. It’s just shampoo.”

“From Japan,” Yizhuo countered.

You pulled a face. “Is that supposed to mean anything? It’s fucking shampoo.”

She just threw her hands up in the air, visibly annoyed.

“And the body wash you’re using? From Chenle.” Minjeong piped up from the separated bathtub, pointed at the towels hanging on the towel warmer and added, “The bath towel set? Chenle.”

“Alright, fine, maybe—”

“The year’s supply of assorted sheet masks in the fridge we use?” she offered.

“The gargantuan tin of tea leaves you’ve mentioned you liked.”

“Okay. I get it—”

“A new backpack because your old one ripped at the seams.”

“Your underwear—”

“Hah!” You pointed triumphantly in Minjeong’s direction. “No, he hasn’t bought me any.”

“Not yet,” girl-in-bathtub emphasized, resting her chin on top of her arm propped on the tub’s edge. “Shit, he probably bought everything you own.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely exaggerating.” You snorted, walking into the spray of the shower to rinse off the suds. “I’m not that broke.”

“Should I also mention that if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have met us? Or that you would have been homeless?” Well, yeah, and you would have figured something out eventually, but you weren’t expecting Yizhuo to bring that up to one-up you in an argument.

“I can’t believe you would use the ‘you would’ve been homeless if it weren’t for me’ card against me.”

“If it weren’t for Chenle, you mean,” she corrected, propping her cheek on top of her bent knee. You glared at the needless addition, though the usual effect wasn’t as strong with warm water sluicing down your face. To Yizhuo, you were definitely doing an almost perfect rendition of ‘wet cat’. “You can’t be this stupid. You’re literally his favorite. I doubt there’s another guy out there that would willingly—again, listen—willingly spend money on you.”

“Does Jaemin buying me a pack of gum the other day count?”

“Oh my fucking God, you’re hopeless.”

Minjeong shrugged. “Maybe he was lowkey telling you your breath stinks.” (“Ex-fucking-scuse you?”) “Didn’t Chenle buy you a ring that looked like a bent nail?”

“As a gift, yeah?” Your wince was immediate the moment Yizhuo gasped at your confirmation.

“That was Cartier!” She whipped out her phone from fuck knows where and showed you the website and its price. Did she have that tab open all this time just for a ‘gotcha!’ moment? Jeez, she scared you sometimes. “Look—Juste un Clou ring. Classic model. I would’ve given you rose gold, personally, but the white gold looks pretty too,” she mumbled, nodding approvingly. “He knows his stuff, at least.”

“Viola!” You turned to Minjeong making jazz hands with flourish. “If he can blow three grand on you without blinking, fifteen hundred would be nothing.”

You let out a heavy sigh, rinsing the loofah free from the suds. “How sure are we that there are any tickets left? Last I heard, three nights sold out.”

“It’s Chenle. He has connections everywhere. He’ll probably end up tracking scalpers too if he could help it.” She weighed her own words for a moment. “As long as you’re the one asking.”

“If you say so,” you trailed off, still not entirely convinced even by her radiating certainty.

“Uh-oh.” Yizhuo promptly sat up. “That’s not good. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just—I feel kinda weird. Asking him. Like, I’ve never really had to ask him for… stuff before.”

“What,” the girls said in a way so dry that you most likely would have broken out in sweat with how serious their faces were right now. Thunderous even.

“What do you mean by ‘not having to ask him’?” Minjeong asked, deathly calm.

“Just as I said. He just does it on his own. Without me telling him.”

In hindsight, Chenle might have been an option right from the very start if the thought of simply asking for help financially didn’t bother you in the slightest, but that’s the thing. The idea did bother you to your very core because, again, it wasn’t like you were broke. A victim to capitalism? Absolutely.

Once you broke the news to your parents and brother about your acceptance to one of the top universities in the state on a full-ride scholarship, they had insisted on a monthly allowance. They hadn’t minded extending a helping hand at all, and it was the least they could do to lighten the burden with the condition that you should be devoted to your academics.

Consequently, you were also good with multi-tasking, so you’ve managed a healthy work-play balance so far. What your parents and brother didn’t know wont hurt them and you hadn’t given them a reason to not trust you on your own, miles away from home, either. Not yet at least.

Deciding for a part-time job was after the realization that majoring in architecture was a bit heavy on the pockets from the consistent need for materials and printing out your designs brought to life by the handful of software provided by your department. The café pay was decent, you were tipped just as okay, and you wouldn’t say no to some cash on the side. Adding that to the remnants of your monthly allowance, it was enough to buy a thing or two at the end of the month as a treat.

And then came Chenle, guns ablazing, with no qualms swiping his card on your behalf.

You never really had to ask him.

Literally.

He would already have it taken care of before you could even pluck your wallet out and split the cost. You couldn’t remember if you had a time where you outright asked (begged) him for a few bills, and if you did, you always always promised to pay him back.

That being said, Chenle wouldn’t let you fight him on it either. When his mind was already made up, it was like talking to a brick wall, standing tall and impervious to almost everything. A losing battle when you’re up against someone headstrong yet so goddamn stubborn.

That’s where your hesitation had stemmed from, because it could either go two ways: he could say no and you could kiss your chances of brushing hands with Sabrina Carpenter goodbye, which would be the best case scenario, or he’d say yes, and once he said yes, there was no turning back. A yes from Chenle was law—signed and sealed that not even expressing the preconceived regret of asking a favor would shake him.

This was entirely different from Chenle just doing whatever the fuck he wanted with his own money without any of your persuasion. You never had to ask him for anything before and the fact of the matter was, you were damn terrified of asking if Chenle could be a bro one last time and drop what was equivalent to the price of a newly released iPhone for you.

Asking him would literally be so detrimental to your conscience that you would probably go insane with guilt and you couldn’t afford getting thrown into the nearest psych-ward when you had tons of deadlines to meet.

Minjeong leaned back to stare forlornly at the ceiling. “Lord, I see the luck you’ve bestowed upon this girl so stupid.”

“Hey!” You whined.

“Congratulations on getting a sugar daddy,” Yizhuo said, dry. “Can you ask him for tickets now?”

Oh God, you thought with abject horror. What if Chenle is my sugar daddy?

Technically speaking, though, you both fit the description. Minus the ‘sugar’ part so, quasi-sugar-daddy then?

Okay, no. That’s definitely not a can of worms you’re gonna open, like, ever. Chenle just happened to be there whenever you had to go out and buy shit. Just happened to be faster whipping out his wallet than you were. After all, he’s the spry athlete while you were five cans of Monster Energy away from keeling over.

What you’d like to get into now was how this conversation developed backwards where you had to be naked and wet to get some sort of pep-talk. Was this even considered pep-talk? This was somebody else’s form of nightmare for sure.

“This is really weird,” you said, neither confirming or denying Yizhuo’s so-called congratulations as you glanced between the two girls unabashedly staring at you in your birthday suit, expecting. “Can you guys leave?”

“Nothing we’ve seen before.” You met Minjeong’s eyes for a second before they strayed to your naked breasts and back up again. “Bet Chenle would love to see you right now.”

For whatever reason, Yizhuo mirrored Minjeong’s sentiments as she bobbed her head so fast you would think the idea was exciting for her. “Only right for you to give him some sugar, too.”

“Or—get this—I don’t do that?”

“Why not?” Minjeong frowned. “You fuck anything that moves.”

“Correction: I do not. I’ve only been with, like, five guys my entire life,” you said, brandishing one hand so they would get the picture. “And Chenle’s my friend! We’re like this”—you crossed your fingers, shaking them for emphasis—“tight, y’know? Literally everything’ll change if I go… do that.”

“You and Renjun are also”—she copied your crossed fingers—“like this, but you’re still fucking.”

“Well… that’s—that’s obviously different! He doesn’t count!” you said with each word increasing in pitch.

“Oh pray tell why you wouldn’t sleep with Chenle Zhong,” Minjeong goaded. “I may not like guys, but looking at him through an objective lens, he’s one of the good ones.”

“There’s no risk with Renjun because it’s strictly casual and platonic, and I know I wouldn’t get attached and develop—” you quickly clamped your mouth shut. Shit. “Uh—um—you’re breaking up,” you blurted, closing your eyes as you stepped into the heavy downpour of the rainfall shower. “I can’t hear you,” you said, though that likely sounded like incoherent blubbering. You were sure you’ve got your point across with that piss-poor save anyway.

“We can literally see you.”

You turned your back to them. They could talk to your ass if they wanted. Out of sight, out of mind. “Not anymore, you don’t.”

You hoped that was the end of it, though it was made clear time and time again that the girls weren’t satisfied with your hedging. A growl was heard, followed by the quick plap plap plap of feet against the cold tiles. As the glass door squeaked, the brief water prison you’ve enclosed yourself in stopped soon after and you opened your eyes to a hand retracting from one of the knobs.

There was barely a second for you to complain before an undignified yelp was forced out from your throat when you were spun around to find Yizhuo’s dour face, her hands clamping down on your shoulders.

“You’re just admitting this to us now?” she said, incredulous, and a little surprised that you’ve managed to keep a crucial detail from them for this long.

“It wasn’t like an immediate thing I needed to resolve!” you argued, “but the thought was always there, I guess. Just sitting in the back of my mind until you brought up sex with Chenle. And I’m busy, in case it wasn’t obvious enough to you non-architecture majors. Never had the chance to explore it, y’know?”

Busy was the biggest understatement of the year. Your life revolved around sketching, drafting, rendering—hell, even printing your designs on sheets of paper almost (more or less) half your height had never been this stressful. Adding a part-time job to that? It was a miracle you were still kicking.

With all that combined, you didn’t have the time to give a damn about relationships running deeper than casual, less emotionally charged flings. Those were easier to manage without the messiness of feelings involved.

“Well, Dora the Explorer,” Yizhuo tendered as she handed you your heated towel. “you better start explorin’ because you’re gonna fuck him either way.”

You swiped the towel from her. “No I’m not.”

“No you’re not,” Yizhuo agreed, and maybe the shrewd glint in those beady eyes of hers was only your imagination, toweling yourself dry and wrapping it around you once you were less damp. “but at least keep it as your trump card if he gets difficult—which I’d doubt, really.”

“You guys’re that confident he’d say yes?” you mused, pushing past Yizhuo to grab the other towel for your head. “It’s gonna be so embarrassing if he says otherwise.”

“To the tickets? Or the sex?” Minjeong then heaved a dramatic gasp, eyes wide as her voice dropped to a staged whisper. “Or worse, your alleged feelings.”

You puffed out your cheeks, ignoring the rush of warmth blooming onto your face. “Now I’m hoping he says ‘no’.”

“Oh, girl, trust me when I say ‘no’ is the last thing he’ll say to you.” Yizhuo said, looking very sure of herself. “So. How soon can you get to him?”

“God I hate you rich people.”

Yizhuo beamed. “I know.”

Well, it wasn’t like you were a stranger to testing your luck.

You: wyd

Lele: ? Lele: I’m not one of your groupies Lele: need something?

You: wanna get groceries with me? :D

Lele: be there in 15 Lele: need to grab Daegal’s kibble too

You: ur the best ✨✨

Lele: i know i am

You: girl whatever.

Lele: ❤️

“You know, when you said groceries, I was expecting personal stuff—like skincare or some shit,” Chenle said loftily. “Pads? Tampons? God forbid a menstrual cup—“

“How do you even know what a cup is,” you muttered. “and my period ended a week ago.”

“I know.” You looked up from your work to Chenle squinting down at his phone. He caught your eye and beamed, pocketing the device. You were too afraid to ask what that was about. “We could have gone to Sephora after.”

Oh you definitely could have if you had been more specific with what groceries meant, but you simply said to take both your asses to the nearest H Mart. Cute as the thought was, you weren’t exactly in the mood to watch Chenle try and figure out which products were on your current rotation. It would have made good content for him though, a sure hit for his predominantly female fanbase, yet the looming three days left to secure tickets above your head kept you from suggesting that.

“Well, I can’t exactly cook you a five-star meal with hyaluronic acid now can I?”

He blinked and answered with a bland, “I have no idea what that is.”

You squinted at him, taking in the way he’s got his head tilted at an angle where the lighting hit one side of his pale face just right. No texture whatsoever, like a smooth, almost blank canvas marked by a singular mole on the cheek.

“‘Course you don’t,” you grunted, envious of his near perfect skin.

Chenle’s gaze slid towards the pot on the stove, then to his wooden chopping board where a humble spread of your additional ingredients had been neatly organized in small piles with two open noodle packets. “Also, that’s just your classic Shin ramyeon and some crab balls.”

“Well damn, Chenle, I’m no Gordon fucking Ramsay,” you snapped, swatting at his arm. “So ungrateful.” An elaborate recipe was out of the question when you were too busy panicking about how the hell you were going to pull this off.

(“The one thing you’re gonna ‘pull off’ is your top,” Yizhuo instructed as she followed you out the gargantuan front door. “You know how guys are with boobs. They’re like catnip for them.”

“Please don’t compare my tits to catnip.”)

He cackled, tucking himself into your side with an arm thrown around your shoulders in a side-hug. “Thank you,” he cooed, and like a cat, rubbed his head against yours. “You didn’t have to do all this, but I’d never say no to food.” You couldn’t exactly see his face like this, but you could hear his appreciation. Your heart squeezed at the press of his cheek against your temple.

See, it’s little moments in time like this were what jump-started the on-going betrayal you would never expect from your own beating heart, and Chenle made it extremely hard for you to not entertain any straying thoughts formed by the casual intimacy between you. It really didn’t help that Chenle was physically affectionate, and it especially didn’t help that you spent most of your time with him despite majoring in vastly different programs.

Starting the day with Chenle waiting in his car to take you to school, ending it with him driving you home and everything in between was a sure gateway for neutral feelings to gradually do a one-eighty. Reaching that level of comfort where you felt safe with him was just as inevitable, too. Chenle was safe. Always has been.

But for both of your sakes, it had been a conscious choice of burying yourself into your work—letting yourself get fucked over by the workload you had to do. The minor breakdowns you’ve had every time your calculations went wrong, or when color or material swatches didn’t seem to go together than you’d originally thought saved you from overthinking every single interaction with him.

You wouldn’t risk it. You couldn’t risk it.

“What’s the occasion?” Chenle prodded. Still there. Still close. Still trying his hardest to weld himself to your side that he would soon figure out something was up the moment you went stiff in his hold, but you were just as quick coming up with some bullshit excuse to save your own ass. Though it begged the question whether it will hold up against Chenle’s incessant need to stick his nose into anyone’s business.

The longer he stayed quiet, the more your nerves fried. His house—house because Chenle was a loose cannon with money like Yizhuo—was always set to a cool temperature and you wore an outfit that wasn’t meant to cover up much at all, yet you could feel yourself break into sweat the moment he pulled himself away from your space. You still stood there frozen and the pot was taking too long to fucking boil.

“No occasion!” you exclaimed, spinning on your heel to face him with the sweetest and most disarming smile you could muster at the moment. A drop of sweat trickled from your temple down to your cheek when all Chenle did was wrinkle his nose as he took a step back. “‘was just in the mood to cook… something. For you—uh, for us. I was craving ramyeon.”

“You were craving Shin ramyeon,” Chenle echoed, not looking at all convinced. “Shin ramyeon that Yizhuo has stocked in her pantry.”

“That’s why I asked you to get groceries with me,” you replied in haste. “We were running out.”

Which wasn’t a lie. Technically.

The three of you used to gorge on whatever there was in the kitchen, fridge or pantry, or DoorDash when any of you craved something specific. Key words were ‘used to’ because snack options had been limited to cheaper alternatives and what was cheaper and filling than a packet of noodles that took less than five minutes to cook? Really, it was like you were back in your freshman dorm, living off of instant noodles.

“Running out.” The more Chenle repeated whatever you said, the more you started to realize how deep of a grave you had dug for yourself. “You bought just enough for two people to eat.”

“Right.” You drawled, snapping your fingers and hitting him with the finger-guns. Might as well make yourself look even more like a jackass than you already are with the dogshit lying. “Right—so no plans later? I could use another H Mart run.”

Chenle cracked this time. “You’re a shitty liar,” your name tapered off into laughter. “You want something, don’t you? You’re never this nice to me.” He simpered with a certain type of fondness you’d usually see in people witnessing a puppy scaring itself with its own bark—he should really stop that. You were already kind of a mess from the way he’d freely insert himself in your bubble like he owned the space. You didn’t need the ooey-gooey, cavity-inducing stares to go with that too.

This was all clearly very amusing to him—you stumbling over your own words picked out from throwing darts at random in an attempt to gaslight him. He shouldn’t find any humor in this, really, but Chenle had always been chill like that. Marching to the beat of his own drum or however the saying went that the ease of falling into character, the jester to his court, wasn’t surprising.

If it made him that happy, then you’d continue shaking your fool’s cap for him. As a friend, of course.

“What? Me?” you said, guileless and with a hand flat on your sternum, eyes rounded with that faux gleam of innocence for the full effect. “I have never wanted anything in my life.”

“Anything?” he pressed and received a firm nod. “Not even barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter?”

You gaped at him, stuttering out words that weren’t even qualified to be in the English dictionary until you settled with a broken, “who told you that.”

Chenle smiled serenely in kind, not at all fazed by your brain blue-screening in real time. “Renjun.”

The mention of a name sobered you up in record speed.

“That snitching bitch,” you seethed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I only told him because I was hoping he'd help me think of options, or buy me a ticket himself. The girls could figure something out.” You paused, absorbing the situation as your hand fell back to your side. “Less work for me, though. I've been shitting my pants since, like, yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

You huffed a short laugh. “Oh yeah. There’s this theory going around—not that I believe it—that it’d be easy convincing you.”

“Easy,” he huffed, amused.

“Easy as in—I just have to ask you.”

Chenle tilted his head, considering you for a moment. “Alright. Ask away.”

You balked, grasping straws for a response.

“Ask away?” Nod. “Just like that.” Nod. “I’m not asking just for me, y’know? I’m also asking for Minjeong and Ningning. Since we’re broke and desperate girls who just happen to love the same singer.” Chenle only raised an eyebrow, slowly nodding in a way that said, ‘yeah. I know. What are you trying to say?’.

“Are you not worried how much it’s gonna cost you? Even just a little bit? I’m already feeling sick just thinking about it.” You grimaced.

“Not really, no.” He shrugged, slanting an easy smirk.

You pursed your lips. Right. Okay. So maybe you had severely underestimated how disposable money was to him, then. It didn’t seem like he minded at all, barely showing any negative emotion sans the boredom slowly coloring his features.

You, on the other hand, were already knee-deep in a bog of guilt and regret that you could honestly spit-up today’s lunch from how nerve-wracking this was; standing in front of him while carrying as much audacity a human being was allowed to and asking for something so expensive.

“You’re insane if you actually say yes. I don’t know about you, but if someone asked me for a thousand bucks and told me, ‘oh, bee-tee-dubs, I’m not gonna pay you back. Like ever.’, I’d consider suing the hell out of that person until they have to file for bankruptcy.”

“I mean, money’s never been an issue so I don’t see why my attorney should be involved.” The fact that he actually has an attorney (or a full-blown legal team. You never know) at the ready did not bring you comfort in the slightest. Chenle still tried though. You could at least appreciate that. “I wanna circle back on your so-called theory, though.”

“Don’t look at me.” Both of your hands raised in defense. “I’m not the one who came up with the ‘I’m Chenle’s favorite’ theory. The girls did.”

“Did they?” And for some ungodly reason, he looked delighted by the claim. “Well, can’t say they’re wrong.”

“Chenle,” you warned with a tone so biting you would think it’d have him think twice with this blasé approach.

Though maybe there was something on your face that betrayed the annoyance you’ve vocalized when all Chenle did was smile genially as the syllables making up your name passed through his lips in smooth succession.

“I’m not a charity case,” you muttered, flexing your fingers then curling them into fists. You weren’t too sure if you were pleased hearing it from the source. That you were Chenle’s favorite, confirmed by the man himself. Whatever that meant, or more annoyed that he really couldn’t care less about the money he’d wasted on you because you were his favorite. “You know I don’t take charity as well as normal people would.”

“Why do you think I never let you argue?” He said cheekily. “It’s easier and faster that way. And it’s no big deal! Seriously,” Chenle emphasized quickly at the sight of your deepening frown.

“But it is to me! If there’s one thing I know, it’s that nothing is ever just free. People these days are always expecting something in return. Maybe not right away and what if you’re just letting me rack up enough debt so you could ask me for my soul, or something.”

Chenle snickered. “So this is an exchange, then. Your noodles for concert tickets. You drive a hard bargain,” he wondered with an impish quality to his words, giving you a once over. Twice. It made you a little self conscious, shifting from foot to foot the longer sharp, cat-like eyes passed over your form. “Is that why you’re dressed like that? In case your cooking didn’t make a good bribe—oh, sorry—exchange?”

“Like what, exactly?” You asked, a little offended that he wouldn’t completely fold—or at least crease—at the first bite of a dish that earned its Michelin stars back in Yizhuo’s kitchen. Or that your chosen outfit wasn’t creaming any pants.

“Didn’t you wear this exact outfit when you skipped class to meet with Haechan that one time?”

“It was a different top, I think.” A top that was just as fast to remove too, so you understood the confusion. “How do you even remember that?”

“I remember lots of things,” he clarified, closing the distance until you could make out the top notes of his five-dollars-per-spray perfume with each inhale. “Like how you dress differently whenever you meet with one of your guys.”

“Gee what a coincidence. I wonder why I’m dressed like I am about to meet with one of my guys while in your kitchen.”

This time it’s Chenle who got the surprise of a lifetime, eyes almost bugging out of his skull as those lips you had once imagined yourself kissing just to see how they’d give under the soft pressure parted in a delicate ‘o’. He was quick to recover though, with a sly uptick of his mouth replacing the initial shock of finding out that, yes, you’d probably sleep with him if it came to that.

“Didn’t think you’d be that desperate for tickets.” He’s closer now, too close for comfort that you backed into the edge of the kitchen counter. “Is that how you’re gonna repay me?”

“It’s charity work,” you answered blithely, emboldened by Chenle’s interest because, fuck, might as well. “Fuck knows if you’ve been getting your dick wet or not. I’d literally be doing you a favor.”

Chenle didn’t seem to take offense to that as he threw his head back in raucous laughter.

“Charity for charity.” He grinned. “Seems fair.”

And the words had never sounded sweeter until they came from Chenle’s mouth. You could already hear yourself screaming with the crowd filling up the arena, with your girlfriends who you absolutely did not resent for essentially pimping you out to the one guy who could arguably make your dreams come true—

“I’ll think about it.”

Both Minjeong and Yizhuo were dead to you.

“Think about—” you paused, taking steady breaths until you were calm enough to start talking again. “Chenle. Lele,” and out came the big guns, being sweet to him and using the cutesy nickname the girls from the Chinese Students and Scholars Association would croon to get at least five seconds of his attention. Watching that play out from the sidelines always left a sour aftertaste, how they all would go as far as touching him when they decided holding eye-contact wasn’t enough to fuel their delusions.

You’ve soon come to realize that it was jealousy that caused your eye to twitch when Chenle’s capitalistic smile turned honeyed towards his junior. Because there wasn’t a day where you were short of his attention.

Perhaps the thought was a little unhealthy, but what if you said it was what you were used to? Can anyone fault you for being a little catty after that interaction?

Calling him Lele worked, you thought. Or so you hoped. You weren’t sure rendering him silent was a good thing, actually. Silence never bode well with larger-than-life Chenle Zhong whose entire personality was being loud, especially with eyes as expressive as his. Dark as shots of espresso you’ve brewed countlessly at work laced with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“The concert is in two fucking days! There’s no time to think—you know what? This was a bad idea. I don’t know how Ningning talked me into—” you shook your head, pressing the back of your hand to your cheek with a heavy sigh. “We can just eat the goddamn noodles and forget all this. I’ll just tell the girls they were wrong, and you said no—”

“Oh, no no no,” you would never admit to making such an undignified sound when Chenle pulled you back by his steady grip on your wrist. “you can’t make that offer and leave just like that, c’mon.” And he had the audacity to whine on top of it.

“Well that’s before I—what are you doing.”

“Making sure I am getting something out of this,” he murmured, crowding in on you further where all you could see right in front of you was Chenle, and whatever you could see over the slope of one hoodie-covered shoulder.

Which by all means wasn’t a lot to begin with, him being taller and broader than you. And Chenle wasn’t even super tall. You knew plenty of people that exceeded the one-hundred-and-eighty centimeter mark, like that Jisung kid who hung out with you both on occasion. Wasn’t even built like a brick shithouse like Jaemin and his friend, your on-and-off tutor, Jeno.

Yet the way he had you cornered, hands planted firmly on the polished quartz countertop boxing you in, kind of screwed with your perception—made him appear bigger than he actually was. Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze, pinning you down with deep pools framed by gradually thinning rings of brown the longer this stare down went on.

Coupled with the heat radiating off of Chenle, from standing so much closer where it totally crossed the limits of what it meant to be platonic, something just as heated unfurled beneath your navel.

“What—whatever you want,” you stuttered, swallowing thickly when the soft material of his jacket brushed along the strip of skin left exposed by your cropped top.

“Whatever I want?” Chenle’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he studied you. “Even outside of sex?”

It was really hard trying not to not stare at his mouth. “I think being your errand girl will get you your money’s worth than a regular pump n’ dump.”

“The mouth on you.” Chenle cracked a lipped smile, wide enough that a hint of teeth peeking between the soft rosebud pink of his lips. “‘My girl’ does have a nice ring to it.”

Warmth creeped up your neck. “You forgot the word ‘errand’.”

“I know what I said,” he murmured, coming in closer that the tip of his nose gently nudged yours. “Kiss me.”

Your breath hitched, eyes growing into saucers because kiss me could imply anything. Everything.

“What—“

“You said whatever I want,” Chenle pointed out. “and I want you to kiss me. Or I want to kiss you, actually. Real bad.”

Words, apparently, weren’t enough to prove how much Chenle could want something as simple as a kiss.

Slender fingers splayed themselves along your waist, just marveling that you’re allowing him to touch you like this—with reverence. Palms cooled by the counter and the calluses earned from years of basketball raised gooseflesh along your skin when dragging them along the expanse of your stomach. The dips of your waist again—like he couldn’t resist how softer you were there—your back, until one of Chenle’s hands settled beneath the curve of your spine, the other just shy under the side of your breast.

Chenle was impossibly closer now and your body’s natural response was to arch into him and—oh, he’s hard. So hard—straining against the fly of his jeans pressed against your stomach, and you’ve barely done anything except letting him feel you up, leaving phantom brands of his touch along the way.

“Feel that?” Chenle said, voice low and gravely, delivered like it was a secret only you two should know. He pushed his hips further into yours causing him to groan quietly as you gasped, your hands laying flat on his chest to steady yourself. “You’re definitely getting your tickets if it’s the last thing I do.”

Somehow, out of everything Chenle said, that knocked the breath out of you. The utter conviction. How positive he was in his own right that he will get those tickets for you, one way or another.

Frankly, you couldn’t care less about them now, nor what you had to do in exchange for what was essentially overpriced pieces of paper. All you cared about was who you were getting them from: Chenle, his mouth just a couple of centimeters—all yours for the taking, how secure his hold was around you as if the mere thought of you drifting away any second unnerved him, and the fact that he wanted to kiss you.

Because maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t at all one-sided. Maybe what Minjeong and Yizhuo had been speculating held some substance that, yes, it wouldn’t be too hard if it was you appealing to Chenle’s sweeter side. Maybe the notion was that gratifying to your dwindling self-esteem because how could you deny his simple request?

So with a breathy, almost breathless, “just—just shut the fuck up about the tickets for a second,” you cupped his face with both hands and yanked him down for a kiss.

Chenle’s kisses were syrupy-sweet, if not purposely drawn out as though he was savouring a once in a lifetime opportunity; uncertain if he’d ever get the chance again. The most surprising thing about kissing Chenle, other than the act itself, was the unhurried pace. So unlike the man you would see loping over with this restless energy ready to leave him bursting at the seams, harrying his friends (anyone, really) to play ball with him.

It had been near impossible, forcing him to sit still when all Chenle knew was to keep on moving. Keeping close at his heels was a fixed workout you didn’t remember ever signing up for. It was only to your relief that he made sure to keep you right behind him. Beside him, rather. There wasn’t a time where Chenle would knowingly leave you behind and if that ever happened, he would always wait for you to catch up.

There was no rush, and maybe that was the point of it all. Chenle’s willingness to adjust for you with no terms and conditions applied, and you have yet to see him stop.

With each push and pull, worrying teeth on lips and a shallow press of a warm wet tongue, Chenle kissed you like he was a man starved, stumbling upon an oasis and letting himself drown after a drought lasting so long. He kept with the pace, not doing too much or too little, lips slotting together like perfect puzzle pieces. Sweet and deliberate, each movement holding intention. Chenle really wasn’t fucking around when admitting he wanted to kiss you.

You shared that want too. More than you had initially allowed yourself, but that was to be expected when you’ve basically repressed every not-so-platonic thought regarding Chenle for a long while. And you know what they said about bottling it all up.

It came bursting in a flurry rush of movement. From their tender cradling, your fingers reached up to curl into Chenle’s freshly dyed jet-black hair just as he mirrored your own growing need, lithe arms coiling around your torso as your mouths grew greedier by the second. A show of teeth pulled an airy moan out of you turned muffled the second he licked into your mouth.

From there, kissing just became a mere afterthought. Devolving into a carnal dance of tongues, lapping it all up to get your fill.

Chenle tasted just as sweet as he kissed before, like the lemon ginger candy he had stocked around his house, his car and sometimes you would catch him plucking a piece or two out of his pockets. And it was quickly becoming a problem where you just knew there was no coming back from this.

That nothing will ever be the same once you walk out of that door when all of this is over. You couldn’t go back, not when you’ve gotten a taste of what it was like swapping spit with the guy, the same guy who you had thought wasn’t worth the risk.

Fuck it, might as well risk everything, then. You’ve already kissed him, already bulldozed past that boundary you swore you would never cross. So long as Chenle wouldn’t mind a kiss, or two, or three—until he has to pry you off of him and say enough is enough, you’d let yourself crave the sensation of having his mouth give under yours.

Just like how you chased after the plushness of his lips with a meek whine when he drew back, grinning at the state he reduced you to—a needy little thing this high strung over a kiss.

Please. As if he didn’t pop a boner at the thought of kissing you.

Just as you were about to voice out the retort, one of his hands raised to cup your cheek. You leaned into the touch, feeling small under his thoughtful gaze as his thumb swiped over your kiss-swollen lips. You chased after that feeling, too, each drag winding the coil of your self-control tighter and tighter ‘til it snapped like you did, catching his thumb in between the edges of your teeth.

Chenle’s gaze darkened then, no traces of the playful glint you were used to seeing as he surged forward and kissed a searing path from the corner of your mouth, all the way up to the swell of your cheek. Then lower, and lower until the scrape of teeth under the hinge of your jaw made your knees buckle from the sensation with a gasp.

You gripped his hair tighter, though you made no move to pull him off. “That—this is more than just a kiss,” you lightly chided, voice shaky. “Greedy.”

“So what if I am?” He mumbled, mouthing his way down your neck. Your fingers left his hair and curled around his nape. “Want me to stop?”

Pulling him in further by his neck told him enough. The vibration of his pleased humming against where your pulse was at its strongest made you shiver. You could feel him smirk. Like a knife to your neck.

“Thought so.”

Staying true to his words, he didn't stop. Chenle latched onto your mouth again and you’ve quickly grown familiar with his rhythm. Only this time, his hands joined in the fray, seemingly needing more than just having you secured in his arms.

Though perhaps you bit off more you could chew.

Like, yeah, getting fucked by Chenle wasn’t the most horrible idea you’ve had so far in your early twenties, but thinking about it was vastly different from actually doing it.

So you were definitely in your right to squeal when one of your best friend's wandering hands went up your skirt.

Chenle stilled and pulled back with his eyebrows knitted together. Your face was on fire, both from his bold move and the embarrassing sound you made.

“You okay?” He asked, the same hand that was under your skirt—right below your ass cheek—rubbing soothing circles. It was anything but soothing. When you’ve got thighs as sensitive as yours, the only thing Chenle was helping with was making you hornier.

If he moved his hand a little further up and a little further in, he would have felt just how soaked your panties were.

“I—uh—I’m not ready.”

He blinked. “My hand is literally up your skirt that’s barely covering your cute little butt,” he pointed out as his hands trailed higher and squeezed the plump flesh. “and you’re not ready.” Now he’s looking at you like you’re crazy. Shit, maybe you were. And it’s his fault. He’s just as crazy for calling your ass cute to your face, too.

“I mean yeah, that’s nice and all—your hand is really warm, um—but I may or may not have been talking out of my ass about fucking you.”

Chenle snorted. “I dunno. Your outfit clearly screams ‘fuck me!’. Cute shirt, by the way.” A stray hand wedged itself under the tight fit of your tube-top, earning him a sharp intake of breath when his fingertips grazed the underside of your tit. His touch didn’t go further than that, hand simply splayed across your ribs. “If you can call it that.”

“You bought me this shirt, dumbass.”

“Even better,” he said, delighted by the thought. “Feeling cold?” Chenle wondered, almost in an innocent, offhanded manner you wouldn’t think much of if the twitching of his mouth slipped under your radar. You caught his leering stray south, too. Just what could he possibly be intrigued by when he was quite literally sharing your breathing space?

With eyebrows furrowed, you let your curiosity get the best of you, tracing his line of sight.

You should have stayed curious.

Better yet, you shouldn’t have acknowledged the change of his focal point because of course he’d take notice of your nipples poking against the soft material of your shirt; as if they were saying ‘hi’ to the man who had come so close to giving them some attention.

Chenle dissolved into a fit of cackles. You could only imagine how embarrassed you looked to him. Why were you even embarrassed? You chose to forgo a bra in hopes of distracting him with your boobs if all else failed.

“Yeah, yeah,” you acquiesced, keeping your chin up as you blindly reached for his hands. “Hands where I can see ‘em, pervert.”

Only, you don’t exactly take his hands off of you. This was like, casual touches here and there dialed up to an eleven, right? It wasn’t a foreign concept to you, being held by him. Being friends with him for this long and counting, hugs were a thing you were frequently subjected to, and Chenle loved those, so you did your due diligence of settling his hands on your hips as a pseudo form of it.

A peace offering, if you will, for cutting the closeness short and a little because you were starting to like the warmth emanating from a more intimate touch.

Seemingly pleased by your initiative, Chenle graced you with the sweetest of smiles, squeezing you. That got him a snort and a fond shake of your head, though the amusement dimmed into contemplation as you lingered on the silver padlock-shaped pendant hanging from the dainty chain of the same metal around Chenle’s neck, not knowing where to go from here.

Eventually, you found your voice. “That better be worth fifteen hundred bucks,” you joked because if there was one thing about you is that you had a knack for making light out of an emotionally charged situation.

“I’ve spent more on you before, and you're worth every single penny so far.”

That shouldn’t have flustered you. Really, it shouldn’t have you hot in the face when you weren’t sure if he meant the dig towards you unintentionally milking him of his fortune. But Chenle’s ease of letting weighted words spill from his mouth was the sure contender here, and to deliver the final blow was the charming grin that ensured you everything was going to be just fine. He’d make sure of it.

“That’s definitely something a sugar daddy would say,” you said with a wry curl of your mouth. “Are you my sugar daddy? Because I can’t remember the last time I had to pay for my shit when you’re around.”

There was one time you went out for a bagel on your own, though that didn’t seem like a big girl purchase compared to your ergonomic chair he had ordered from Amazon. The look he had given you when you told him you made do with the many dining chairs Yizhuo had around her huge glass dining table had been the funniest thing you had ever seen. Like stiff chairs having multiple uses was a foreign concept to him.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you were mostly on your feet when you had to (by hand) draft floor plans and vignettes that took up almost the entire space of your choice of paper. And the chair was comfy. Good for your back too.

“It does look like that, huh?” Chenle laughed at that, shaking his head as he did so out of endearment because you just wouldn’t get it. “What if I just like taking care of you?”

Now wasn’t that an insane thing to say out loud? Granted that you could kind of see where he came from as he did save your sorry ass a bunch of times with either a tap or a swipe of his card, this was Chenle you were dealing with. The likelihood of him just pulling your leg under the guise of flattery was great and backing down that easy had never been your forte. No matter how sweet he was being about it.

You could count the serious conversations with him on both sets of your fingers and this regularly scheduled bout of psychological warfare won’t even count.

“You just want to get in my pants,” you accused with a defiant raise of your chin.

“You almost let me in your pants,” Chenle pointed out, his fingers gently grasping your chin so he could tilt your head back at its normal angle. “My hand was literally up your skirt and I heard no complaints until you got stage fright.”

“Fair,” you allowed with a shrug. “Still not gonna fuck you though. Not now at least.”

“Whatever you want,” he said softly as he bent down to catch your gaze. “and you know I won’t do anything you don’t want to.”

You hummed, thinking Chenle’s words over. “I’ll give it a few days until you’re on your hands and knees begging to stick just the tip in.”

Chenle’s smile wobbled then turned pained. “If I have to.”

It took three whole seconds for his admission to register in your brain before you sputtered a laugh, falling forward until his shoulder cushioned your forehead. No wonder you and Chenle worked so well. There was not a serious bone in any of your bodies and you wouldn't want to change it for the world.

“Down, boy,” you teased, still cackling as you nuzzled into his neck. “Who’s desperate now?”

He huffed. “Like you weren’t trying to eat my face moments ago.”

You pulled back with a pout. “I could say the same about you.” You poked him in the chest. “Were you actually trying to suck my soul out?”

“Regret anything yet?” Chenle’s question was posed as playful, but there was undertone of uncertainty to it too and over the years, you’ve gotten good at figuring out his tells. The uncharacteristic sudden stiffness in his frame, the way he chewed the inside of his cheek (subtly as he could) and the tightness around his eyes—he thought you did. Regret it, that is, but it was the farthest from what you were feeling right now.

“The only thing I regret is not seducing you sooner.”

And that did it. Anything that fell in the same vein of uncertainty gave way to the radiance you were much more familiar with.

Chenle looked like an absolute winner—the cat that caught the canary and washed it down with cream in celebration of his win before diving in for his prize.

Until Daegal barked at the sound of jingling keys the moment your lips were a hair breadth away from touching, her excitement piercing through the bubble and granting you awareness from beyond it; namely the pot barely having any water being left on the burner for too long.

There was a flash of white from your peripheral as you shared a panicked look with your qausi-sugar-daddy when the front door opened, followed by one of Chenle’s housemates, Beomgyu, announcing his arrival with a loud, “I’m home!”

“Shit,” you whispered and the two of you set into motion. Harried, if anything, yet still efficient with the swiftness Chenle displayed in fixing your clothes just as you smoothed stray strands of his hair back in place.

For a quick moment, he took a good look at you, a crease in the middle of his eyebrows before he was shucking off his hoodie and urging you to wear it.

“Didn’t take you for the protective type,” you teased, yet took it without question as Chenle rolled his eyes with a gentle shake of his head, watching you pull on the sleeves; a smile equal parts warm and mischievous playing on his lips.

With the zipper in place, you glanced at him then down to his very obvious problem beneath those denim jeans. “You gonna do something about”—Chenle’s eyes blew wide in alarm and stuck his hand in his pants—“yeah, okay,” you mumbled.

His smile widened into something annoying and you quickly pushed him towards the kitchen sink, a silent command to wash his hands once Beomgyu walked right into the kitchen, surprised that you were here. Daegal trotted closely behind, her tail wagging happily as you bent down to pick her up.

“We’re going to get groceries after some noodles,” Chenle answered the silent question for you while pouring water into the pot. “Want some?”

“I’m starving,” Beomgyu groaned. “I’ll eat anything.”

“Hope you’re excited for Shin ramyeon and crab balls, then.”

Over Beomgyu’s shoulder, Chenle winked at you and you nuzzled into Daegal’s fur, hiding your smile.

In the end, after letting Beomgyu devour most of your noodles, Chenle did take you out for another H Mart run.

“Are the two carts necessary?”

You didn’t think so. One full cart was pushing it, but two? For a second, you feared he might just buy out the whole store if you dared him. Then again, Chenle wasn’t familiar with the concept of limiting oneself and it seemed like it applied to you too. Well, in a way where he showed you it was okay to want things. That it was okay to ask him for things.

Because it’s Chenle who did most of the shopping. Fresh produce, different kinds of meat that didn’t need to be cooked in complicated ways for it to come out edible—namely the humble samgyeopsal. Quick, easy and absolutely delicious—he glossed over most of the condiments seeing you still had them at home, then he absolutely went insane when it came to the snacks, ice cream and, of course, packets of instant noodles.

Chenle had another pack of a different variant in his hands, tossed it into the snack-filled cart he was pushing around.

“You’re really playing into the sugar daddy thing,” you said as you mentally calculated the amount of debt you were in now with the addition of groceries that could last you and the girls the whole month.

“Better than you starving,” he said cheerfully, grabbing a dozen of Buldak Carbonara noodles and dumping them into the cart like a dad finding out their kid’s favorite snack. “Wouldn’t want you living off of shin ramyeon and crab balls.”

You scowled. “It wasn’t that funny.”

Chenle laughed and laughed and laughed anyway because your failed seduction plan was that hilarious if he was still making jokes about two-person groceries.

The drive home was quiet. Peaceful. Less awkward than you had initially expected when the soulful drone of music filled in the spaces with you sat in the passenger’s seat, reaching over to feed Chenle the Pepero you elected on sharing. When it all ran out, you relaxed in your seat and just… watched.

Watched your best friend in his element with his hand on the wheel while the other patted his thigh along the beat of the current song. He looked good. Unfairly so. With the lights glinting off the watch that likely made up your yearly university tuition and the high points of his face, the ruffled look of his hair and the way his jaw flexed every time he sang along the melody.

All this filled you with the urge to kiss him. Reach over and plant one on him and the thought still lingered even as you drove past the house’s gates opened with an app on your phone.

As Chenle helped put away the groceries while you pretended not to notice the leering from the peanut gallery.

As he helped himself to a Melona while keeping up with the verbal spat between him and Yizhuo munching on something yoghurt and blueberry flavoured.

It was all you could think about as you saw him out the door, and if you couldn’t help yourself and acted on it—a quick peck to the corner of Chenle’s plush mouth as thanks—leaving a sheen of your lipgloss, then that was between you, God and the security camera angled to where you stood.

Yizhuo wouldn’t notice if you deleted a few seconds of footage anyway.

Late into the night and you could still feel it. Feel him—the ghost of his kiss, his touch as everything that had transpired in the afternoon played on loop in your head.

You couldn’t sleep. Not when your mind was chanting Chenle Chenle Chenle like a mantra set to summon him. Like an itch you couldn’t get rid off no matter how hard you scratched.

If only…

That night, you decided to get well acquainted with Pinky, fishing her out deep within your drawer.

Mornings like this were rare, where all of you were awake at the same time. Even rarer that you were all up before ten, quiet. Relaxed.

No sense of urgency found on anyone’s person. No school, no jobs to clock into, no not-so-secret meetings—none of you girls had anything of priority today.

There was breakfast, arguably the most important meal of the day, though it seemed Minjeong and Yizhuo weren’t exactly in a rush demanding their eggs be cooked just the way they liked. Just fine with nursing a steaming cup of whatever energized them for the day ahead as they sat at the island counter.

Your phone chimed in the middle of cooking Yizhuo’s scrambled eggs. A text from Chenle—a sent photo to be specific and—

You screamed, nearly dropping the spatula.

fine shyt: [IMG_6969]

You: WWHAT THEBFUCJ

fine shyt: got your tickets 🤓

You: YEA I SEE THAT???????????

When you screen faded into Chenle’s caller ID, a photo of him holding up Daegal, Minjeong immediately took over the cooking as you rushed towards the living area.

“You got the tickets,” you said as you accepted the request to FaceTime, half in wonder and in disbelief that he was able to nab tickets in less than twenty-four hours and a day before the concert. You really should stop doubting Chenle and his ability (see: privilege) to get whatever, whenever. “Not that I doubted you, but the first night usually sells out quick—so how the hell.”

“You underestimate how far money can get you,” Chenle laughed. He looked sleep-ruffled, like he had just woken up. This was his cutest state yet and you really wished you were with him right now. “Think you’re ready to find out?”

“As I’ll ever be.” As long as he held your hand through it, sure. What the hell. You could survive future heart attacks caused by six figures by sheer will alone, you thought. “I asked for three tickets though. Who's the fourth one for?”

“Me,” he answered, beaming. “Someone has to drive you girls.”

“What? I mean—thanks.” That was one less thing to worry about then. “But since when do you listen to Sabrina?”

“Since last night. Still at it, by the way.” he clarified, a little too happy and if you listened closely, you could make out Sabrina’s crooning of Read your Mind on his end. “An enlightening experience, I might say.”

“Good luck on memorizing twenty-one songs then.”

“Oh, Princess. I released an album when I was eight. Memorizing the setlist is light work. Bet I could sing louder than you.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll grill you on the album thing next time because what the fuck.” The ‘Princess’ thing you elected to ignore, too early and dire to suffer an aneurysm when a concert was waiting for you.

“I’ve lived quite the life,” he mused (“oh I’m sure.”) combing his fingers through his hair. “So what do we say?”

You scoffed, fond and grateful for his generosity whether you were deserving or not. “Thank you.”

“Thank you what, baby?”

Your face twisted in horror, quickly clocking what he was trying to get you to do. “Bye Chenle.”

He was cackling when you hung up, your face on fire, yet you didn’t put in any effort to tamper the giddy grin threatening to split your face.

The tickets were yours. Chenle got the tickets and they were yours. Gosh, this was probably the best morning in your life so far and nothing could dampen your mood from doing your girls proud.

“Now do you believe us when we say you’re Chenle’s favorite?” Yizhuo asked with a mouthful of scrambled egg.

You laughed, cheeks aching from how hard you cheesed at a simple fact. “I’m starting to.”

And selfish as it sounded, you hoped that it would remain that way for a long time because you couldn’t remember a life so dull when Chenle walked in with colors so bright that it sung, and because he was your favorite, too.

a/n: waow you've reached the end! Here, have a cookie 🍪 as always, thank you soo so much for reading until the end! I'd like to thank the girls: Aria, Moon and Aeriel for letting me talk my shit about this fic and help with ideas! and yes, brainstorming with them is an almost daily occurrence and it's great mental exercise imo lol! I hope you had fun reading the chaos that was this fic. I know I had fun laughing to myself writing all this 😆 and please please please let me know your thoughts! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

TAGLIST: @jaylaxies @hoondrop @gojosmojodojo @justalildumpling @dammit-jjk @learnthisfeeling @90s-belladonna @spacejip @ykvdani @drunkhee @neozon3nha @dinosaurtoothbrushwithninjasauce @sunghoonsgfreal @champagne1221 @yuyita-rosier @grimlinshere @jvngw0n @nanaxwi @kissesfromdarling @peterm4rker @haechology @evergreeneyesx @bbina @nctseventeensworld (special thanks to those who asked to be part of the taglist!)

#zhong chenle x reader #chenle x reader #nct dream x reader #nct x reader #zhong chenle fluff #chenle fluff #zhong chenle one shot #chenle one shot

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gojoest · 6 hours ago

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the strongest softest heart — gojo satoru

part of papatoru days

gojo satoru is untouchable — or so everyone thinks. but when the birth of his daughter flips his world upside down, even the strongest sorcerer finds himself unraveling in the best way possible

f!reader, girl dad!satoru, petnames (baby, sweetness), mention of childbirth (non-graphic), hospital setting, satoru faints during labor, he’s the softest dad ever, suguru + shoko + nanami + fist-year trio cameo

Nobody would believe you if you told them that your husband, Gojo Satoru, can actually panic.

Most people who’ve met him would describe him in a strangely consistent way: loud, cocky, and infuriatingly confident. A man who walks into a room and somehow fills it with his ego before he even opens his mouth. He’s the strongest — and yes, he knows it. Which, on its own, is enough to drive people mad. He grins when others are irritated, teases them when they’re serious, and brushes off concern like it’s nothing more than a boring lecture.

To most, he’s arrogant. Unshakeable and untouchable — not just in strength, but in heart. Gojo Satoru doesn’t play by the rules, and more often than not, he doesn’t respect them either. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t bend, doesn’t let anything break past that blinding, boyish smile.

So naturally, if you told people that Satoru fainted during labor, they’d look at you like you were trying to convince a grown adult that Santa was real.

But it’s true.

Only those who were there at the hospital could confirm it — because, of course, the moment your water broke, Satoru called everyone. Suguru, Shoko, Nanami, his students…He didn’t even try to play it cool and, unfortunately for him, they were all present when the nurses had to roll him out on a stretcher.

In his defense, it wasn’t immediate. He was doing fine at first, holding your hand, breathing in sync with you, whispering encouragement through gritted teeth as if he could will your pain away. Then the doctor said: “The head is crowning” — and for some reason (of course) Satoru peeked.

One second, he was squeezing your hand and calling you a superhero. The next, he was flat on the floor.

And since Satoru is not a small man, getting him out of the way took six people and a whole lot of muttering.

But he bounced back quickly. Stubborn as ever, he came back into the room just in time to hold your hand again as you pushed, his face pale and lips trembling from all the emotions swirling in his chest. You’re pretty sure you left bruises on his knuckles — and maybe even dug your nails in a little too hard — but all he said was: “Don’t worry, baby. Take all your pain out on me. It’s my fault you’re going through this anyway, sweetness.”

He tried to joke, but his voice cracked with every word. Satoru didn’t know whether to laugh or cry from the sheer weight of it all. So he did both.

And the people who were there — the ones who thought they knew Gojo Satoru inside and out — they all saw it. Because no one had ever seen him cry. Well. Except for once, and now — two times.

The first was on your wedding day. When you walked down the aisle in white — radiant and glowing — something in him cracked. The bravado, the smirks, the untouchable facade all crumbled the moment he realized this was real. You were going to be his. For real. For life. And when the tears came, they weren’t loud or messy. They were quiet, but raw. The kind of tears that stunned everyone into silence. Some still say it didn’t happen, but you know the truth. You were the one holding his shaking hands at the altar. You saw the way he looked at you — like you were the only thing keeping him anchored to this world.

And… the second time was now.

When they placed your daughter in his arms for the first time — tiny and screaming her lungs out — something inside him broke again. But this time, it wasn’t panic. It was wonder. Awe. A love so huge and overwhelming it knocked the wind out of him, and he laughed through the tears while the baby was crying against his chest as if she recognized his heartbeat.

He had never felt so fragile, yet so powerful at the same time. And in that moment, Satoru knew — this is what he was born to protect. You and her. This is why he can’t lose and this is why he has to come back home. Every time. No matter what.

Outside the delivery room, the hallway was uncharacteristically quiet. Nanami stood with his arms crossed, his jaw tight but his expression soft. Shoko was nursing a coffee with red-rimmed eyes. Suguru stood quietly with his hands in his pockets, eyes locked on the delivery room door. Yuuji kept blowing his nose into a tissue. Nobara had unironically threatened to kill anyone who laughed at Satoru. Megumi stood stone-faced near the door, though his eyes kept flicking back to the crib ID card the nurse had set aside, as if trying to memorize the baby’s name, weight, and height.

And then, the door cracked open.

Satoru stepped out into the hallway, his newborn daughter cradled gently against his chest while the doctors finished cleaning you up and preparing to move you to recovery. He couldn’t wait — he had to show them. His miracle. His pride. His entire heart bundled up in a tiny blanket. His hair was messier than usual, eyes suspiciously red, and his hands still trembling just slightly. He looked like a man who had just witnessed the universe being rewritten — and was holding proof of it in his arms.

There was silence.

Then—

“Someone take a picture”, Shoko whispered. “I need proof that Gojo Satoru actually has tear ducts.”

Suguru blinked, awestruck. “She’s even tinier than I imagined.”

“She’s perfect”, Yuuji sniffled. “And sensei is going to spoil her so bad— hic—sniff”

Nobara tilted her head, staring at the baby with a complicated expression before cracking a smile. “She better grow up with my fashion sense! I’m not letting Gojo dress her like a walking blindfold.”

“If he buys her sunglasses, I’m leaving”, Megumi added dryly.

Nanami raised an eyebrow. “Another girl who can make Gojo Satoru lose his head. Impressive.”

Satoru just beamed. Eyes full of tears and pride and love, as he looked at the tiny girl in his arms. “Yeah”, he said softly. “She’s going to ruin me.”

And everyone knew it was true.

#ઈઉ — ai writes #[ ♡ ] — satoru #papatoru days #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x you #gojo satoru fluff #gojo fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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feathersamongthestars · 58 minutes ago

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(Writing at 3:30am bear with me)

Mmm they're including youtube in that? Aww hell naw

Oh would you look at that they said here youtube isn't 'expected' to be banned

Guess what else is under that list

Fucking kids helpline.

Let me say that again

Kids helpline.

If they say youtube shouldn't be banned but is now at risk then so is kids helpline. Focusing on this because what the actual fuck.

They're claiming they're doing this to help children's mental health but there's kids out there who use social media as their support system, kids with depression kids who are abused that rely on social media.

I was one of those children.

Being vulnerable for a sec I would use Kids helpline when I feared for my life because of my abusive father or my manipulative ex. Or when I thought I was broken or deserving of my abuse because of my father's religious beliefs. I would use discord servers to vent when waiting for the kids helpline would be too long or dm friends when I desperately needed support I would never get at home, what is supposed to be the one true safe space. My only true safe space was online and their trying to take that away from others.

Without kids helpline or the ability to safely contact my friends there is a high chance I would not be alive right now.

I never read the news and I avoid politics but what the fuck is going through their minds right now

"Its to protect their mental health" my ass

Like yes limit a minors access to social media, no don't ban children from it because other people are being creeps, maybe work on that shit instead.

They want to make it so children can legally get an insta acc the same day they can get their drivers license (js the L plate) everywhere but the capital

Where children would be able to have a drivers license before they can access any social media

I fear for the children like me, children who might grow up believing they are the problem or what they're experiencing is normal and the flow on effects from that. The children who will continue the cycle of abuse unaware or end it with their own hands.

This cannot happen we cannot let this happen.

I will not let this happen.

Please reblog

Australian KOSA is occurring right now

They are banning anyone under the age of sixteen from almost all media sites, including YouTube now.

They are including sites they promised they wouldn’t include

They are using inaccurate face scanning tech that does not accurately know your age

The other option is using government IDs

Neither is wanted.

PAY ATTENTION TO THIS RIGHT NOW. PLEASE JUST FOR A MOMENT

#first time I'm hearing about this if it proves any point #tw long post #tw politics #australia social media ban #ASMB

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noisy-seelie · 13 hours ago

Text

Someone is watching you.

Summary: after a bad fight with your ex-boyfriend, phainon intervened to help you, and your life has never been the same since you met him.

Note:heyy im really not proud of this one so if you like it lmk with a reblog or comment <3 also no beta read we die like brain cells.

This contains: yandere!Phainon, f!Reader(although nothing specifies gender in this chapter), stalking, obsession,cursing, paranoia, ooc phainon, pathetic phainon <3.(basically anything that would come with yandere trope)

Wc: 6.3k

Someone is watching you.

You tried to ignore the feeling, tried to convince yourself that it was just your paranoia. Nobody is watching you you are safe who would take so much time monitoring you, everything is fine you are just paranoi-

Someone is watching you.

Your heart is hammering in your ribcage, threatening to burst out. Cold sweat gathered on your forehead and your limbs are near limp from fear, someone is watching you, you can’t see them. You've never seen them, they left no traces behind and maybe that is why you've ignored the warnings simmering in the back of your head up until now. There is no proof someone is watching you, the aunties at the marmoreal market reassured you that it is a natural reaction to feel paranoid when you're suddenly always alone after having had constant company.

You remember, 10 months ago, you found your boyfriend—in your house and on your sofa—cuddling nude with a girl. You chased both of them out of your house with a broom, screaming ’we are DONE, don't even try to contact me!’. And that was the last time you spoke to him, until he came back a week later. Claiming that he had changed. He cried, begged on his knees, and brought you flowers everyday for two weeks.

You almost forgave him, almost, but whenever he had you buttered up you'd remember the nausea and sickness you felt when cleaning up your sofa from their… fluids while crying and sobbing, that memory alone is always enough for you to take the bouquet of flowers from his hands and chase him down the neighborhood, landing a few hits on him sometimes.

The scene was so comical, nosey neighbors all coming out to watch the commotion happening on your front door, murmuring about it, young children learned to gather around your house when they see him approaching it, wanting to see the scene that is about to unfold. They even gave him a nickname, “little shrimp”, a nickname they derived from one particular insult you made toward your ex.

They would scream the nickname whenever they saw him then run as he chased after them, it was an entertaining game for them. But it made him seethe with hot boiling anger, mostly toward you for revealing this about him. Since then he never came back to apologize. You were grateful, thinking you were to not see him again. Until he met you at the marmoreal market and-

Your reminiscing is cut short when you hear a creak outside your open window. You can feel every cell in your body scream, as if begging you to run, to hide. To protect yourself. You sigh, resting a hand over your chest. Trying to breathe steadily, you mutter curses and force yourself to get up, to show yourself nothing is out there watching you.

The floor tiles creak under you as you slowly approach the open window, you can hear your heartbeat, you hold your breath, regretting the moment you decided that you want some fresh air in your room.

You reach the window and take a look outside, nothing is there. Everything is normal, nobody is outside, the sky is dark. The tree in your yard stands tall, its leaves rustling as the wind howls. That eased your worry a lot. You let out a sigh of relief. Smiling a little as the fear disperses from your shaken heart. Breathing in the fresh air then closing the window before retreating towards your bed.

You take a look back at your window, analyzing it as if it was some kind of anomaly, then turning to plop on your bed, thinking of tomorrow. A last thought flashes your mind before crossing into the realm of dreams.

You need to buy curtains.

“thank you.” you say to the stall owner at the market, having woken up early. You decide to head out and buy a few things, you turn around to go back home, holding two bags.

Then you sensed it, that ugly feeling. Like someone had their eyes on your back. It felt like being stabbed from behind by sharp ice swords, sending chills through your body.

You quicken your pace just a little.

“partner!” a voice you recognized called from behind. You turn around, bags in hand. Staring at the tall, well-built, white haired man who's trying to catch up to you. A weight you didn't know you were shouldering disappeared as you sigh in relief. Phainon, the beloved hero of okhema. He carries an aura of friendliness and charm, getting along with everyone. He was easy to talk to, you would describe your relationship with him as acquaintances though you had a feeling he would say otherwise, he treated you as a friend. He always greeted you warmly and made his way to you whenever he saw you, striking up casual chit-chat like you knew each other—like he knew you.

You knew of his existence of course, but you first chatted with him 8 months ago, on the day you met your ex-boyfriend in the marmoreal market after… the shrimp incident.

He was furious, seething! You bumped into him in the market after buying fruits—not recognizing him because he was wearing a face mask—you apologized and started to walk away. Only to be harshly grabbed by your ex, who pulled down his mask like he was waiting to berate you. Your bags fell to the floor and fruits rolled away. His hand dug deep in your flesh making you hiss, your bags fell to the floor and the fruits rolled away.

“You crazy woman!” he shouted, nearby people turning their heads to watch “do you realize the grave mistake you've committed!? You think I'll let you walk away without a payback?!" his nails dug deeper into your arm as his voice grew louder and louder, nearly drawing blood. You winced, yanking your arm away and breaking free. Anger boiled inside you, he had the audacity to play victim!

“What's wrong with me?! Last time I checked, YOU cheated on me!” you bite back. You wanted to add more, to dump the sizzling hot anger on him and walk away relieved. But the collective gasps of the growing crowd had you nervous, the marmoreal market is always bustling with life… to have a fight with your ex in here is like wanting to become the hot topic of the aunties for the next few years.

“You ruined my life! I can't walk two meters before someone calls me with that cursed name!” he yelled, stepping forward as if trying to intimidate you by looking down on you. And you scoffed, crossing your arms and giving him an unamused, insulting look as if he were a petulant child.

“by ’cursed name’ you mean ’little shrimp’?” you smirk, patting his shoulder in mock solidarity, smiling condescendingly.

he gritted his teeth “i demand a public apology for defamation and compensation for all the flowers i brought you!” he pointed a finger at you “and don’t even think about hiding or evading it. I will follow you until I make you pay.”

You scoffed at his audacity ”nobody asked for your flowers, And you know, it's really not my fault that your awful life circumstances led to you not growing something down there.” you whisper, loud enough for only him to hear. “you actually did me a favor, saved me from constant disappointments."

And he exploded.

“you fucking cunt!! I'm gonna beat that attitude out of you!” he shouted, the cursing echoed through all of amphoreous, grabbing you by the collar and you froze. Was this idiot really about to lay a hand on you?!

The whole market gasped, his hand pulled back behind his head. You closed your eyes and looked away in anticipation of the hit, but it never landed.

Instead, you were pushed on someone’s side, tucked under their shoulder. A strong arm wrapped around your torso to pull you away. The figure stepped in and caught your ex’s hand.

“What is going on here? Just what do you think you're doing.” you open your eyes and they widen. Phainon, the chrysos heir! Had intervened. Stopping your boyfriend's attempt of assault. Your mouth went agape in awe for a second. He had no right to look this cool.

Tousled white hair like he had just finished training, shiny soft blue eyes that were somehow sharp with determination, towering over nearly anyone, a strong build and intervening to stop quarrel with a cool entrance. A book perfect hero, this won't be the hot topic of the aunties for a few years, but a legend passed down from a marmoreal market auntie to another.

You see your ex shrivel up in fear under phainon’s intense gaze. Stuttering and speaking formally.

“lord Phainon! I s- swear it is not- it is not what it looks like!” your ex stammered, and Phainon gave him an unimpressed look before signaling for someone to call a guard, still holding you close, you decided to pull away and he finally glanced at you.

“ah-” Phainon put away his hand once he saw you move “are you okay, miss? You must be shaken a little.” he turned to you. Speaking in a softer tone then he had once he intervened, a contrast to the firm grip he had on your ex.

“No.. I’m fine. Just a little surprised.” you rub the arm that the idiot was gripping, looking away at the guards running towards the scene. Feeling awkwardness, who would’ve thought a chrysos heir would intervene?

“I'm glad you're okay.” he smiles, and no wonder people felt safe in his presence. His smile had warmth to it, kind and sincere.

He turned to the guards once they arrived, he told them to take your ex—who was near crying now—and fine him for disorderly conduct.

You stare for a few seconds then sigh, bending down to grab your bag and fruits, trying to hide your face from the murmuring audience. You hear a rustle of clothes by your side and you look to see phainon bending and picking up an apple, stretching his hand toward you, waiting for you to take the apple while smiling.

You stared at the apple for a few seconds, he tilted his head and then you took the apple and put it in your bag, getting up and looking at him as he got up too.

“thank you again, lord phainon.” you tilted your head down a little as a sign of respect. Turning back with your bags in hand, wanting to be tucked in your bed forever now.

“wait-” phainon called out, you turned around. Blinking a few times. “let me walk you home! Im free right now. And to make sure nothing else happens.” he reasons, a determined look on his face. You sighed and nodded, already walking away and he followed by your side. Was he this kind with everyone? No wonder he is loved by everyone.

“So.. I’m phainon!” he beamed, his hamd on his chest. You gave him a side glance “ I know.” you said, and he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, laughing nervously. “haha…and your name is?” he looked at you expectantly, and you couldn't help but chuckle, he was easy to talk to.

You looked back at him and he smiled, telling him your name. Not that you're going to converse with him again anyways.

As you told him your name, he froze a little, smiling harder then looking ahead. He seemed… exceptionally happy? He put a finger on his chin and repeated your name, testing the way it rolled off his tongue. He said it in such familiarity, like he knew you for a long time.

“[name]... Glad to meet you, [name].” he flashed you another smile. Although it seemed different then the rest of his smiles.

He walked you home and left.

Ever since then. You chatted many more times, he would talk to you whenever he saw you and walked you home, Just like now.

“Good morning! didn't take you as the type to wake up early for groceries.” he teased, looking at the bags in your hand. “Let me hold them for you.” he took them from your hand before you could protest.

“Good morning, lord phainon” you greeted back and his shoulders fell downward in defeat, resembling a withered flower. “You know I told you to drop the lord… phainon is just fine” he pouted exaggeratedly, and you nearly giggled at his behavior.

“alright, phainon.” you smiled at him, not noticing the hitch of his breath and twitch of fingers. Then he smiled “that's more like it, do you have any plans or are you going home already?” he asked, albeit with a little disappointment on the last part.

“Well I don't think I need anything else…” you tap your chin with your index finger, and think. Unaware of the fond gaze that is studying your face, a smile too big on his face. “Hmm, actually, do you know where I could get curtains? I never realized how much my room was in view of people outside..” you turn your head to look at him and freeze a little, seeing the same big smile on his face yet it was different, his eyes didn't hold the same warmth they carried. His smile not conveying the same levels of sincerity, it was devoid of emotions, empty, displeased.

“curtains huh…” he said, looking up as if thinking “mhm, sorry, but no clue!” he said with his usual cheeriness, and you decided to push your former thoughts to the back of your mind.

“The curtains can wait, don't you think?” he put a hand on your shoulder “what do you say we pass by your house, drop these bags..” he raises your bags that he was carrying “.. and go have breakfast together, a new caffe opened, i wanted to try it! And i could use some company…” he looks at you with near pleading eyes and you contemplated for a little while, sure you chatted many times now and he is friendly but you were not that close, at least to your standards.

”my treat of course!!!” he clarified, as if thinking that was the reason for your silence. You laughed and decided to agree, you wouldn't pass down free food.

You nodded and gave him a thumbs up, it was honestly a little embarrassing, you were just trying to seem friendly. You thought maybe he is that kind of person that considers everyone a friend. So why not return the friendliness. He is a nice person, you don't mind being friends with him.

He halted for less than a second at your attempt of a friendly gesture and you felt like you wanted to go live in a cave and never come back to okhema. You noticed he always had this habit of freezing just for less than a moment whenever you smiled at him, laughed or walked close by him. It stressed you out, was he uncomfortable with you? Although he would go back to smiling right after.

Like always, he's already back to smiling. Cheerful at your agreement, he then proceeded to do a fist pump.

A ridiculously comical fist pump.

You stare at him for a few seconds, a little taken back, then you start laughing. A little too much. Was he- was he trying to mirror your thumbs up with a fist pump..?

“whaat?! Don't laugh, I'm matching your energy!” he crossed his arms, blushing intensely, surely he wasn't that embarrassed! It was kind of cute.

You closed your eyes and threw your head back, laughing. You couldn't notice the way he was staring at you, enough to burn a hole in your face if he put a little more effort, an unreadable expression on his face, he looked drunk with how red he was.

“my apologies, it took me off guard with how elaborate it was” you sigh, trying to not snort again when the scene plays again in your mind; a tall, well-built man clenching his fist and raising it so high up excitedly.

“Let's drop off the bags and head to the caffe” you tilted your head and smiled at him, the little interaction leaving you in a good mood, something you much needed considering your paranoia that is driving you crazy.

He glanced at your face for a little too long, returning the smile and started walking beside you toward your house before you questioned the staring.

“and i tell you, today i totally beat mydei in sparring!” he says confidently, although you had a feeling he was lying. But it didn't matter, you were just happy it wasn't awkward as you thought it would be.

He sat in front of you, you two were eating some desserts you ordered, lost in your thought, you notice Phainon has gone silent. His eyebrows furrowed and a small pout on his lip.

“What's wrong?” you question, and he crossed his arms.. Was he mad..?

He stayed quiet for a few seconds then leaned forward “you're always quiet with me, you don't tell me about yourself.” He rested his chin on his palm, his spoon digging in his dessert.

Oh? It was a little cute that he wanted to know more about you.

“i shall work on fixing that then. I knew you were friendly but I didn't think you’d want to be friends this bad.” you chuckled, looking at Phainon who looked mortified “i thought we were already friends!” he nearly slammed his hands on the table, then brought a hand to his forehead, sighing dramatically “oh how you wound me!”

“But on a serious note, I love your company, [name]. I’d be more than happy to hang out with you more often.” he said sincerely.

You were a little startled, heat crept up the back of your neck toward the tip of your ears.

“that can be arranged!” you said, hoping he wouldn't notice the flush on your face. “let’s exchange contacts?” you tilted your head.

He immediately pulled out his telestale “great idea.” he said, you two exchanged numbers.

As you ate your dessert, you chatted. Telling phainon random things then eventually started ranting about your ex-boyfriend. You couldn't help but notice the staring of phainon, of course he would look at you since you're speaking.. But it felt like he was studying you, for a mere second, your heart thumped, a familiar feeling of coldness filled your chest. Like someone is watching you.

you brought the last bite of the dessert to your mouth. He watched your spoon intently as the dessert entered your mouth. You put the spoon on the plate.

Was he waiting for you to offer him some of your dessert? He finished his long ago. Well…you finished yours just now so nothing you can do.

“I'm finished, let's head out?” you stand up and phainon nods “wait for me outside, ill pay and be right with you.” he smiled.

You waited outside and he joined you shortly after, before you started walking home you patted your pockets, realizing they were empty.

“shit- i forgot my telestale on the table, i put the napkins over it and forgot to pick it up! Be right back! ” you turned around “no problem, im waiting here.” phainon said before you entered the caffe.

You made your way to the table, you two were sitting on. The waiter has still not cleaned it up and you found your telestale right where it was.

Just before leaving, you glanced at your plate, you noticed that your spoon was missing, you're sure you put it there. Everything was exactly right, phainon’s spoon was still there, the plates and the napkins. How weird.

You didn't think much of it and left.

Walking back home with phainon, he accompanied you all the way to your front door. Waving each other goodbye, you opened the door and he still hadn't left. You stifled a chuckle, he seemed totally like the type to wait until his friends closed the door before leaving. Now inside your home, you chuckled at his cute behavior. Heading upstairs to your room.

Phainon, stood there in deafening silence. His body still as a statue, looking at your closed front door with an empty expression. His fingers twitched.

he sighed exasperatedly and immediately fell to his knees. His hand clutching at his chest like he was trying to stop his heart from tearing through his ribcage, his breathing was uneven. His pupils dilated with overbearing emotions,his body shook on the stairs of your front door.

His hands reached out for the doorknob then retreated, Oh how he wanted to see you again already. To hold you close and shake you till you understood how deeply rooted his feelings were, how they felt like chains embellished with thorns, clinging to his being.

The thorns dug deeper in his flesh, leaving him scared. with every passing moment he spent away from you the scars deepened until they left him hollow, waiting for you to fill them. Only then could he feel at ease. And each time he would crave more.

He yearned for your presence, for it was a healing ointment to his wounds.

‘1 hour and 52 minutes’ he thought to himself. Grinning like an idiot, a deep flush of red on his face, he had been counting the minutes he spent with you today. Elated at the progress, it increased greatly from the usual 7 minutes chats, and he felt like he could go eradicate all titankins in the radius out of happiness.

Phainon took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and carefully, as if any sudden movement would cause him to explode. This was dangerous for him. You were dangerous for him, his heart is hammering erratically. Threatening to escape his chest and find its rightful owner, you.

He closed his eyes and smiled as he remembered your laugh at his ridiculous fist pump. He has never heard a soud so sweet, it was as if the world stopped to hear your pretty laugh. The sounds of the bustling marmoreal market all halted, his surroundings blurred until you were all he could see. If he was doubtful before (he wasn't), then he is sure now. You were an angel sent from heaven just for him. No, but a deity to be worshipped. By him alone.

His shaking hands reached into his pocket, pulling out the spoon you used at the caffe… he really tried to restrain himself, but he couldn't. Before leaving he quickly snatched it and put it in his pocket, in his defense; it was a holy object that you used! but how jealous was he.

He knew he was staring too much at your spoon back then, he couldn't stop it. He felt so jealous that it had touched your lips, so much so his grip on his own spoon had bent it a little.

Phainon brought the spoon to his mouth, resting the the tip of it on his lips. Imagining how your lips would feel; were they soft as they looked? Or where they chapped? Did you use any lip oils? how would they taste? how would your lips taste against his? only then he felt himself calm down. He felt an immense satisfaction, it was an indirect kiss after all!

Much calmer now, he slowly stood up. Sighing once more, looking at the window of your room for a few seconds.

“to think you just realized i wanted to be friends with you.” he said, a hand on his hip as he looked at your window. As if adressing you “my darling, so oblivious to my feelings…” his eyes softned, imagining you beside him.

He slowly stood up, shoving the spoon back in his pocket and giggled as he turned around and walked away.

“i will show you my love.” even if it meant suffocating you in it.

Someone. Is. Watching. You.

Tucked under your blanket, shaking. You curse yourself for forgetting to buy curtains (like that would end it). You couldn't ignore it anymore, this ugly feeling started a few weeks after your fight with your ex in the marmoreal market.

Wherever you went, it followed. Sometimes you didn't feel it, but when you did. It was strong, you could practically feel eyes boring into your skin from each direction.

At the marmoreal market, inside your house, at the herb shop you managed.

You try to distract yourself, your mind went to the fight with your ex-boyfriend.

You scoffed as you remembered his words. How he demanded that you payed him back.

“and don’t even think about hiding or evading it. I will follow you until I make you pay."

You layed still in your bed for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling and it felt exceptionally low today. It felt as if it was layed atop of you, suffocating you. Leaving you with no fresh air, to gasp and choke at the brewing feeling of fear.

You sat up, rubbing your temples and sighing. Was the idiot—your ex—truly serious on his words?

You hugged your knees to your chest, you were always a paranoid person, even before breaking up you'd feel unease, like someone is watching you, though it was weak and fleeting.

it has been approximately 9 months since this ’paranoia’ started. And 10 since you broke up with that cheater.

The numbers made sense, you two broke up. He missed you and resorted to stalking, he did say he still loved you? But he seemed so done with you after getting the shrimp nickname.

Still. It made perfect sense, you were not making asumptions. he said he would follow you.

You were tired, curling in your bed again you held back tears. Enduring the constant feeling of being watched all night.

You feel like shit.

You are not sleeping well these past few days, if this continued you would take legal actions; only if you had any proof. You don't even have proof you're being stalked, let alone by your ex.

You sighed as you leaned on the counter of the herb shop you worked in, it was owned by an old woman who was too old to manage it, she supplied it and hired you to manage it, the shop had regular clients; old people who liked making herbal tea and lots of healers who used the herbs for medicine, they would buy herbs in huge patches so it was enough to keep the buisness going with a good salary, but having no clients most of the days.

The old lady would sometimes stop by to chat with you. She was nice and caring, those were one of the few times you felt at ease these past months.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a ding from your phone.

Phainon has sent you a few messages, which was weird. At this time of day he would be sparring with mydeimos.(you learnt his routine because he texted you A LOT.)

You open your phone and blink a few times.

His message was.. Unreadable. Full of mistakes, kaomojis interrupted every few words.

‘are you okay?’ you sent and he replied immediately.

‘my dearest \(^_^)/ [name], aere yu worrie (◉‿◉) about me?’ he sent back, you would have laughed if it weren’t for the flush creeping up at the nape of your neck. You dont understand what's with him but he had called you his dearest. It made you feel things you shouldn't.

Just as you were about to type back something, he sent a message again.

‘call me? I o(╥﹏╥)o cant type!’

Your breath hitched as phainon called you without waiting for a response, you hesitated to answer. For some reason you felt nervous, you never were in a call with him before!

Just as you picked up and before you could put your telestale to your ear, the old lady busted in the shop and you jumped.

She looked at you, you looked at her. And through the silence … “[naaaame] ~” a whine of your name from your phone echoed through the empty shop.

The lady raised her eyebrow and sighed “I'll take over the shop for today.” she gestured toward the door, and you hurriedly walked toward the door before phainon said anything that would want you to go back to your dream of living in a cave.

She tsked as you walked past her and murmured ”young lovebirds…” and you left the shop looking like a ripe tomato.

“[naame]? You with me?”phainon whined again. You couldn't tell what was with him, was he drunk in broad daylight?

“I’m here, what did you call for?” you said, fanning your face with your hand from the heat of the earlier embarrasement.

Phainon stayed quiet for a few seconds and he giggled, a cheeky laugh like a kid who had found candy. His voice just as soft through the telestale.

“your voice is also nice on the telestale.” he said in a quiet tone, like he thought of how it sounded on a call before.

Your words got caught in your throat, you opened your mouth to say something but you were startled at his honest words.

He spoke again “you’re not busy at the shop right? Can you come to the tavern i showed you the ither day? I really miss you, i miss you a lot… i would have came to you if my head wasn't spinning.” he said and his voice carrying tenderness that had you questioning your relationship for a second. Though his voice was steady, like it's normal to talk so lovingly to you friends.

You coughed into your fist, trying to sound as steady as he is “come to me? You don't know where the shop is located.”

He chuckled, his laugh a rich, deep sound that echoed in your mind. Just what was wrong with you today…

“ah.. You're right, ’i don't know where you work’. Silly me!” you smiled and replied “anyways, I'll be there. Gotta make sure you go home safe!” Phainon exhaled shakingly, which made you confused a little.

“so i was right? You are worried about me.” he murmured, his voice an octave lower. “It makes me really happy that you care about me... ” he whispered. You stayed quiet, your mouth agape, Unable to answer.

“See you soon, [name]!” his voice back to normal, he hung up, Leaving you baffled.

Just what the fuck.

It wasn't much technically but surely he doesn't talk to all his friends this way too!? Or is it normal and you were just overreacting?!

You swallowed and started walking to the tavern.

You arrived after a few minutes, There you found phainon slumped on the table, he suddenly lifted his head like he felt your presence. Standing up and making his way to you

“finally you're here!” he grinned “can we go for a walk? Im reaaally dizzy” he complained, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

You nodded and you two headed out of the bar, walking with no particular destination. Phainon rambling about his day, apparently drunk because he challenged mydeimos on who could handle more drinks (phainon lost).

“and you know, although i got drunk first. I technically won because mydei withdrew from the challenge. He said i annoyed him..” you two walked through a garden, phainon’s arm wrapped around your shoulder as to not stumble. Pretty flowers were all over the place, and it was empty at this hour.

“really? What did you did to have lord mydeimos back down?” you raised an eyebrow, following him to sit on the bench beside him.

“hmm… he said i was talking too much and his head hurt from it.” phainon hummed, leaning his back on the bench and looking up.

“heh, and what topic could bore him to the poibt of a headache?” you asked, a little curious.

He stayed looking at the sky for a moment before leaning forward, his elbows placed on his thighs just above his knees as he tilted his head to look at you.

“You, i was rambling about you.” he said with honesty, half-lidded eyes as he looked at you. Leaning back again, resting his arm on the back of the bench behind you, then wrapping it around your shoulder.

You froze, if you were not sure before. You were now. There's definitely something going on between you two.

He kept looking at your stunned face, with a serious expression. He pulled you closer— by the arm that's around your shoulder— until you were pressed flush against his side. you could feel the muscle of his arm for a second there.

Phainon’s hand went from resting on your shoulder to settling on your waist, squeezing it just a little. ”you know i talk and think about you a lot.” he whispered. And you felt your heart stop for a moment.

You stared into his eyes, feeling the honesty behind his words. His eyes switched from looking at your right eye to the left, then down to your lips. Your heartbeat elavated, and you found yourself frozen in place.

His hand snaked it's way from your waist to your nape, turning your face to have you look at him fully. Locking his gaze on your eyes. Your breath hitched and your face flushed with a rich, deep red color. His face inching closer toward yours, you could feel his breath on your lips. Then he stilled, the distance betwen your lips now could be measured with hairs.

The world stopped around you, you could hear the faint rustling of leaves and flapping wings of birds, the warm syn rays now felt hot and the air felt too little. With his other hand now covering your eyes, he finally leaned in and pressed a long kiss to the corner of your lips. It was less of a kiss and more of him just pressing his lips there, his hand squeezing your nape.

you couldn't see his expression. But you heard him sigh before resting his head on your shoulder and letting go of you completely, his eye closed.

You were to say the least, astonished. Never have you ever thought of phainon in.. This way before today, you didn't understand what he felt toward you too, was this what everyone called a situationship?! You can already tell you're in great danger feom the way your heart threatened to explode.

You both sat in silence for many minutes, before he got up, back to talking like nothing happened. And you did the same. (it hurt you a little.)

You stayed quiet throughout the rest of the walk, only listening to what phainon had to say. Once you noticed he was tired you suggested you'd walk him home so he can rest, He pouted and said that he's not tired. And you gave him a look that had him admit he was tired.

Now helping him unlock his door “drink lots of water so you don't wake up with a steel splitting headache, and sleep a lot. You look tired.”

He whined as he waved you goodbye, closing the door, you walked home.

Phainon leaned on the door of his home after he closed it, slidding down till he was sitting. He’s been sober for a while now. He can't believe what he had done.

Part of him was petrified, he felt sick in the stomach. He never imagined it would turn out like this, this overwhelming love for you. The obsession.

12 months ago he thought nothing of it, you were just another person in the crowd. He saw you many time in the marmoreal market during his patrols, he didn't acknowledge you. He didn't have time to.

‘lord phainon! Help me find my cat!’

‘of course!’

He didn't know how to explain to the poor child that he found the cat’s dead body ditched mear a trashcan, obviously beaten up.

‘lord phainon, before you start eating. Can you help this old lady find her children?’

‘... Let's try.’

He didn't know how to tell the old lady with dementia that her children dued a long tine ago due to the blacktide which he failed to suppress. So he spent the whole day looking with her until she forgot what she was doing.

‘lord phainon… i know you're relaxing in the baths but.. A gang threatened to harm me once im outside, please help me!’

‘don't worry, you'll be safe.’

Phainon couldn’t eat for days after he received the new that the person he helped was murdered, because he thought he took care of the whole gang, but he didn't.

He didn't mind helping the people, he loved it! That is what he is for, it's part of his duty, and one must fulfil his duties to be the deliverer everyone relied on. That's what he lived for. But things took a toll on him.

Patrolling again at the market. He was about to turn a corner, then he heard a commotion, he knew he had to step in.

But he stayed to listen.. Just a few seconds.

“lord phainon always patrols at this time, ask him to help you retrieve your wallet from the thief” an old lady said.

“what? No, why bother him when im sure hes already got a lot on his plate?” phainon listened to the voice, leaning on a wall. “plus what's he going to do? The thief already ran away and no one saw his face. Id rather not burden him with something he can't solve and have him think it's his fault, that can really affect him, you know? Wouldn't want our deliverer to feel useless.”

phainon chuckled, he wouldn't really be that upset over not being able to retrieve a wallet, but he felt something warm in his chest. It was nice to know someone out there cared about him, that someone understood that he felt incompetent whenever the outcome of his efforts wasn't pleasing.

He leaned to look at the source of the voice and he saw you.

Then, he couldn't stop seeing you.

Part one: concluded.

A/n: helloo thank you for reading! I would really appreciate if you left a few thoughts if you can because i honestly don't know if i should finish it, i don't like the pacing and i just.. Ughgh🚬.

#honkai star rail #hsr #Phainon #Phainon x reader #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #phainon x y/n #phainon x you #honkai star rail x reader #yandere phainon #yandere phainon x reader #Stalking #Obsession

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mona-risms · 3 days ago

Note

imagine Rumi being the sole reason readers really small side ramen shop is still going cause she goes there to watch her cook, talk and leave a fat tip and reader always tries to hand her the tip back but Rumi doesn’t let her

AWW WAIT 😭😭 THIS IS SO CUTE SHUT UP

It's just a humble little place you've set up but somehow you've got THE leader of THE TOP 1 KPOP BAND visiting religiously. She probably started off with like a disguise and everything bc honestly she was just looking for a quiet and discreet place to eat. But she happened upon your place and next thing you know you have Rumi as a fucking Regular, taking off her disguise and everything to make herself comfortable. Actually baffling

But it's not even like you can complain!! She certainly doesn't 😜 she likes seeing you cook and talking to you like she's a normal person instead of a K-Pop idol or. Yk. A demon. She wants to know how your day's been, how's the business going, what your plans are, etc!! And she even talks to you about her own day, which tbf you start off starstruck but you probably get used to it after a while when realising that Oh!! Celebrities have problems too!! She just like me fr!!!!!! She always looks forward to coming to your shop and spending hours in there just talking while she takes her time with eating your ramen which is FUCKING BEAUTIFUL as is

Every time she insists to pay you and give you the biggest dolla tips, it's just TOO MUCH for what you're doing but every time you try to return it she's always like "oh NO sorry I gtg Bobby's calling me there's a crisis and I need to leave now OKAY BYE THANK YOU FOR THE FOOD" and off she goes 😭

Until post-movie, she might actually GATEKEEP your place bc it's her own sort of sanctuary when she just wants to escape for a bit. While Mira and Zoey are off to the batthouse, she slinks into your shop and does it all over again. Post-movie, she'll take the others down here and expose them to what's kept her sane all these years and it ends up becoming a secret spot for the three of them, with you and your hospitality at its centre

And when they all leave you too much money as a tip you're flabberghasted and they refuse to take it back before pulling the Rumi move😭😭😭😭😭😭 but they'll be back every time oh bless them

(They might also make fun of Rumi a lot for staring at your face while you work LMFAO)

#mona's appetisers...#rumi x reader #kdh rumi x reader #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters imagines #kdh x reader #kdh imagines #huntrix x reader #huntrix imagines #huntr/x x reader #huntr/x imagines

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meadowfics · 8 hours ago

Text

cowardice truth

kang dae-ho x f!pregnant!reader

this chapter is a featured throwback for my 'kang family' series

synopsis: the only time where you've (almost) considered ending things with dae-ho. luckily, you never did. what happened though?

SPOILERS FOR SQUID GAME SEASON THREE BELOW -> DON'T CLICK 'KEEP READING' IF YOU DO NOT WANT SPOILERS!

the room was too quiet for what it held.

everyone here were just survivors now. the rebellion failed and gi hun being brought back from the coffin gave you a bad feeling.

the chances of survival were low.

inside of this strange room, filled with accents of yellow, everyone stood in a loose circle around the towering gumball machine in the center.

the floor was glossy and the silence from players sat heavy like wet clothes clinging to the skin.

dae-ho stood next to you, still.

he is not stiff and not poised... just… still.

gi-hun has been giving daeho crazy looks. you know those looks, its the same looks your mother used to give you.

it is a homicidal look.

you basically had to drag daeho, hand to hand, into this room. before, the guards hung the rebellion players in the huge stairwell room.

the sight nearly made dae-ho throw up.

you forced yourself to look away.

when you did, you saw gi-hun huff before running towards a horrified daeho.

oh no.

yes, what daeho did was wrong. however, it wasn't intentional.

you knew that gi-hun blamed daeho for the failure of the rebellion, and the death of jung-bae.

inside of this room... the gumball machine looked normal. you looked up at dae-ho, your hand unconsciously resting on the bump beneath your loose shirt.

you were still five months pregnant.

seo-ah was still small and still safe inside of you.

“daeho?” you whispered, barely audible.

he didn’t answer. the ex-marine's jaw was clenched so tight you swore it might snap. the man's eyes didn’t move.

they stayed locked on the machine like it had teeth.

daeho's breath was shallow. it was shallow as if he was forgetting to inhale altogether.

you blinked up at him again, confused.

you hadn’t seen him like this.

he was not like this in the beginning, not during the first few games. he was scared then, yes. this… this was something worse. a different kind of fear. a kind that swallowed a man whole from the inside.

it creates anger, an anger you knew belonged to gi-hun.

“participants,” the robotic voice crackled overhead.

you flinched.

dae-ho didn’t.

“the next game will require team assignments. these teams will be determined randomly, by color.”

you sighed.

“please approach the dispenser one by one. turn the handle. you will receive a colored ball. then, proceed to your designated area.”

you looked back at dae-ho.

he was shaking now but only slightly. however, it was enough that you could see it in his hands.

he was angry.

you reached out, gently touched his wrist.

“hey,” you whispered.

“it’s okay. we’re okay. i’m right here.”

at this point, many players were already stepping up and being assigned their colors. red or blue.

he finally looked at you.

your man's eyes...gosh, they looked like he was already mourning something.

maybe you. maybe himself. maybe both.

he opened his mouth, but nothing came out as he looked up past you.

"player 388," the guard calls out.

daeho only takes a heavy exhale through his nose, and then he stepped forward away from you.

the man's steps were reluctant and dragging. he approached the gumball machine like it was an execution block.

click. click. click.

he turned the handle.

a soft thud.

he reached into the compartment and pulled out the ball.

blue.

he stared at it for a moment too long. maybe if he blinked, it would turn into something else. anything else.

slowly, his eyes found yours again.

he didn’t speak, but you saw it in his face.

the panic. the helplessness. the apology.

you nodded at him, gently, trying to be strong. for him. for your baby. for yourself.

“go,” you mouthed.

daeho's lips pressed together.

he walked to the blue side, each step heavier than the last.

the next person went.

another blue.

the tension in your chest grew with each second.

suddenly, it was your turn.

your feet carried you toward the machine while your mind begged you to stop. everything in your body wanted to run and to scream.

you wanted to get back to dae-ho’s side and glue yourself there.

you couldn’t.

the guards could shoot, you knew they would since the players rebellion already has them being stricter than ever.

you placed your hand on the handle.

turned it.

click. click. click.

the thud sounded louder this time.

you reached in.

pulled it out.

red.

you stared at the ball in your palm, the color almost surreal under the fluorescent lights. red.

you had never hated a color more in your life.

your heart dropped.

you didn’t react outwardly and you didn’t flinch. your face did not show it.

however, your stomach churned and your eyes burned. your throat closed up, and for a second, you couldn’t breathe.

you turned your head slowly.

dae-ho was already looking at you.

horrified.

the man's expression broke you.

he took a step forward like he could protest, like he could say no, like maybe if he pleaded hard enough, someone would let you switch. the guards didn’t even have to lift their guns. the unspoken rules were already loud enough.

you forced yourself to walk.

one step.

another step.

you didn’t even feel your feet move. you only felt the growing weight of fear pressing against your chest.

you reached the red side, eyes locked on dae-ho until the very last second.

geum-ja was already there, arms crossed like she wanted to cry. she had to watch her son go over to the blue side. she watched you come by her side.

you stood beside her, but you didn’t speak.

you wanted to cry. gosh, you wanted to cry. your hands were on your belly now. your fingers shaking against the fabric as if holding yourself together physically would stop you from falling apart.

what if you never saw him again?

what if he died in this next game?

what if you did?

what if seo-ah never got to see the outside of this place?

unfortunately, daeho had enough of gi-hun's looks towards him.

when daeho bolted towards 456, mumbling a bunch of "fuck fuck fuck"s in the process.. you almost intervened but geum-ja held you back.

"don't." geum-ja said.

your throat nearly closed in as you watched dae-ho go animalistic on gi-hun. if looks could kill, daeho would've already died from gi-hun's stare.

a guard putting the gun up towards daeho's spine didn't make things better. you would've ran over if hyunju didn't force you still with her strong arms.

afterwards, when the guard announced that players could actually switch colors with someone on another team with mutual consent... you jogged towards dae-ho with an urgent plea.

"dae, we should switch." you pant.

your taller man looks down at you, as if you've grown two heads.

“i’m pregnant, daeho,” you whispered, your voice cracking as you gripped his hands, “I-i don't know if I can kill anybody and if gi-hun’s after you, let me take the risk. please.”

daeho’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes fierce with a protectiveness that made your heart ache.

“no way, y/n,” he said, his voice low and somewhat angry because of gi-hun's silent threats looming, "you’re carrying our baby. i’m not letting you be bait. if gi-hun wants me, he can come for me.”

you shook your head, tears stinging your eyes.

“no?! no! daeho, don’t say that--”

“participants,” the robotic voice cut you off.

you stiffened.

“the next game will now begin. red team, please head to the door on your left. blue team, please proceed to—”

the doors behind you hissed open.

you looked toward them.

dae-ho was still staring at you with the guard's gun at his back, his mouth parted like he was about to shout your name.

you blinked.

only one thought has entered your mind.

does it all end here?

ten minutes later...

as much as you were relieved about not being chased.. you hated that you were a red team seeker.

your heart a frantic drumbeat in your chest. seo-ah is still growing inside you and growing her has been taking some of your needed energy.

your hand instinctively rests on your small swollen belly. being five months pregnant, you were still small.

shoot, most people can't tell you're pregnant with the large 399 jacket you've always been wearing.

luckily there's a silent promise to the child you carry...daeho’s child.

you trusted your man, you love him more than anything.

daeho gave you the comfort you always craved throughout your whole life. you could go to him for anything.

if soulmates are real, you knew that he was yours.

now, that love feels like a fragile thread.

it is stretched to the breaking point by his lies that you have yet to figure out.

before the game began, you saw the way gi-hun’s eyes locked onto daeho, a predator sizing up his prey.

gi-hun blames daeho for the rebellion that went wrong, the one that cost lives and shattered your group’s fragile hope of escape.

you pleaded with daeho to switch teams with you, to let you be the blue team hider so he could wear the red vest and stay safe so gi-hun couldn't kill him.

“i’m pregnant, daeho,” you whispered, your voice cracking as you gripped his hands, “I-i don't know if I can kill anybody and if gi-hun’s after you, let me take the risk. please.”

daeho’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes fierce with a protectiveness that made your heart ache.

you shook your head, tears stinging your eyes.

“no?! no! daeho, don’t say that.”

he didn’t listen.

when dae-ho left with the other blues to go hide... you turned to gi-hun, desperation clawing at your chest since you were daeho's last hope.

or at least you hoped you were.

“please, gi-hun,” you begged, stepping in front of him as he adjusted his red vest, “daeho didn’t start the rebellion. it wasn’t his idea...it was yours! you know that.”

your voice trembled, but you held his gaze, willing him to listen.

gi-hun’s eyes were cold, distant, like he was already somewhere else, his mind set on blood.

he didn’t respond, just stared through you, and you knew your words were falling on deaf ears.

you walked away, your hands shaking, your heart heavy with dread.

player 124, approached you after. he is a player you've never spoken to before. the guy's eyes were widened, his grin predatory.

“looks like he's on another planet. I wonder if he took something out of this." 124 says, opening a cross necklace around his neck.

you gave 124 a dirty look, seeing a set of pills stacked inside of the necklace that the guy carried.

the guards can take my normal cotton clothes, but not this guys drugs? your mind spoke.

"great, he did not. crazy bastard. you know what else is crazy? we could take out half the blues before they even blink.” 124's eyes gleamed with a hunger for violence, and you glared at him, your stomach churning.

“i’m not here to slaughter people,” you snapped, your voice low but firm.

you knew you had to eliminate at least one blue player to survive, to keep yourself and your baby safe, but the thought made you sick.

you weren’t like 124.

you weren’t like gi-hun.

when the reds were released into the maze, you moved with purpose, your knife heavy in your hand.

the gravel crunched under your white blood stained shoes, the sound a constant reminder of the danger lurking in every shadow.

you ignored most of the blue players, their terrified faces blurring as they scrambled away from you.

your only goal was to find daeho, to make sure he was safe, and to eliminate one blue player...just one, as long as it wasn’t daeho or junhee, the other pregnant woman who was trapped in this hellhole with you.

you couldn’t bear the thought of harming her, not when you knew how she felt when it came to carrying a life in a place like this.

the maze was a labyrinth of despair, its brick walls cold and unyielding, the paths twisting into dead ends and sharp turns.

you moved silently, your senses heightened, every rustle of leaves or snap of a twig setting your nerves on edge. you heard whispers of movement, the faint cries and loud stabs of players caught by other reds, but you kept your focus.

daeho was out there, running from gi-hun, and you had to find him before it was too late.

you turned a corner and froze.

in a small, dimly lit room full of beautiful colors, junhee was crouched on the ground, her face contorted in pain as she started pushing out her baby.

hyunju, her friend, knelt beside her as geum-ja helped deliver junhee's baby.

120's eyes were blazing with protective fury as she glared at you.

junhee was giving birth, right there in the maze, her breaths ragged and desperate. your eyes widened, your heart lurching with a mix of fear and empathy.

you took a step back, raising your hands, your knife glinting but unthreatening.

“i’m not here to hurt you,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion, “you know i would never—”

“don’t even think about it,” hyunju spat, her body tense, ready to fight.

you shook your head, offended that they’d assume you’d harm a woman in labor, but you understood.

you were a red player, a hunter in their eyes.

without another word, you backed away, leaving them to their struggle, your heart heavy with the weight of this place.

you kept moving, your mind racing.

you needed to find daeho, but you also needed to survive.

the rules were clear for red players: eliminate a blue player or be eliminated yourself.

you rounded another corner and saw her.

a blue player, player 091, slumped against a wall.

she was young, barely five years older than you, her face pale and slick with sweat.

a pool of blood wasbeneath her, seeping from a wound in her side stomach. she was dying, her breaths ragged.

clearly, a red player did not finish her off.

you knelt beside her, your knife trembling in your hand.

“do it already,” 091 mumbled, her voice weak but resolute.

a tear slipped down your cheek as you whispered, “i’m sorry.”

your handsy were shaky as drove the knife into her carotid artery, quick and precise, ending her suffering as quickly as possible.

the audio blared overhead which scared the crap out of you as you ripped your knife out of the girl's neck. the woman's blood spraying on your own upper chest and neck.

“player 091 eliminated. player 399 passed.”

somewhere in the maze, daeho froze.

the man's heart stopping at the sound of your player number.

you’d killed someone.

he knew you had to, he knew the rules as well as you did, but the thought of you with blood on your hands made his chest ache.

dae ho was so focused on running from gi-hun, dodging through the maze’s twists and turns, that he hadn’t processed what it meant for you to be out there, hunting.

he shook his head, trying to convince himself he’d misheard, that it wasn’t you.

deep down, he knew.

you wiped the blood from your knife, your hands shaking as you stood. the blood was all over your face, neck, and arms.

the act had been merciful, but it left a stain on your soul.

you pushed forward, your focus shifting back to daeho. you had to find him. gi-hun was out there, and you knew he wouldn’t stop until he had daeho’s blood on his hands.

you climbed a set of crumbling stone stairs, the maze opening into a wider corridor.

below the next set of stairs, you saw them...gi-hun and daeho, facing off.

daeho’s back was to you, his shoulders tense, his voice rising in a panicked plea.

gi-hun loomed over him, his knife gleaming with intent.

you froze at the top of the stairs, your breath catching as daeho’s words reached you.

“i never served in the marines! i was actually a social service personnel!”

daeho shouted, his voice breaking.

“it was a lie! i didn’t even serve in the military. i’ve never held a gun!”

your heart stopped.

the world tilted, the maze blurring around you.

daeho had told you about his time in the marines since the first week he met you, about coming to seoul after serving near busan.

it was one of the most frequent stories he shared when you met him at the café, back when you were just a barista and he was a charming regular.

those stories had woven into the foundation of your love, a year and a half of trust built on what you thought was truth.

now, it was crumbling.

your hand gripped the railing, your knuckles nearly popped out of your skin as you listened, tears burning in your eyes.

“even my tattoo is fake,” daeho continued, his voice shaking with shame.

“i lied so i could feel better about myself. i’m a coward, gi-hun. a coward. I just wanted to apart of something! please brother, spare me. i’m begging you.”

you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

the man you loved, the father of your unborn child, was a stranger.

every memory of him...his stories, his confidence, the way he promised to protect you...felt like a lie.

your lip quivered, tears streaming down your cheeks as you stood frozen, watching gi-hun’s face twist with a mix of disgust and pity.

daeho was hesitating now, his head bowed, his body trembling.

you wanted to scream, to run to him, to demand answers, but your body wouldn’t move.

when gi-hun lunged and shoved daeho to the ground, something snapped inside you. you bolted down the stairs, your fear and heartbreak fueling your speed.

you kicked gi-hun hard in the head, sending him stumbling back, his head hitting the ground with a thud.

you didn’t look at him, didn’t care.

you grabbed daeho’s arm, dragging him to his feet.

“get up,” you hissed, your voice raw with anger and pain.

you didn’t notice the blood seeping from his ankle, the wound he’d gotten in his struggle with another player a few minutes before this confrontation. you just pulled him along, your grip bruising as you ran.

you found a small, shadowed room, its walls damp and crumbling. you shoved daeho inside, slamming the door behind you.

he stumbled, catching himself against the wall, his eyes wide with relief at seeing you.

however, terror spreader along his features as he realized you’d heard everything he confessed to gihun.

you stood there, chest heaving, tears staining your face, your bloody knife still in your hand.

the silence was suffocating, broken only by the distant sounds of the maze...screams, footsteps, the relentless audio announcements.

“y/n,” daeho started, his voice soft and pleading, “i—”

“you really lied to me,” you cut him off, scoffing and trembling with rage. “all this time, daeho. a year and a half. you told me you were a marine. you told me you could protect us, that you knew what you were doing. it was all a lie?”

your voice rose, cracking with the weight of your betrayal.

“i’m carrying your child, daeho. our baby... and you built our life on a lie?”

he flinched, his face crumpling with guilt.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“i didn’t want you to see me like this. i wanted to be someone you could depend on, someone strong. i thought… i thought if you knew the truth, you wouldn’t love me.”

“don’t you dare,” you snapped, stepping closer, your knife still clutched tightly.

“don’t you dare say that. you think i loved you because of some fake marine story? i loved you because i thought you were honest, because i thought you trusted me. you lied, daeho. you lied, and now we’re here, in this hell, and i don’t even know who the hell you are!”

he sank to his knees, his hands covering his face as he shook.

“i’m a coward,” he said with his voice muffled, “i’ve always been a coward. i made it all up because i was ashamed. i wanted to be more than what i am. for you. for our baby.”

your heart twisted, a war raging inside you.

you wanted to hate him, to scream at him for betraying you, for putting you and your child in danger.

you couldn’t.

not completely.

its bad.

you still saw the man you loved. the man who held you at night, who still wanted to protect you and your unborn child.

it didn't take long before you dropped to your knees in front of him, the knife falling to the ground with a dull clatter.

your hands reached for his, pulling them away from his face so you could see him.

“i’m so scared, daeho,” you whispered with your voice breaking, "i’m scared of losing you, of losing our baby. i killed someone out there because i had to, because i’m trying to keep us alive. now i find out the man i love isn’t who i thought he was. how am i supposed to do this?”

he looked at you, his eyes red and glistening with tears.

“i don’t know,” he admitted, “but i love you, y/n. I have never lied about anything else. I love you more than anything. i love our baby. i know i messed up, and i know i don’t deserve you, but i’m begging you...let me make this right. let me be the man you need me to be so we get out alive.”

you stared at him, your heart torn between anger and love.

the maze pressed in around you, a reminder of the danger still lurking, but in that moment, it was just you and daeho.

you reached out, your hand trembling as you touched his cheek, wiping away a tear.

“you don’t get to lie to me again,” you say, your voice firm despite the tears streaming down your own face.

your hand trembles against daeho’s cheek, the damp brick walls of the starry night maze pressing in around you. the distant sounds of the game...screams, footsteps, the cold voice of the audio system...fade to a dull hum as you stare into his eyes, searching for the man you still knew. despite his lies.

daeho nods, his expression heavy with guilt, his own tears mirroring yours.

“i know,” he whispers, his voice thick with regret, “i swear, y/n, no more lies. I'll die before I ever tell another one.”

you pull your hand back, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to hold together the pieces of your shattered trust.

your belly, swollen with seo-ah, feels like both a shield and a vulnerability.

“but why, daeho?” you ask, your voice breaking, “why did you lie to me? from the very beginning, at the café, when we were just… being us. why did you make up this whole story about being a marine?”

daeho exhales shakily, his hands clenched into fists as he sits back on his heels, the gravel crunching beneath him.

“i… i was estranged from my family for years before they started talking to me again just recently,” he starts, his voice low.

“they always saw me as weak. a coward. a pussy. sensitive. useless. when i told them i was joining the marines, they believed it. for the first time, they looked at me like i was someone. they praised me, y/n. they called me brave, strong. it was the first time they, especially my dad, didn’t tear me down.”

he pauses, his eyes distant, haunted.

“i got addicted to that feeling. so i kept the lie going. i told everyone i was a marine, because it made people see me differently. it made me feel different like i wasn’t just some failure.” he shakes his head, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“but i’m still a coward. i always have been.”

“stop it,” you snap.

your voice is rising, and desperate.

“stop calling yourself that, daeho. just stop.” you lean forward, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“you lied to me, and it was a huge lie. it hurt me, it hurt us, and it put us in danger. but you don’t get to keep tearing yourself apart like this. you’re not a coward. a coward wouldn’t be here, in this hell, trying to protect their girlfriend and our baby.”

he stares at you, his lips trembling, but he doesn’t speak.

you take a deep breath, your anger still burning but tempered by the love that refuses to let go.

“you lied, daeho,” you continue, your voice softer but still firm.

“and it cost us. people died because of the rebellion, because we didn’t have the ammo, because things fell apart but you didn’t start that rebellion. gi-hun did. he knew it wouldn’t work, and he pushed it anyway. this is on him, not you.”

daeho’s eyes flicker with something...hope, maybe, or relief...but the guilt still clings to him.

he nods slowly, like he’s trying to believe you.

unfortunately, the weight of his shame is heavy.

“i thought you’d leave me,” he admits, his voice barely audible.

“when you heard the truth, i thought… i thought you’d take our baby and go. that you’d never want me near you again.”

the pain of his words cut deeper than you expected.

you’re still angry, the sting of his betrayal raw and aching, but the thought of him fearing you’d abandon him makes you want to cry all over again.

“i’m not leaving you,” you say, your voice steady despite the tears, “and i’m not taking our child away from you. i’m angry, daeho. i’m so angry I can barely see straight but I love you. I’ve loved you for over a year and a half, and that doesn’t just disappear because you messed up. it’s going to take time for me to trust you again, but I’m not giving up on us.”

he exhales, a shaky breath that sounds like a sob, and reaches for your hand. you let him take it, his fingers warm and trembling as they lace with yours.

“i don’t deserve you,” he whispers, but you shake your head.

“don’t say that,” you say, squeezing his hand, “just… be honest with me from now on. be the man I know you can be. for me. for our baby. you are not a coward, and you don't have to lie to me. I fell in love with you for who you are, not because of your fake military background.”

before daeho can respond, the audio system blares overhead, its cold, mechanical voice cutting through the moment.

“game over. all surviving players, please follow the nearest staff member and report to the main room.”

you both freeze.

the game is over.

you and daeho are alive.

you’ve passed, both of you spared from the deadly stakes of this round.

daeho stands up and pulls you into his arms, one hand firm on your back, the other resting gently on your belly, where your child grows.

the man's lips press against your forehead, warm and trembling, as tears slip from his eyes.

“we made it,” he whispers, his voice thick with relief, his embrace desperate.

you’re still angry, the sting of his lies burning in your chest, but you cling to him, your arms wrapping around his waist.

you’d rather be angry at him than grieving him.

the thought of losing him, of facing this nightmare alone with your baby, is too much to bear.

you bury your face in his chest, letting his warmth ground you.

the two of you make your way to the dorm room, your hand in his, his limp from the wound on his ankle slowing your pace.

the maze’s brick and gravel walls seem to close in around you and the starry night above a cruel mockery of freedom.

back in the dorms you and daeho find a corner to sit, your knees brushing, your hands still entwined.

the silence between you is heavy but not empty.

the next morning, you wake to a nightmare.

the dormitory is cold, the air thick with despair.

you’re curled against daeho, his arm draped protectively over you, his steady breathing a small comfort.

after you rub your tired eyes you hear the shuffle of boots, the low voices of the guards.

you sit up, your heart lurching as you see them carrying a coffin through the room.

your eyes follow the shape, and then you see her...geum-ja, her body being hanged by a blanket, the fabric knotted where she used it to end her life by hanging.

the sight hits you like a blade to the chest.

geum-ja was like your mother, her kind eyes and gentle hands a constant in your life since you arrived in this hell.

she was the only true mother figure you’ve had ever, the only older woman who held you in this short period of time.

you knew she’d killed her son, a sin that haunted her every step since, but seeing her like this...lifeless, taken by her own hand...sends you spiraling.

a sob tears from your throat, raw and jagged, and you collapse against the bed, your body shaking with a panic attack.

your vision blurs, your chest tightens, the world closing in as you gasp for air.

daeho is there in an instant, his arms around you, pulling your face gently away from the sight of geum-ja’s coffin.

“don’t look, y/n,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the tears you know are in his eyes too.

“i’m here. i’m so sorry.” he holds you close, his hand stroking your hair, his apologies soft and endless...not just for geum-ja, but for his lies, for the pain he’s caused.

he shields you from the horror, his body a barrier between you and the reality of her loss.

you can’t stay angry at him.

not when he’s here with you, loving you like this, his warmth and presence a lifeline in this place.

you forgive him in that moment, not because the hurt is gone, but because you need him, and he needs you.

you cling to him, your tears soaking his shirt, and he doesn’t let go.

“i’ve got you,” he murmurs, over and over, his hand resting on your belly.

“you’ll get through this. I put that on my own life.”

full series masterlist linked here

189 notes · View notes

lonerslug · 16 hours ago

Text

Heat Laps

the starting line

racer!sevika x racer!reader, smut, slow burn, enemies to lovers, read at your own discretion.

“Lap forty-eight out of fifty!! Its neck and neck between sevika and her rival”

The roar of the crowd is nothing compared to the scream of engines.

Your tires hug the corner with surgical precision, the rear of your car sliding just enough to kiss the red-and-white curb. Every muscle in your body tightens, jaw clenched behind your visor, heart hammering in time with the RPMs flashing red across your dash.

P7 ➝ P6 ➝ P5. You’ve been climbing since Lap 21, shaving down seconds like it’s personal. Because it is personal.

Sevika’s just ahead.

And she knows it.

“These two have a long history, folks, rivals since their first season. Some say it’s the fiercest competition on the circuit. Others say there’s more than just adrenaline behind that tension!!”

Ignore it. Focus.

Your gloves flex on the wheel as you pull out of the chicane. Ahead, Sevika’s car glints in the sun, matte black with streaks of silver, aggressive, brutal, fast. Her signature. And she’s driving like she always does in the final laps, dirty, hungry, daring you to catch her.

Your engineer crackles through your comms.

“She’s guarding the inside line. Wait ‘til the straight. You’ve got the pace.”

You don’t reply. You never do.

Because you know her.

You know the way she brake-checks right before Turn 12, the way she leaves half a car’s width just to taunt you, the way she watches her mirrors more than the track. She doesn’t race the others, she races you. Always has.

And god, it makes your blood burn.

You see it. The narrow chance.

She slips wide by a fraction coming out of Turn 3.

That’s your opening.

You dive. The world blurs. She sees you too late.

The front of your car inches alongside hers, screaming through the corner side-by-side, rubber on rubber, millimeters from disaster. You feel her nudge you. Not enough to spin. Just enough to say I’m still here.

Your voice finally cracks the radio,

“Tell her to stop flirting.”

Your race engineer sighs. “What the hell do you want me to do? Send her flowers?”

You both hit the final straight.

The finish line is ahead. One lap left.

And now?

Now you’re beside her. Right beside her.

Fifty laps.

Two legends.

One shot.

Sevika’s helmet turns just enough, just enough for you to know she’s looking at you. Watching. Measuring. Daring.

Your chest heaves. Not just from speed. From everything.

You remember the last time she touched you. Not during a race, off-season, in Monaco. A private party. Press weren’t supposed to be there, but someone caught the way she grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the dark. Nothing happened. Not really.

Just a look.

Just her lips at your ear saying, “I want to beat you. And then I want to see how fast you fall apart.”

You didn’t speak for weeks after that.

You should snap back to reality right now… adrenaline is hitting fast.

“Last lap, last chance, ladies and gentlemen! Who’s taking the win today? These two are giving us a goddamn showdown!”

your engine roars in your bones.

She tries to push wide again. You don’t let her.

Your wheels touch.

Carbon splinters fly. A gasp rips from the grandstands.

You stay on the throttle. You’re done playing safe.

Final turn.

Final breath.

Final heartbeat.

And then,

Checkered flag.

Silence.

Then the comm explodes.

“WOAH WOAH!! SIX-HUNDREDTHS OF A SECOND—UNBELIEVABLE FINISH!” The announcer says your name, the crowd chants it.

You scream. You howl. It’s not joy, it’s release. You did it. You did it.

You won against fucking sevika! Your rival.

Your hands are shaking as you pull into parc fermé. Mechanics swarm the car, cameras flash like lightning, the air thick with smoke, champagne, and heat.

You yank off your helmet, hair soaked, chest rising and falling like you just survived war.

And there she is.

Sevika.

Helmet off. Skin damp with sweat, god she looks hot, but you’re to happy to care. Her jaw clenched. Walking toward you with that heavy-limbed, predatory stride that says this isn’t over.

She stops inches away. Eyes boring into yours.

No one breathes.

Then she leans in, voice low and rough.

“One win doesn’t make you better than me, sweetheart.”

You smirk, stepping forward.

“Then come catch me.”

The lights are hot.

The cameras are hotter.

But Sevika’s gaze? That’s fucking nuclear.

You sit two seats away from her at the post-race conference table, damp hair swept back, race suit half-unzipped and hanging around your waist like armor that’s been peeled off. A bottle of water sweats in your hand. The champagne’s already been sprayed, but your pulse hasn’t come down.

She hasn’t taken her eyes off you since the podium.

“Congratulations on the win today,” a reporter says, voice echoing across the room. “That finish was the tightest of the season. Did you expect to edge out Sevika in the last lap?”

You glance toward her.

She’s leaned back in her chair, legs spread like she owns the air between them. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Watching you.

You smile slowly.

Not for the reporter, but for her.

“I expected to beat Sevika,” you say into the mic. “Even when she tries to take me out on Turn 14.”

The room erupts. Laughter, gasps, flashbulbs.

Sevika’s brow arches. No smile. Just that simmering, unreadable look.

The reporter turns to her.

“Sevika! any response?”

She shifts forward, long arms resting on the table, eyes locked on yours.

“Yeah,” she says, voice low, amused. “Next time, I won’t miss.”

A ripple of shock goes through the room.

You lick your lips. Your fingers curl on the edge of the table.

Someone asks about tire strategy. You don’t hear it. Neither does she. The air between you hums like a live wire, dangerous and private, despite the crowd.

Back in the hallway, the press keeps hounding you. Cameras flashing. Someone shoves a mic in your face.

“There’s a lot of buzz around the rivalry, some are saying it’s more personal than professional. Any comment?”

You don’t stop walking. Just toss a smirk over your shoulder.

“Rivalry takes two,” you say. “She makes it personal every time.”

You duck out before they can ask more. You’re still catching your breath, adrenaline tapering off, heat still simmering under your skin, and that’s when you hear the footsteps.

Heavy. Familiar.

Sevika.

You don’t turn around. Just keep walking.

“Running?” she calls behind you. Voice low, teasing. “Didn’t think you had to, after a win.”

You stop.

“Didn’t think you’d be sore about it,” you reply, not looking back. “But I guess I hit harder than I thought.”

She laughs, dark, rough. Close now.

“Is that what you think this is? Sore?”

And then suddenly, she’s there. One arm braced on the wall beside your head, her body a breath away from yours. Her suit’s still half-zipped, clinging to her hips, her collarbone sharp under the open collar, throat glinting with sweat and stubborn heat.

You tilt your head up. “If it’s not sore, then what is it?”

Her eyes flick over your face like she’s choosing what part to bite.

“Focused.”

Your heart lurches.

“On what? The next race?”

She leans in, lips near your ear.

“On you.”

For a second, you don’t breathe. Neither does she. The silence aches.

Then she pulls back, barely, just enough to lock eyes with you again.

“You drive like a brat,” she murmurs. “Always have.”

You smirk. “And you chase like a dog.”

“Careful,” she growls. “Dogs bite.”

Your breath catches. Her hand drifts, just a little, brushes your wrist. Just enough to feel the tremble.

“Touch me again,” you whisper, “and I’ll scream.”

Her smile is filthy.

“That’s the point, baby.”

You leave her in the hallway, but not without looking back once, just once , and catching the way she’s watching your ass as you walk away.

The next time she touches you, you won’t be screaming out of protest.

You’ll be begging for more.

The paddock is quiet now.

Most of the teams have packed up, the champagne’s gone flat, and the media circus has moved on to editing headlines and uploading dramatic slow-mo shots of the final lap. You should be in your hotel suite, showered, asleep, with the trophy propped on your nightstand.

Instead, you’re in your trailer. Lights dim. Suit unzipped to your waist. Sitting on the edge of the bench, helmet by your feet, chest still tight with the echoes of the race.

And then you hear it,

The door creaks open behind you. Heavy boots. Slow, deliberate steps on the metal floor.

You don’t turn around.

“Locked the door?” you ask, voice low.

“Should I?” she answers. Her voice is a little raspier tonight. Or maybe that’s just what it sounds like when she wants you.

You turn your head just enough to see her.

She’s leaning against the door, one hand still on the handle, the other curled into a loose fist at her side. Her race suit hangs low on her hips, black tank clinging to her broad chest, hair slightly damp, mouth twitching at the corner.

“I figured you’d be halfway through a victory fuck by now,” she says.

“I figured you’d be halfway through a tantrum by now,” you shoot back.

Sevika hums. Pushes off the door. Walks toward you slowly, like you’re prey and she’s not in a hurry to catch you, because she knows you won’t run.

When she’s close enough, her thigh brushes your knee. She looks down at you, eyes heavy, fingers twitching like they want.

“I watched the footage,” she says.

You blink. “Of the race?”

“Of your interview. You said I flirt with you on track.”

You tilt your head. “that a lie?”

She leans down, both hands bracing on either side of you. Her arms cage you in. Her breath is hot. Her voice drops low.

“You know what’s funny?” she murmurs. “I’ve never actually touched you.”

A shiver climbs your spine.

Her lips hover just beside your ear.

“I think I’m done being patient.”

And then?

She grabs you.

Big hands on your thighs, spreading them wide so she can stand between them. One hand slips up to your neck, not choking, but holding, tilting your chin up.

“You gonna make me work for it, sweetheart?” she asks. “Or are you done pretending you don’t want this?”

You glare at her. “I beat you.”

“I’m still gonna make you come first.”

Her mouth crashes into yours like she’s claiming you. It’s not a kiss, it’s an opening lap, teeth and tongue, breath and heat. You gasp, and she smirks against your lips like she was waiting for that sound.

She lifts you like it’s nothing, like you’re light, easy, hers, and sits you on the bench. Your legs wrap around her waist, and she grinds in close, hips rolling between your thighs like she’s memorized your rhythm already.

“God, you’re warm,” she mutters against your throat. “Always run this hot, or just when I’m near?”

You try to snap back, something cocky, something cruel, but then her hand slides down, between your thighs, and all you can do is whimper.

“No comeback?” she taunts. Her fingers rub slow over your still-clothed heat. “That’s new.”

You bite your lip. “You talk too much.”

“So shut me up.”

You do. With your mouth. With your hands in her hair. With your hips grinding into her palm like you’ll die if she doesn’t go harder.

She tears your suit open at the waist, one finger slipping beneath your underwear, and when she finds how wet you are, she laughs, low, dangerous.

“damnn,” she breathes. “You’re soaked.”

“You’re late,” you hiss.

She growls. “Not for long.”

Two fingers, deep and perfect, curl inside you while her thumb circles your clit like she owns it. You gasp, arch, grip her shoulders so hard she groans, and she whispers into your neck, “There it is. That sound. You gonna give me more?”

You’re already trembling. you did not have a good fuck in a long time till now.

Your thighs are shaking, and she hasn’t even gotten on her knees yet. Her clothes aren’t even off yet. You think she might, but instead, she holds your gaze, watching you fall apart for her just like this. Upright. Raw. Rivals undone.

“You know what’s different between us?” she says, breath ragged. “You race like you’ve got something to prove.”

You gasp, legs tightening around her.

“I fuck like I already won.”

And when you come, loud, clutching her, face buried in her neck, she just holds you through it, fingers slow and relentless, like she’s savoring it. Like she’ll never forget.

She kisses your temple once. Light. Too soft for someone like her.

Then she pulls her hand free, sucks her fingers into her mouth, and says,

“Fast. Loud. Wet.

Yeah. That’s mine.”

The charity event is for PR.

You hate PR.

But you’re the face of your team. And Sevika, god help you, is her teams poster girl, even when she refuses to smile. Especially when she refuses to smile.

That’s what the fans love about her. That and the arms.

You show up at the venue in Monaco with your hair done, makeup perfectly in place, and a pitiful attempt at patience. There are photographers lined up by the red carpet, media waiting by the branded backdrop, and a camera crew already circling the mock race simulator set up on the far end of the hall.

You scan the crowd, press, PR reps, influencers, and then you see her.

Sevika.

Black designer jumpsuit with the top unzipped halfway. No tie, no smile. Aviators indoors, chewing a toothpick like she owns the oxygen.

Her eyes land on you instantly.

She grins.

“Great,” you mutter under your breath.

The event coordinator walks up mid-intro. “You’ll be presenting together, by the way.”

Your brow furrows. “Together?”

She beams. “Yes! You two are the biggest names on the circuit. Paired segment, photo ops, live sim race, then the auction. Oh, and the hotel is booked. Shared suite.”

“…What.”

She’s already walking away.

Sevika sidles up behind you, voice low, smug.

“You heard the lady.”

You turn to face her, too close. Her eyes drop for just a second, just enough to remind you she’s seen what’s under that suit.

“Don’t get cocky,” you hiss.

She leans in like she might bite. “Too late.”

The presentation is a disaster, orrr a success, depending on which side of the camera you’re on.

The two of you stand side by side on the small platform, pretending to care about the foundation’s cause (you do, genuinely, but right now all you can focus on is the heat of her body next to yours). The PR manager gives you both talking points. You barely register yours.

She doesn’t follow hers at all.

When asked what she thinks of being paired with you, she shrugs and says, “Guess I’m the lucky one. I could be stuck with someone slower.”

The crowd laughs. You glare. She winks.

Then comes the simulator race, a rig set up with custom-built seats and big LED screens. You and Sevika climb in side by side. Her thigh brushes yours.

Every time you overtake her in the game, she growls.

Every time she overtakes you, she mutters something like “Just like last night.”

A reporter leans in during the post-race photos. “You two seem… close lately.”

You smile for the camera, teeth bared. “We’re just competitive.”

Sevika doesn’t say anything.

But her hand settles on your lower back and stays there just long enough to ruin your train of thought.

You escape the venue after too many autographs and just enough fake smiling to make your cheeks hurt. The PR team hands you a keycard with a wink.

“Shared suite’s on the top floor. Try not to kill each other.”

You ride the elevator up alone, fists clenched, heart pounding.

You can’t do this again. You can’t. She gets into your skin, under your tongue, behind your ribs, and you hate her for it. Hate how she looks at you like she knows what you taste like even when you’re fully dressed.

You swipe the keycard.

The door opens.

She’s already inside.

“Locked the door?” you ask flatly.

“Should I?” she answers, amused.

She’s in a black tank and sweats, hair damp, no makeup. Somehow more dangerous like this, bare. And she looks at you like she already owns the bed behind her.

“You look tense,” she says. “Miss me?”

You slam your bag down. “There wasn’t another room?”

“There was,” she says casually. “I told them to cancel it.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why?”

“Thought you might want a rematch.”

She stands up, walks to you and brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

She doesn’t kiss you at first.

She manhandles you.

Once that “yes” leaves your mouth, Sevika drags you by the wrist like a thing she owns, across the hotel room, to the bed, tosses you down like she’s done waiting. She straddles your thighs and unbuckles her belt with one sharp flick, pulling it free from her jeans with a low leather hiss.

“You’re gonna stay still for me,” she mutters, grabbing your wrists. “Got it?”

You nod fast. Too fast.

“Use your words.”

“Y-yes, Sevika.”

That earns you a smirk. She loops the belt around your wrists, tight, snug, then pulls your arms over your head, anchoring them to the headboard with one hand. You squirm.

She leans down.

“You move without permission, and I make it worse.”

You whimper. She hasn’t even touched your pussy yet and you’re already wet to the thighs.

Her mouth brushes your neck, open and hot, teeth grazing your skin. Then she trails lower, kisses down your collarbone, your chest, your ribs, all teeth and tongue, but never soft. She’s marking. Claiming.

And then?

She pulls open her little black zipper case.

You glance down. Inside is a sleek, small vibrator, thin, silver, terrifying, hers. She turns it on with a quiet click and it hums to life in her hand.

“You ever use one like this?” she asks.

You shake your head.

She grins. “Good.”

She doesn’t tease. Not really. She splits your thighs open with one big palm, drags her fingers along your slit, slow, testing, then slicks the vibrator right over your clit with no warning.

You yelp.

“Already soaked,” she mutters. “Fucking perfect.”

It buzzes directly against your clit, pinpoint, steady. Not the kind you grind against. The kind you endure.

Your hips twitch. She slaps your thigh. “Still.”

You try. You try so hard.

But she’s watching you like a scientist, like your whole body is her experiment, her toy. The more you squirm, the lower her hand presses on your stomach, pinning you down.

“Don’t fight it,” she murmurs, tone almost sweet. “Let it happen.”

The first orgasm builds too fast. You clench, you arch, you cry out. Your thighs are shaking, hands pulling at the belt.

“Seviii —!”

“No.”

She doesn’t let you finish that word.

She grabs your chin and shoves her fingers into your mouth, deep, past your tongue.

“Shut up,” she says, “and take it.”

You gag. She moans.

“Ohh,” she breathes, “you’re sooo good with your throat. Bet you didn’t even know you had it in you.”

You choke around her fingers as your orgasm slams into you, hips jerking, thighs seizing, eyes wide. But she doesn’t stop.

You try to squirm away. Her other hand grabs your jaw and forces your head straight.

“You don’t get to run,” she growls. “You come until I say stop.”

Your clit screams under the toy. You’re sobbing now, gagging on her fingers, drooling down your chin, legs quivering with every jolt of pressure.

And Sevika?

Smiling. Cruel. So proud.

“Yeah,” she mutters, “just like that. Let me break you in.”

When she finally pulls her fingers from your mouth, you sob her name. Begging.

“Please, Sevika, I can’t —”

“Shh.”

She pulls the vibrator away.

You wilt, gasping like you’ve been drowning. But she isn’t done. She licks her fingers, tastes you, groans like it’s her reward.

Then she wraps her fingers around your hair. Fist tight. Yanks your head back to look you in the eye.

“Don’t avoid me again,” she growls.

You nod. desperate, flushed, ruined.

“Words.”

“Yes, Sevika,” you gasp.

She leans in.

“Next time,” she whispers, “you’ll thank me for tying your legs too.”

↪️ reblogs are appreciated!!

hey… guys i’m so sorry… 😞 so i wanted to make this a multi chapter fic but im got disinterested FAST 💀💀 I AM TERRIBLY SORRY 🙏 felt like i scammed yall 🤭

taglist: @eleinacutie @barelykiramman @luminescentqueer @lesbo-tuliplvrr @shxdy0ariia @sapphicstrawcore @sevikas-whore @butchpuppyy @serenaspalace @andersonsprincess @riotstemple29 @lucidfairies @leeidk87 @blessupblessup @undercoverdesire @homo-arsonist

168 notes · View notes

therisingsun777 · 2 days ago

Text

I stood before large oaken doors, and was met naught but with the steady thrum of rain behind me. Only a few had stood before this archway, and if rumor were true, even fewer left. My hands shook lightly as I raised a fist, and lightly rapped my knuckles upon it.

There was but a moment to gather my bearings about me, patience wearing thin as I stared on. Then, through a subtle movement; a decoration of times twisting in strange arrangements, the door was opened. No crackle nor creak to hint as its pulling, nor any figure to have done so. It was simply closed, then open, in a matter of mere milliseconds.

I stepped inside, my pack shifted about on my shoulders as a long, gilded gold and ebony hall, made itself known to me. Yet there was no one in sight; no welcoming committee to take my name. Still further my foot stepped, determined as I were to see this bizarre allocation through.

It was about the point in which I made it to a rather strange stairwell, that the man revealed himself. A polite cough resounded behind my back, and I quickly turned in startlement to find him. He was not the figure I imagined; not the sort that myth spoke of, tall in stature and broadly handsome.

What bare itself before me instead was a kneasly, slightly fat, old man. Portly would be the word that came to mind. Je jad a beard that trailed far lower than a beard should according to the modern fashions, and quite prominent, bushy eyebrows. He was even shorter than my rather timid 5"6, and as of current wielded a staff, rather lackadaisically.

"Ah, are you to be my Apprentice, then?" His voice was rather high-pitched, and yet warm, effeminate.

"Y-yes," I stumbled, "But I think... well surely there's been some sort of mistake,"

He let an eyebrow raise, and grinned rather sharply, "Now has there"

I nodded, and spoke despite the caution that suddenly tugged underneath my navel, "You see, I... I never wanted to be a WitchKnight. I very much have my eyes set upon being a Healer,"

He stroked his beard, lightly twirling his staff within a rather gnarled hand, "A noble profession indeed. Well then! Let's see some healing, shall we?"

Before I could quite react, my palm was bleeding. I blinked. There was no pain from the wound; nor in fact any real source through which the blood could arrive.

"Was I supposed to try to heal an illusion?"

He chuckled, "Very well then," And slowly drew a knife, whereupon he cut his own palm, "Try this on for size,"

Startled, I dropped my pack and drew out a golden stone, which I very carefully placed upon the wound. With a muttered phrase, and a stab into a portion of the stone, the wound was gone. I stared towards the man accusingly, but he was no longer looking at me.

His eyes were narrowed onto the wound as he muttered under his breath. Finally, after what felt like far too many minutes, he looked up.

"You will do," He decided.

"But I will do for What?" I protested, now quite incensed, "I am a Healer, and refuse to take part in fights and... and petty scraps!"

Again, maddeningly, he chuckled, "Ah, the romantacization will leave you with age: it always does,"

I rooted my feet to the spot as he turned deeper down the hall, "I will not leave this spot until you tell me why you ate keeping me as an Apprentice!"

He looked back at me with a broad grin, "Ah, well alright then," With multiple thunks of his staff, he moved over to the steps and sat himself down, "First, allow me to ask; what does it mean to be a WitchKnight?"

I refrained from rolling my eyes, barely, and said, "It means fighting in the Wars, or hunting the Dark, or those who seem inclined to utilize it,"

He let a hand fall onto his chin, "Uh huh. Then tell me, what happens when a WitchKnight is injured? Surely they aren't just left for dead?"

I opened my mouth, but could not reply immediately, "Well everyone knows a little bit of healing magick, do they not?"

At this, he smirked and rolled his eyes; for but a moment it was as if the age clear upon his face had left, "Yes, everyone knows a little bit about healing magick. But only a Healer can deal with injuries most Profane and Foul; is that not what you were taught?"

I frowned, but not altogether deeply, "So I am to become a WitchKnight; not to fight, but, but to save other WitchKnights?"

He smiled, "So it would seem. Are you opposed to this?"

I considered for a long moment, before saying, "I am not opposed to adventure; I am a Mage after all. I suppose... well I never imagined I would get to do too much. So... no, I am not opposed at all,"

witchknights are unmatched in magical and martial arts. Unlike the rest of your peers you wanted to study healing magic and medicine not war and violence. So when the witchknight chose you everyone was confused, Even the archsage himself.

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hyperfixiation-station · 2 days ago

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This literally came to me in a dream and its just a lil blurb but-

You work at a little diner that Soap frequents. A stocky Scots man with a silly mohawk and a stupid grin that orders the same thing every week. God do you love him.

Eventually, he asks you out and a few months later you start seriously dating. He tells you about his profession, tells you about his team and his family. You tell him you want to be an artist. You bond over looking at each other sketchbooks, spend hours drawing each other.

One night you ask him about maybe moving in with you and he gives you a non-committal answer. You go home feeling slightly insecure about his answer, but sure you'll talk it over next time you meet.

Except you never see him again.

At first you assume something wrong, that he was captured or lost in the line of service. But no one ever comes to update you like he said they would if anything were to happen.

So you have to assume he left you. That you scared him off with talk of commitment. At first you were sad, then angry, then apathetic. Now you just miss him. No one had loved you like he did before. You regret saying anything. You should have just kept your mouth shut and taken what he'd been willing to give.

But you didn't, and now you're alone again.

Fast forward 4 years and he shows up in your apartment, same mohawk, same little scar in his eyebrow. But his eyes are haunted, something darker behind them.

#cod fanfic #cod #johnny mactavish #call of duty #john soap mactavish #cod x reader #angst #soap #brain worms #blurbs

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justmeinadaze · 2 days ago

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Easy To Love/Hate (Steddie & Plus Size Y/N)

A/N: Im not sure what triggered this but Y/N is very much a manifestation of alot of my fears and trauma. But yeah, she's also very inspired by Kate Winslet in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

New record of longest story I've written and they definitely have more of a story to tell.

Enjoy!

Warnings: Steddie & Plus Size Fem Y/N, SMUT, dirty talk, semi public (lover's lake, no one is around), stoned sex (but its consensual), oral (m and f receiving), fingering (m and f receiving), p in v, frotting, unprotected p-in-v, slight overstimulation if you squint, aftercare always.

ANGST! Eddie and Steve have an intimate encounter when they were younger but not aren't friendly which is expanded in as the story progresses, Reader is mentioned as being inquisitive and asks alot of questions but she does make it clear that they don't have to say anything they don't want to, mentions of King Steve and all his insecurities with being popular and his dad, Eddie briefly mentions his relationship with his dad and how people hate him in the town, Reader is new to Hawkins and is slightly spicy :) (talks back to teachers and jocks), Has a run in with jocks and kicks their ass, has a run in with Mr. Harrington who, well IS Mr. Harrington (talks down to her about being poor), Reader pokes fun at her own weight but not a whole lot and no one in the town talks to her about it negatively, mentions of a feeling abandoned by parent, argument between her and the boys... I think that's it.

Word Count: 13, 887

Steddie Masterlist/Donate to Me

"She's easy to love, oh, and easy to hate She tastes like a drug, and she feels just the same Bitter to the tongue, but a thrill for your brain A little bit crazy, but it's worth all the pain.

Her mind is a beautiful thing You never quite know what she thinks But if you're lucky, she just might let you see What hides behind nightmares and dreams."

“I’ve, um, I’ve never done that before.”, Steve murmurs from his spot on the edge of the bed while the buzz cut boy in front of him finished buckling his pants.

“The making out part or the blow job part?”, Eddie asked with a crassness that had the other boy flinching.

“All of it, I guess. I’ve made out with girls but never—”

“A handsome lad like myself?” When he cut him off, Steve flinched again causing the other boy to softly sigh before taking a seat beside him and placing his palm on his shoulder. “I get it. The first time I kissed a dude, my dad walked in at the same time and…let’s just say it didn’t go well…”

Steve’s honey irises scanned over Eddie’s face as his own eyes fell to the floor in front of them.

“You did good…I mean like…it felt really good…having your lips…fuck, why can’t I talk?” He smirked when he heard the boy beside him chuckle. “Did you like it? I mean…how did it feel for you?”

“I like kissing you. Your lips taste good.”

“Yeah?”

Steve nods.

“I also like the sounds you make. You, like, whimper when my head bobs—”

“I do not!”, Eddie shouts defensively, pushing his shoulder playfully.

The other boy doesn’t miss a beat, grabbing his wrist just in time and yanking his mouth to his own.

“What happens on Monday, Munson?”, he whispered as his forehead leaned against his.

“You tell me, Harrington. Do you still want to hang out with a freak like me?”

Steve cups Eddie’s cheeks and kisses him again, not wanting to let the boy go.

“If you’re a freak, then so am I.”

###################

3 Years Later

Steve hated history class with a burning passion.

He always struggled to remember dates and certain aspects of the material never made sense to him. Add in the fact that Mrs. Hill droned on and on with no inflection in her tone; everything just seemed to run together.

He did his best though, taking notes and doing what he could to at least maintain a good average so he could keep playing basketball.

Sports was his only outlet for all his stress.

Every time he focused on dunking the ball, he didn’t have to remember that his father kept reciting about his future and what he planned to do with it. With every finished lap in the pool, he would focus on bettering his time and not the fact that he was already bored of the last girl he took out on a date.

Every cheer from the crowd in the stands made him forget that Tommy and Carol had bullied another kid from the debate team or that stupid fucking Hellfire Club.

With every win and applaud whether it be from the crowd at a game or keg stand at a party, he felt more like the king they claimed him to be and he could ignore the fact that he was incredibly bored with it all and how awful it genuinely made him feel.

“Mr. Harrington?”

“Huh?”

“Care to answer my question?”

“What was the question?”

The kids around him snicker, they think he’s joking so he smirks to cover the truth.

“I see we still aren’t paying attention today, are we, Mr. Harrington?”

“She was asking if the introduction of music television like MTV was a positive or negative like MTV and violence in our society are mutually exclusive.” All eyes turned your way as you continued to absently doodle in your notebook. “If it did have any effect, at most it would chill people the fuck out.”

A couple of people gasped while Steve’s eyes widened.

He had never seen you before let alone was aware you were even in the class. How could he not have when you were in his row 2 seats away?

“Miss…”, the teacher pauses as she looks at her clipboard. “Y/L/N. I know you’re new to the school so you may not entirely know the rules but I would assume most schools wouldn’t allow for language like that.”

“Oh, I apologize, Mrs. Hill. It’s probably the influence of all that MTV.”

At your sarcastic reply, you turn towards Steve and throw him a playful wink that actually has the king of Hawkins blushing.

The bell rings and even as everyone throws their belongs in their bags to escape out the door, you slowly maneuver your books into your backpack before slinging it over one shoulder.

“Hey, um, thanks for what you did in there.”

“Did I do something?”, you tease, heading into the hall with him in tow.

“I’m not very good at history—”

“I noticed.”, you giggle, finally turning to give him your attention. Your eyes gradually take him in, from his expensive tennis shoes up over his tight jeans to the polo that hugged his waist. “I’m Y/N.”, you relay as you extend your hand out to him.

Encapsulating it with his own, he sizes you up just as equally totally into the jeans torn at the knee and your converse with drawings all along the toes.

“Steve. Steve Harrington.”

“Oh…the illustrious king.”, you sing with a smile and he swoons. “I’ve heard all about you.”

“All good I hope.”

“Let me just say, the whispers about your hair don’t do it justice.” The man laughs at your joke and you grin at the sound. “It’s nice meeting you, sire.”

***

Eddie exhaled smoke from his lips as he sat on the edge of his van in the back waiting for the school to clear out so he could meet the guys for their Hellfire meeting.

He absolutely hated the student body who couldn’t manage to keep their destain hidden for even one second while they giggled and pointed his way as they passed.

Even some of the men at the factory taunted Wayne for taking him in because he was such a “fuck up” and “bound to end up like his father”. His uncle hid the critiques but the employee’s children made sure to relay the information.

“Fuck me!”

Eddie’s eyes darted in the direction where the consistent swears were pouring out of your mouth as you kicked the front end of your car before lifting the hood.

“Please…please, baby girl, don’t do this to me.”, you sigh as you scan the area, beautiful irises locking with his. “Hey, do you know anything about cars?”

When he theatrically looked around and pointed at himself you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yes, you, Hellfire. Do you know anything about cars?”, you asked again and this time he rose to his feet, slinking your way.

“Um, I know a little bit. I can take a look.”

“Well, I do declare. Thank you, sir.”, you reply with an exaggerated accent that has him smirking your way as he takes off his jacket and tosses it aside. “I’m Y/N btw.”

“Eddie Munson.”

“Oh? Any relation to Wayne Munson?” The metalhead’s body straightened and you immediately sensed his defensive energy. “It’s just, I went to visit my dad to see how his first day of work was going and he was having lunch with his foreman leader with that name. He was very nice; shook my hand and called me ‘sweetheart’.”

Eddie grins softly as he focuses under your hood once more.

“Yeah, that’s my uncle. He’s a good man like that. It looks like this thing here just needs a patch. I can fix it enough to get you home but it’s going to need a mechanic.”

“Great.”, you whine, watching as he heads back towards his van and digs around for a bit before returning with some tools. “So…what’s Hellfire? A theater troop or?”

“Ah, no, we’re a club filled with freaks who play D & D.”

“That’s cool. I can’t play that game to save my life but it’s fun to watch.”

“Pfft, you don’t have to pander to me, sweetheart, ok?”, he sasses, grunting as he begins working under your hood.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”, you ask as you fold your arms across your chest.

“It means most women don’t know what D&D is let alone badass girls in Metallica t-shirts so I know you’re just being nice because I’m helping you. You don’t have to. I’m used to people treating me like weird.”

Your fingers suddenly wrap around his bicep as you force him to face you.

“First off, you are incredibly defensive. I’m new in town and I AM trying to be nice especially since you’re doing something nice for me when you don’t have to. Secondly, I don’t think it’s weird or freaky to like Dungeons and Dragons. It’s a complex game with cool missions and shit that I can’t fucking understand but you seem to which makes you cool to me. And third…thank you for the compliment.”

As you grin wide at your last sentence, Eddie can’t help but be totally dumbfounded by you. You had to be a figment of his imagination, right? There’s no way a girl like you existed.

“You’re welcome. Thank you for saying I’m cool.”

“You’re welcome.” As soon as he’s done, you turn your key and the engine roars to life. “Oh my God, thank you, Eddie Munson. You are my hero. Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow? My way of saying thank you properly.”

“Um, yeah, sure. I don’t eat in the cafeteria alot though. There’s a bench out in the forest by the campus.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound ominous.”, you joke, shouting thank you again before speeding away.

####################

Steve couldn’t get you out of his mind for the rest of the night.

He kept thinking about your ripped jeans and heavy metal shirt, your attitude and the way you effortlessly contradicted his teacher without any fear of consequence. Your smile and the way you laughed echoed through his ears, piercing his heart. He watched you during class that following day as you sketched in your notebook occasionally looking at the board as if you were paying attention.

Today, you had on black cargo pants with chains all along the pockets that clinked every time you moved with the same converse that seemed to have new doodles along the side. The matching black polo you were wearing hugged your curves and more than anything he realized he wanted to do the same.

“Steven!”, Carol shouted as she waved her hand in front of his face. “Tommy’s been talking to you, man.”

“Oh, um, sorry.”, he mumbled as he glanced down at his uneaten lunch tray. “I’m just thinking about something.”

“About that new girl? I heard they moved here because she killed someone in her hometown.”

Steve rolled his eyes at his friend’s gossip. “Be careful with that one. Wouldn’t want you to end up on the news.”

Of course, as if on cue, your chains jingled as you walked by and out the side door. He didn’t even think twice as the jock casually rose to his feet, leaving his food and friends behind to catch up with you.

“Hey, Y/N!”

“Hey there, Steve Harrington.”, you beam even as you continue to walk.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m meeting a friend for lunch. Would you like to join?”

“Oh, um, yeah, sure. So, how do you like it here so far?”, Steve asked, cringing at his earnest energy.

“It’s…alright. A lot of people here are pretty conservative and kind of assholes.”

“They definitely can be.”

“I saw you talking to a couple of ‘em. Tommy Hagan and Carol…something. I don’t know her last name. I just know she strongly believes it will one day be Hagan to.”, you laugh. “I heard them gossiping about one of the teachers.”

“Yeah they do that.”, Steve rolls his eyes.

“Why do you hang out with them then?”

Your question wasn’t mocking nor did it carry an accusation. To him you sounded genuinely curious which is something he found incredibly fascinating.

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I guess because it’s better to be popular and appreciated than alone and hated.”

“You really think they appreciate you, sire?”, you ask sarcastically. “I assure you, they’d probably sell you out in a heartbeat. Alright, he said bench in the woods…”

“Who’s your friend?”, Steve inquired, head quirking at the word he.

“He helped me fix my car yesterday. He said his name was Eddie something. Eddie…”

“Munson.”, the popular boy finished for you just as the metalhead stepped from the path to come into view and their eyes locked.

“Yeah, that’s it!”

***

“What the fuck are you doing here, Harrington? Get lost on your way to a party?”

“For your information, I was invited, burnout. What the fuck are you doing out here?”

“Um, do ya’ll know each other?”, you ask a bit more playfully than you meant it to sound.

“Oh, of course. Who doesn’t know our illustrious king of Hawkins High?”, Eddie replies sarcastically as he bows towards the other boy. “Thank you, sire, for gracing me and the lady with your presence.”

Your eyes narrow in amusement as you watch them interact, placing yourself on the table and leaning back on your palms.

“I’m sorry, I thought this was a free country and I could go wherever I please. Are any of the other freaks here? Wouldn’t want to embarrass them.”

“Wouldn’t want to be seen with them is more like it. Seriously, what the fuck are doing here? She invited me to lunch.”

“Well, she invited me to so…”

Both sets of annoyed eyes flash your way and you sit up to face them.

“To be fair, I’m new here so I wasn’t aware that you two knew each other let alone had this intense rivalry—”

“I’d have to care for it to be a rivalry.”, Steve mumbled as he folded his arms across his chest.

Eddie blinked before doing the same but you noticed the emotion flicker across his face.

“Why did that bother you?”

“Huh?”

“He said he’d have to care and you made a face for a moment like that bothered you. I’m curious as to why.”, you explain, glancing towards the popular boy whose own features seem to reflect confusion before turning away in a huff. “Ooooh wait a second. Did you two date?”

Both men’s arms fall as they immediately get defensive especially Steve.

“No! Pfft, I’m not into guys and if I was I wouldn’t date a freak like him!”

“Feelings mutual, Steven! If I wanted a pompous asshole in my life I’d of kept my dad around!”

“HEY! I’m nothing like your criminal father, Munson!”

“You may as well be with how much you fucking hurt me!” Steve flinched as he took one step back and Eddie did the same as he reached into his pocket to find his cigarettes. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’m not hungry at the moment.”

With that the metalhead turned and stomped away leaving the popular boy to stare after him.

“Sooooo you didn’t date but you definitely fucked, right?”

“This is all your fault!”, he shouted, turning on you so fast you couldn’t help but smile. “You’re like a fucking plague!”

“Oh, so you two didn’t have this tension before I came along?”

“NO! We never even fucking saw each other and that was ok!”

“But you never stopped thinking about him, huh?”, you smirk as you lay down flat on the table. “He definitely hasn’t stopped thinking about you.”

“Ugh, fuck you!”, he blurted angerly, stomping away in the opposite direction.

##########################

Eddie had pretty much been chain smoking cigarettes since yesterday afternoon choosing to skip school as he wondered the town. It wasn’t the first time he had thought about that night with Steve Harrington but it was the first time in a long time he actually felt the sting of it.

Every time Steve went on a date with some girl or he caught him making out behind the bleachers, Eddie remembered. Any time Steve laughed at a stupid joke and scrunched his nose, showing off all of his teeth, Eddie remembered. When Garth would tell him about how Steve Harrington stood there and watched while Tommy Hagan pushed him into a locker, Eddie remembered.

But he blocked out the pain with weed and partners of his own, till he was left semi-satisfied and numb.

A part of him wished he could erase the entire memory of Steve Harrington but another part liked having that bit of feeling locked away in his pessimistic heart.

“I said fuck off or I swear to God—”

“You swear to God what?”, a boy threatened just as the metalhead passed the alleyway next to the arcade.

You were backed against the brick wall with some of the other jocks circling you. Your face glared up at them with defiance and Eddie swooned at your confidence.

“I’ll break your fucking arm.”

“Oooo.”, he mocked but you didn’t falter.

“Problem, boys?”, the long-haired man asked as he made his presence known.

“This doesn’t concern you, Munson.”

“It does when you’re threatening one of my friends.”

At the declaration, he noticed a small smile twitch across your lips before they went back to being a thin line of anger. The jock in front of you gestured with his head towards Eddie.

“This freak really someone you want to be associated with?”

“Rather a freak than a dick who doesn’t understand the word no.”

“People don’t say no to me.”

“Get used to disappointment.”

“Listen, baby, I can show you a thing or two—” Right as his arm lifted and his fingers just barely touched your hair, you took hold of the limb and bent it to the side causing the man to howl in pain before you ducked under him to quickly take hold of Eddie’s bicep. “You fucking bitch! You broke my arm!”

“I warned you. Come on, babe.”

Intertwining your fingers with his, you both bolted away from the jocks screams towards the trailer park.

***

“Whew. Hang on a moment, I…I need to catch my breath…”, you pant as you lean your palms on your knees.

“Do you want some water? Our trailer is right there.”, Eddie offered as he gestured towards his home and you nodded allowing him to lead. “My castle.”

“I like it.”, you grin as you take a look around. “You live here with your parents?”

“My uncle.”, he replied flatly, coming around the counter to hand you a glass that you sip as you watch him walk away.

“Oh. When you said Wayne was your uncle, I didn’t realize you lived with him to.”

“Yup.” Eddie put emphasis on the P, popping his lips as he nods.

“Where are your—”

“Jesus, you ask a ton of questions.”, he snaps, stomping towards what you assume is his bedroom and you hastily follow.

“Forgive me for wanting to get to know my friend. Why are you so defensive!?”

“Look, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, people in this town fucking hate me so I’m always on edge when someone asks questions trying to ‘get to know me’. No one wants to know me.”

“Wayne doesn’t hate you. I don’t hate you. Those kids in your little Hellfire thing don’t hate you. Steve doesn’t hate you.” The metalhead snorts out a laugh as he glares towards his wall and sits on his bed. “He doesn’t. He’s mad at you about something but I can tell…he doesn’t hate you.”

“What the fuck would he have to be mad at me for?! I didn’t do fucking anything to him!”

“I’m just telling you what I see.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

Your eyes take him in before you sit beside him and cross your legs on his mattress.

“I’m sorry for asking so many questions. I’m aware that I’m inquisitive. I think it has something to do with my parents always hiding things and my mom being shady. That’s why we moved here. My dad wanted him and I to have a fresh start.”

Eddie’s irises meet yours with a softness you appreciate.

“I’m sorry for snapping. I am very defensive. People in this town have been calling me a freak since I was a kid, even after my mother died.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs at your kindness and a heavy sigh leaves his lips.

“Hey, um, do you want to get high?”

***

“I didn’t break his arm!”, you cackle as Eddie snickers through his teeth before taking another hit. “At most I sprained it. I’m not the fucking Bionic Woman.”

“Dude, the fact that you could even do that is amazing. Be prepared though with basketball season, some people in this town will be pissed.”

“Look, I warned him. I don’t pander to people.”

“No, you don’t.”, he murmurs softly, passing you the joint with a smile that you match.

“I like this side of you, Munson. Calm…happy…”

“I like hanging out with you, Y/L/N. It’s been a while since I smoked with someone I liked talking to.”

“Not even your friends?”, you ask as you pass the weed back to him.

“I like my friends I just don’t really open up to them, you know? To be fair, no one in my life asks as many questions as you do.”, he chuckles, smile growing when you laugh.

“It’s a blessing and a curse. I notice everything.”, you jest as your eyes widen in playful horror. “Kind of like how I noticed that chemistry yesterday between you and Mr. Harrington.”

“Ooooh…”, Eddie groans, scrunching his nose in slight disgust as he tries to roll away before you grab his shoulder to keep him still. “Do we have to talk about that shit?”

“No, my love, we don’t have to.”

At the term, his eyebrow quirks your way and he exhales, placing the joint in the ashtray on his shelf.

“We were never together…Never really even got a chance to be…”, the metalhead began as you both stared at the ceiling while the acoustic guitar emitting from his stereo continued to play softly. “It was near the end of our freshman year at some party one of the upper classmen were throwing. I was trying to hide but found him on a bed alone in a room. I remember he looked so heartbroken.

He said something about how he didn’t want to be there because his dad had yelled at him before he came. I don’t know what you’ve heard about Bill Harrington but he’s a fucking asshole.”

“I haven’t heard anything.”, you answer, feeling him nod in affirmation beside you.

“He looked so heartbroken.”, Eddie repeated causing you to shift your gaze to look his way. “I don’t know where the confidence came from but we just talked and I told him everything would be ok while I played with his hair.”

“That soft, fluffy thing he’s got going on.”

“Yeah.”, he chuckles, feeling your body move until your head was laying on his chest.

“I bet he felt safe with you.” Your words were muffled by his shirt, his eyes closing when your arm laid across his belly to hug him tighter.

“Yeah. I, uh, he wanted to make it up to me…for me listening and being there…I told him he didn’t have to…b-but he insisted.”

At his strained breathing, you lifted your head onto your chin so you could see his face.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” Eddie nodded as your hand cupped his cheek, lowering your lips to his gently, feeling his body come to life. “Do you want to touch me?”, you whisper, smiling when he nods dragging the tip of his nose along yours.

Lifting his palm to your mouth, you tenderly kissed the pads of his index and middle finger causing a little groan to emit from his throat as he pushed up onto his elbow to bring his lips to yours again. A moan of your own filled his ears and he realized then you had placed his hand on your breast.

Leaving him to play, you released him from your grip, laying your palm on the bulge in his jeans and feeling his warm breath heat your cheek as his lips trailed down your neck.

“Do you want to touch my pussy, Eddie? Tell me.”, you command when he nods.

“I wanna—fuck—I want to touch your pussy, sweetheart, please.”

Slowly, you unbutton your jeans and push them down your chunky limbs, tossing them on his floor and throwing one of your legs over his hip that he promptly clings to so he can bring it high up his form allowing you to be as close to him as possible.

“What about you?”, you tease.

“Oh, shit. Yeah, I mean…”, he stutters out as he fumbles with his belt buckle and sloppily pushes down his own pants to his ankles. “Sorry. I’m a lot smoother than this.”

“Of course you are.”

Lifting one of his eyebrows in amusement, he obnoxiously runs his thick tongue along the entirety of his palm and reaches between your legs to rub his fingers through your folds.

“God, you’re so wet.”

Biting your bottom lip, you place your hand in front of his mouth and he smirks before licking it. You scoot your body closer to his till your chests are just barely touching and his jaw goes slack when you take hold of his cock, pumping him at a gradual pace.

“So are you.”, you joke when your run your thumb over his tip and feel the precum that had already begun to stain his sheets. “Fuck, Eddie, your dick is so big.”

“Yeah, baby, it is but you can take it, right?” As he asked his question, the metalhead guided two of his fingers inside of your entrance and his cock twitched at the feeling of your breath as you panted at the feeling against his lips. “Yeah, sweetheart, you can take it. Fuck, you’re tight.”

Your rhythm began to hasten and he matched your energy, moaning along with you as you built each other up.

“Do you want to fuck me, Eddie?”

“Yes, pretty girl, I want to fuck you.”

“How do you wanna fuck me, Eddie?”

“Jesus.”

Your nose grazed his as you smiled and whispered. “Tell me, baby. Will it be hard?”

“So fucking hard. I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll feel me for weeks.”

“Atta boy. Do you—mmm—do want me to ride your cock or do you want me on my back? How about on my hands and—”

Eddie’s mouth cut you off as they crashed to yours and he pushed you onto your back while slotting himself between your legs. You didn’t hesitate when you wrapped them around his waist and after lining up his tip with your cunt, began guiding himself inside you.

“Oh my God.”, you whimper, your nails dragging deliciously down his back.

“Your pussy is just…pulling me in…fuck…”, he grunts, his head falling beside yours. “I don’t know how long I’m going to last.”

“Fuck me, Eddie, like you told me. Fuck me—ah—fuck me hard, baby.”

Pushing up a bit, he allows his forehead to rest on yours as he takes hold of your wrists and presses them above you while honoring your request.

“Yes, Eddie, please. You feel so good.”

Your eyes roll shut as his cock stretches you open and consistently hits that sensitive spot inside you. A whimper escaped you when you suddenly felt pressure on your clit, realizing then he was trying desperately to feel you cum.

You moaned his name repeatedly till the ball in your belly dropped and you screamed so loud the metalhead was sure his uncle would get complaints tomorrow morning but he didn’t care.

“Where…where can I…”

“Inside…inside…”

With your permission along with your pussy milking him as your high slowly descended, Eddie grunted followed by a couple more choppy thrusts before you felt him painting your walls.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

You exhaustedly smile as he collapses on top of you, his lips lazily leaving tender kisses along your jawline.

“I’ll say.”, you tease lightly, shakily lowering your arms to circle around him.

“Do…do you need…anything? Water? S-Shower?”, he asked in a groggy tone that had you craning your neck to notice his eyes were closed as he began falling asleep.

“No, Eddie, I’m alright.” His lips continued to move making your smile grow as you caressed some of his messy hair away from his sweaty forehead. “I can’t hear you, babe.”

“I said…don’t…please…don’t…ignore me after tonight…”, the metalhead rushed out as he sighed before fully falling asleep in your arms.

################

Throughout the next couple of days, Steve continued to watch you from afar.

During your lunch, you came into the cafeteria late and for your remaining period, sat with Eddie and his friends without getting any food. He was curious if you just didn’t have the funds to eat which seemed to not only bother him but the long-haired boy as well when he noticed as soon as you sat down, he appeared to ask you something before handing you a bag of whatever was in his lunchpail.

During your classes, you always seemed a bit reserved but you engaged during conversations and debates which he found amusing. In your chemistry class, you excitedly mixed chemicals that began to smoke up the room causing you and your partner to laugh while the teacher scurried around opening windows.

When you interacted with people, you visually appeared closed off but he would listen to you ask questions telling him you were indeed listening. Some of the jocks would pass by and say something snarky and you would reply equally so with little to no hesitation.

One day, he followed you home in your beat-up car that wasn’t too far from the school as you turned into one of the lower income neighborhoods.

Your eyes seemed to change when you walked up to your front door and to him you almost seemed sad. Someone he wasn’t able to see greeted you when you entered but he had to convince himself to cut his snooping off here because climbing up to a stranger’s window crossed a line ignoring the fact that he already followed you in his car like some creepy stalker.

The next day after school, he was able to focus on basketball practice and was thankful for the distraction. What he wasn’t prepared for was you sitting in the bleachers with a smile and a small wave.

“What are you doing here?”, he asked after running towards you.

“It’s nice to see you to, Steve Harrington. I hope you’re well.”, you sass, rolling your eyes when all he does is stand there. “I, um, I wanted to apologize if I made you uncomfortable the other day. I seriously didn’t know you two knew each other and it’s been brought to my attention I’m a bit too inquisitive—”

“You are.”, Steve interrupts and you sigh in jest.

“I’m sorry, alright? You were the first person to really talk to me here and you’re one of the few jock assholes in this town who ISN’T an asshole so…”

“Harrington! Let’s go, kid!”, the coach yells and the boy flashes him an ok symbol with his palm before tossing a smirk your way.

“I forgive you. I’m sorry for getting defensive and all that.”

“I forgive you.”, you beam, shooing him playfully with your hands as he runs back onto the court.

While you watch him practice, you can’t help but bite your bottom lip to stifle the grin from widening on your face when you notice him showing off for what you assume is you.

Everything changed however when the gym door opened and a man in an expensive looking business suit clacked his equally expensive looking shoes across the court before stopping as his piercing irises take in the boys in front of him.

Steve’s gaze shifted towards him giving him pause and one of the other men on the court effortlessly swiped the ball from his hand to make the basket causing the well-dressed man to shake his head and chuckle.

“Hey, dad, what, uh, what are you doing here? Everything ok?”, the pretty boy asked after jogging towards him.

“Yes, of course. Jesus.”, he continues a bit callously. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d come watch my son practice.”

“Um, okay, but I don’t think you’re allowed—”

“Nonsense! Is it alright if I watch for a bit, coach?”

“Sure, Bill, no problem.”

“Ah, that’s Mr. Harrington, actually.”

As his father laughs, Steve cringes as he glances towards you in embarrassment, his face turning a darker shade when he sees you looking them both over with those inquisitive eyes.

Taking his place back on the court, everything changes as he makes mistake after mistake, cursing under his breath with each failed shot or swiped ball. His final straw was when he tried to block another player and was pushed so hard he fell backwards.

“Wow are you alright?”, you ask, extending your hand that he doesn’t take, clutching his elbow instead. “Steve? Are you ok?”

“Well, son, I must say, I’ve seen you play better.”, Mr. Harrington sighs, not even glancing his way as his eyes focus on his pager. “Alright, I have to head back to the office but—”

“Are you seriously not going to ask how he is?”, you interrupt. “He just got knocked over and hit the ground pretty hard.”

His dad freezes before turning to run his eyes down your frame, snickering at the blue jeans with drawings on the thigh and your Hellfire shirt Eddie had given you that you had cut into making it your own. The symbol was left untouched but you snipped the sleeves turning it into a tank top allowing your flabby arms their time in the sun while showing off your “Do or do not there is no try” tattoo.

“I’m sorry and you are?”

“A decent human being.”, you snap back, placing your hands on your hips. “And you are?”

The players around you gasp as they whisper to each other and Steve hastily rises to his feet, raising a hand to assure you he’s fine when you try to help.

“This is Bill Harrington…my father…”

“Interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone introduce their parents that way.”

“Steven, who is this girl—”

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N and I can speak for myself unlike you.”

“Miss Y/L/N—”

“No, no, coach, it’s alright.”, his father assures, raising his hand towards the man just as Steve had. “I’ve heard of your family, Miss Y/L/N. Well, you and your father. This town is small enough you hear all the gossip especially when someone new moves in the slums of Hawkins.”

“If that’s the slums, I’d hate to see the over exaggerated, God-y side of town you live on.”

“I live in comfort with my wife and son. I don’t have to work at the factory for 12hrs a day to not even make ends meet.”

“Not really something I’d brag about, Mr. Harrington; the fact that other people struggle while you live above them in your undeserved, selfish luxury.”

He laughs again as he takes steps towards you and you feel Steve’s fingers twitch beside.

“Dad…”

“Shut up, Steven.”, he growls before pointing his finger in your face. “I know girls like you, Miss Y/L/N. You grow up with that sarcastic attitude that screams confidence but the truth is, little girl, you’re just as scared as the rest of them if not more so. You’ll graduate and tell yourself you’ll achieve something great but you won’t. You’ll be stuck here with a husband who hates you and kids that won’t stop screaming, working a job you hate till you’re old and gray.”

Steve feels the anger vibrate through you as everything in his body tells him to back away. He half expected you to ignite and come back with a snarky quip that would leave his father emotionally wounded for weeks to come.

Suffice it to say, he definitely wasn’t prepared when your palm grabbed the jock’s sweaty collar and brought his lips to yours. Again, he heard the gasps of the people around him and felt the wind of his father backing away but all of that was overshadowed by the delicious taste of your mouth on his.

Just as he lifted his palm to cup your cheek, you pushed him back and smiled towards his dad.

“At least I’ll be stuck here with your family growing old and gray in luxury.”

***

Practice ended after your display and Steve didn’t acknowledge his dad’s angry shouts after him as he ran to follow you as you hastily exited out the back door.

As an apology, he bought you a burger that you two shared on the other side of lover’s lake sitting on the trunk of his BMW.

“Are you sure it’s ok that I sit up here? Wouldn’t want daddy to yell at you if he finds a dent because of my fat ass.”

“You don’t have a fat ass and yes, it’s fine.”, he sighs with a smile, sliding onto his feet and reaching down to grab some grass so his hands had something to fiddle with. “I’m really sorry for him. He had no right to belittle you like that.”

“It’s ok. I’m kind of used to it with my smart mouth.”, you chuckle, grumbling the wrapper that had once housed your food. “When Eddie mentioned your father was an asshole, I didn’t expect that though.”

“He talked to you about me?”

Your eyebrows quirked upward with a smirk.

“I said he mentioned your dad.”

“What, uh, what did he say?”

“That your dad was an asshole.”, you laugh and he does the same. “He said you two had spent time together at a party and you didn’t want to be there cause of your dad. Something he said…”

“Hm. Is that all he told you?”, Steve asked with a bitterness you picked up on.

“He just said ya’ll spent the evening together and then you hurt him. I put two and two together.”

“I didn’t--!”, he cut himself off as he fumed and faced away from you. “…hurt him. He’s the one…” When he turned back to look at you, he saw a softness that reminded him of that night and that terrified him. “It doesn’t matter.”

The BMW thunks loudly back into place as your body slides down and your hands grasp his, pulling him towards the water.

“Come on.”

“Come on, what? Go swimming? We don’t have any—”

“Yes swimming and I refuse to believe King Steve has never skinny dipped before.” You see the apprehension in his eyes and grin tenderly as you take a couple of steps closer to him, still clinging to his palms. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to or tell me anything you don’t want to. I’d be happy to place a new dent on the hood and we can talk about…I don’t know…basketball.”

He chuckles at your joke, nodding his head towards the lake as he releases you to take off his shirt, doing his best to keep his eyes focused ahead as you do the same thing. He takes a note that you keep your matching bra and panties on as you squeal in delight before jumping in so he keeps his underwear on as well before following after.

“Fuck this water is cold!”

“Yeah, that’s normal.”

You playfully push his shoulder as you both laugh while you swim a little further out but when he hears you hiss, he quickly swims to your side.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I just stepped on a rock, I think. Ow.”

“Well, um, here. I know this lake pretty well…” Your eyes narrow as he takes your arms and legs to circle around him before he realizes what he just insinuated. “No! I meant…shit…the swim team and I practice out here sometimes and—”

“Steve! It’s ok. I’m not judging you.”

Nodding, you feel his eyes studying your face as you look around the area and up towards the stars that had begun to paint the night sky.

“That night at the party three years ago? My dad had given me a lecture about being a man.” At the sound of his voice, you focused on him once more as his irises seemed to be focusing on the memory within a void. “His examples were basically everything I’m not and I couldn’t stop thinking about it when my mom dropped me off. I tried but… I wanted to be alone so I hid but then Eddie came in.”

Steve hadn’t moved since he took you in his arms and the two of you waded in the water as he continued.

“It all just fell out of my mouth like I couldn’t hold it in anymore and he listened to every word without interrupting or critiquing me.”

“While he played with your hair?”

His eyes finally met yours and when he didn’t see any mocking, he nodded his head.

“I felt so safe and comfortable and when I was done venting I felt so much better. I wanted him to feel good to… I don’t know why…I had never done anything like that before.”

“What did you do?”

Steve whispered it so low that you knew the only reason you heard it was because you were currently clinging to him with your ear near his lips.

“I sucked his cock.”

As he closed his eyes, you cupped his cheeks and gently kissed his forehead.

“I loved everything about it, honey. The way he held my hand and my hair, the moans he made when my throat gagged around him, and—fuck—the way Eddie whimpered my name.”

Your fingers twirled into the hair near the base of his neck as your lips trailed down his nose and hovered just above his mouth.

“What happened after? Why are you both so angry?”

Steve shakes his head as he abruptly cups your cheek to roughly kiss your lips, groaning at the taste of you once more with his tongue passionately searching for yours.

You smiled as his grip tightened to an almost bruising degree.

“Do you wanna fuck me, Steve Harrington?”

He doesn’t verbally respond but you feel his free hand that’s clinging to your waist reach between you to move your panties to the side.

“Answer me, Stevie.”

“Yes, I want to fuck you. Please, baby.”, he begs, his hold on you returning when he feels you reach down to effortlessly glide your palm into his boxers and free his cock eliciting a soft moan.

“Of course, the king has a big dick.”, you tease making him bite his lip to try and conceal his pride filled grin. Your gaze shifts to the void but you feel him watching you as you guide his length into entrance. “Oh, wow.”

“Fuck.”

Licking your lips, you utilize his shoulders and neck for leverage as you roll your hips, allowing your pussy to take him in inch by inch.

“Jesus…you and Eddie are going to ruin me…”

At your whispered words, his fingers on your waist twitched.

“You fucked Eddie?” You nod. “What did it feel like?”

Your eyes open as you assess his features but when he hugs you tighter to him allowing his cock to fully rest inside you, you realize then that he’s not jealous but genuinely curious.

“So good, Steve. He—fuck—held my wrists above my head w-while he fucked me so hard.”

Water had gradually begun to swish around you both as you steadily rode him wishing you had more to stabilize you. The jock sees your wish and swims with you still in his grasp towards the bank, climbing out and lightly tapping your ass to signal for you to let him go.

With his hand in yours, he brings you to the hood of the BMW, spinning you around, and lightly pushing your front half against the cool metal.

“Oh f-fuck.”, you mewled as he slides effortlessly back into your core and thrust his hips allowing the smacks of skin against skin to fill the quiet area.

Chest hair tickles your back as he leans over you and his palm firmly grips your throat while his other arm circles around to your tummy.

“Tell me more…please…”

“H-He—”

“Who?”, he asked gruffly making you smile.

“Eddie’s thick cock stretched m-me open. He was—oh my—making a mess before we even got started…his cum leaking w-while I stroked him with my hand...”

At your last couple of words, Steve watched as you dragged your tongue along the pads of your fingers before reaching between your legs to match his pace as you rubbed your clit.

“Cum inside me, Steve, just like he did.”

The man grunted at your request, pushing up to his full height as he pounded his length so deep inside you that you swore you could feel him in your stomach. Your cunt clenched tightly around him and his mouth fell open at the feeling as you came panting his name.

Fingers tangled in your hair and he pulled you upright to kiss your lips as he chased his own high. It didn’t take long, his strong arms wrapping around your waist and chest to hold you to him as his rhythm faltered releasing his seed inside you.

“Fuck.”, he exhaled as his forehead rested on your shoulder.

“Don’t die on me, Harrington.”, you joked, smirking when he huskily laughed.

Neither of you moved while he continued to cling to you as if you’d disappear the moment he let you go.

“Steve?”

“Hm.”

“I’m cold.”

“Shit! Fuck, honey, I’m…” After carefully pulling out, you watched him scurry to his trunk, digging through it, and slamming it shut before running back around to wrap a towel around your shoulders. “I’m sorry. Let me grab…grab your clothes…”

You gently smile as your eyes follow him as his confidence vanishes and he fumbles over grass to hunt for both sets of outfits the two of you had discarded so recklessly. He seemed different like this…less uptight…less like a boy playing pretend and more of who you imagined he genuinely was.

“Here, um, let me…” You allow him to dress you which seems to make him happier as his own smirk grows, his palms occasionally caressing your skin before leaving a kiss.

When he finishes, you see a glimmer of a question start to form as his lips part before they immediately shut and form into a thin line.

You don’t know what it is but Steve does and to be honest no matter what your answer is he knows it doesn’t matter because of what happened the last time he asked.

“So what happens on Monday?”

###################

To their surprises, not much changed after they were intimate with you beside the fact that you spent a fair amount of time with them, separately of course.

You watched Eddie play his most recent gig at The Hideout and banged your head while all the other patrons ignored them like usual. You went to his trailer often discussing movies and music you both liked while smoking and relaxing.

One Saturday, you showed up at an away game and cheered Steve on as he ran up and down the court leading Hawkins High in victory. He took you to the “cute little theater” as you called it to watch the new Indiana Jones movie where you clung to his arm to cover your eyes as some guy’s heart got ripped out of their chest.

Over the next month, you took the time to get to know them better but both men felt like you were keeping them at a distance when it came to personal things involving you. When you were in their bed your pillow talk was minimal to say the least and the only time they got a glimpse into your life was when you casually dropped things into conversation, breezing past it as if it meant nothing.

“I love this record. Roberta Flack’s voice is gorgeous.”

“Yeah it is. My mom loved soft music like this.”, Eddie beamed as he leaned back on his palms. “What kind of music did your parents introduce you to?”

“Well, my father liked The Police, the band not the conformist bunch of pigs.”, you clarify making the metalhead laugh as he reached for a pack of cigarettes nearby. “My mom always listened to The Rolling Stones which makes senses seeing as how she never seemed to be satisfied.”

The metalhead paused just before lighting the stick between his teeth at the sad drop in your tone right as you smiled and started to sing, “Telling my whole life…with his words…killing me softly…”

“What are you reading?”, Steve asks, having been staring at you with a little smile from his desk where you commanded he finish his homework for history.

“Don’t get distracted, Harrington.”

“I’m not. I’m just curious.” You flash him the cover as he reads it out loud. ‘Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant.’ Hm, sounds interesting. What’s it about?”

“Uh, it’s about kids who have to learn how to deal with life after their dad abandoned their family.”

Something about the way you say that breaks his heart as his head tilts.

“Thankfully, you have your dad, right?”

“Yeah…thankfully.” You pause as your eyes shift into the void before glancing towards his sympathy filled irises. “Hey! Stop getting distracted! Focus, Harrington!”, you giggle, tossing your shoe lightly towards him.

Neither man had to interact with the other but occasionally their eyes would meet as one of them would nod or turn their head in the opposite direction and you had stopped asking questions about their moment 3 years ago which they each found amusing that you no longer wanted pry.

You three fell into an odd routine that felt seamless but you were different, they knew that.

There was only so long monotony could be tolerated in a small town like Hawkins. Something always happened to shake up any routine and with you not being from around there, they imagined it would hit you sooner rather than later.

After a month and a half of knowing you, it finally did.

################

Steve wasn’t immediately concerned when he showed up for class and you weren’t there making a mental note to look for you throughout the day and if he didn’t see you, to call you when he got home.

It wasn’t until he got to lunch and noticed Eddie’s intense eyes scanning the room that he became concerned. When they found his own, relief painted the metalhead’s face but quickly disappeared when he realized you weren’t with him.

After murmuring something to the table, he threw on his leather jacket and hastily flew out the side door, smoke leaving his mouth at his sigh in the cold air when he heard shoes crunching against the leaves that had begun to fall from behind him.

“Fuck off, Harrington.”

“You don’t know where she is either, do you?”, he inquired, buttoning his letterman while he powerwalked to keep up with the other man’s long stride. “Should we be worried?”

“We? No, Steven, WE aren’t anything.”

“Hey!”, Steve scolds, grabbing and pulling at Eddie’s arm to make him stop. “Look, I know we aren’t fucking friends and you fucking hate me but I care about her to, ok? Let’s just find her, make sure she’s alright, and then we can go back to ignoring each other.”

“Yeah, whatever.”, the other boy grumbles, silently allow him to follow to the table to find it empty. “Shit.”

“I mean…it’s just one day right? We can call her and—”

“Do you know where she lives?”, Eddie asked a bit abruptly causing the jock to blink in surprise.

“Um, yeah. I, um, passed by her house once—”

“You followed her home.”, he declared as he began to march back towards his van.

“Um…”

“You think I didn’t notice you follow me home at the start of sophomore year? I live out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by people who drive their houses. A BMW stands out.”

Steve blushes in embarrassment, completely ignoring the fact that he was currently climbing into the passenger seat of Eddie Munson’s van.

“Don’t worry. The windows are tinted so Tommy and Carol won’t see you with the freak.”

Ignoring his comment, the man folds his arms as the long-haired boy begins to drive with Steve giving him directions.

“Why didn’t you say anything? About me following you?”

“When would I have done that? When you were ignoring me with your asshole friends or when I was consoling MY friend after Hagan punched him in the stomach with you laughing right next him?”, Eddie spat, shaking his head. “It didn’t fucking matter. What I didn’t understand was why you even bothered.”

“I…I wanted to…whatever. You’re right it doesn’t matter.”

The metalhead’s eyes leave the road to glance towards the pretty boy who exhaled as he glared out the window.

***

“Hey, may I help you?”, your father asked sweetly as he opened the door to their knock dressed in a manner that reminded Eddie of his uncle.

“We, uh, we were wondering if Y/N was here?”

“Um, she is but she’s not really…she’s been in her room all day and…she doesn’t really seem to want any company.”

“We’re her friends, sir. I’m Steve Harrington and this is Eddie Munson—”

“Munson? Wayne’s nephew?” His entire demeanor brightens when the boy nods. “I’ve heard so much about you. Come in, come in.”, he ushers with his hand. “I’m actually about to see him. I’m…pulling some overtime tonight so… I’m sorry, son, but I don’t think I’ve meet your parents.”, he sighs after shaking his hand and turning to do the same with Steve.

“Oh no worries, sir. My father isn’t the friendly type. My mom comes and goes. They work for the Harrington Company that owns a few of the business within Indiana.”

“What are you two doing here?”

All three men turn towards the hallway at the sound of your voice and the smell hits Eddie immediately as the odor of cigarettes and weed linger on your shirt that seemed two sizes too big even on your chunky frame.

If your father noticed, he didn’t make any indication as he beamed widely.

“Hey, baby. How are you feeling? Your friends are here to see you.”

“They aren’t my friends.”, you hiss with a monotone that has them tilting their heads.

“What’s with the attitude, Y/N?”

“I’m tired, dad.”, you growl as he presses his fingers into his eyes.

“Look, I don’t have time for this. I have to get to work. There’s food in the fridge and I should be home around 6am.”

“Fine. Take them with you.”

“No.”, he scolds as he pushes his hat onto his head. “You want to be rude to your guests that’s fine but I won’t. Have a good night.”

With that, he flashes them a grim smile before stomping out his front door.

Silence fills the living room, your annoyance at their presence filling the tension to an almost suffocating degree.

Eddie knows this game…He’s played it with his uncle a few times especially after he first moved in.

Whoever speaks first loses.

You hadn’t moved from your spot since you came into the room but when the metalhead took a step forward, Steve noticed your body flinch. It was subtle as if you don’t want to let on that it had happened. You didn’t appear frightened but more so prepared like someone who was at the starting point of a marathon.

Your eyes followed him as he fully entered your living room that was currently being illuminated by the hanging light in the kitchen both men passed. Your house wasn’t big so it was perfect to show off the modest set up of the bulky television in front of an even bulkier couch.

Pictures lined the wall that had Eddie smirking assuming the girl within was a smaller version of you. Steve detoured towards your kitchen noticing that the cupboards were relatively empty except for a few things here and there. Within the fridge was the food your father had mentioned along with a few cans of Coke, bottles of water, and a couple of packs of beer.

Rolling your eyes, you turn to head back down the hallway and they exchange a glance before following.

Throwing yourself on the bed, you collect the pipe near the edge and light the bowl, taking a deep inhale and blow smoke in their direction.

“I’m surprised you two are here together with how much you hate each other.”

“Yeah well, you’re ours and we were worried since you didn’t show up for school.”

A snarky laugh leaves your lips as you theatrically throw your head back.

“Oh wow. I was gone for one day and you both came-a-runnin’ with the person you hate. That’s so fucking funny.”

“It really is. It’s so fucking funny especially since apparently we aren’t friends.”, Eddie replies casually, taking off his jacket and tossing it aside.

“Don’t take that off, you won’t be here long.”

“Jesus.”, Steve sighs as he chuckles and leans back against your dresser. “So much venom in her words today.”

“Fuck off, Steven. Jesus.”, you mime, rolling your eyes. “You small town boys fuck one city girl and you think she belongs to you.”

“Are you a city girl, Y/N? We wouldn’t know. You don’t talk about yourself.”

“Like you fucking care.”, you spit. “You’re going to leave anyway.”

At your mumbled words, Eddie stalks towards you and yanks the pipe from your hand. You don’t argue, allowing your palms to fall into your lap.

“Why do you think that? What happened, Y/N? Did he say something to make you think we would?”

“Oh, fuck you, Munson. How do I know you didn’t?!”

“Because you’ve done it before!! Let’s not pretend you’re the good guy here! You’re a popular douchebag who bullies my friends and fucks anything with legs!”

Steve pushes off your dresser and stalks his way, placing himself chest to chest with the other boy.

“Don’t act like you fucking know me, Eddie. You have no idea what I’ve been through these past three years. You think…” The jock cuts himself short as he shifts his gaze your way and realized your sad eyes were watching everything unfold. He recognized something within them, pain. The unraveling of a relationship that seemed so perfect but ultimately failed. “You heard from your mom didn’t you?”, he whispers.

The long-haired boy hears you sniffle as you wipe your eyes and defiantly raise your chin.

“No. I never hear from her…My dad and I weren’t worth her time…That’s why she ran off with some twenty something preppy fucker without so much as a fucking goodbye. That’s why my dad became so depressed he lost his job because he couldn’t get out of bed. That’s why I’m stuck here in this stupid fucking town with stupid fucking men who can’t admit that they fucking care about each other.”

You rose to your feet and grabbed a crumpled piece of paper from your desk, smacking it into Eddie’s chest.

“That’s why she sends letters to only my father saying she doesn’t have enough money to send him for me but she can go to the fucking Bahamas with her boyfriend.” Shaking your head, you climb back onto the mattress and cross your legs. “Relationships are stupid. That’s why it’s just best to be alone. You two know that better than anyone.”

Steve’s eyes flutter closed as he places his hands on his hips.

“I wrote you a letter.” No one in the room moves or breathes… “You, Edward Munson, I wrote you a letter. That Monday morning, I slipped it into your locker and waited for you to show up. When you didn’t I went looking for you and found you with your friends…fucking laughing…I assumed at me…like ‘Can you believe Steve Harrington actually sucked me off and thought it meant anything.’”

When the jock found the courage to open them again they met the other boy’s wide confused eyes.

“Steve, I didn’t get a letter.”

“Don’t fucking—”

“I’m not lying.”, Eddie cut him off aggressively as if the implication hurt him. “I rarely went to my locker but when I did for lunch to grab my D&D campaign my locker was empty. Fucking Principal said we had to clean them out before…shit…”, he sighed, rubbing his palms over his face at a sudden realization. “It was that mandatory six week clean out especially for certain kids like me who kept bullshit in the locker. Higgins always insisted the school had to look “presentable” and hated that papers would stick out at the bottom.”

“Fuck me. It didn’t even occur to me…I never used my locker so I was never on that list…”

Your irises bounced between them as they avoid each other’s.

“What did it say? The letter?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“No, it does. I hadn’t heard from you all day so on Tuesday I went looking for you and I heard you making fun of me with Tommy outside on the patio. I thought that’s why… that you decided to stick with your image…”

“No, Eddie, God, no. I…fuck…I was so upset with you and hurt. I had no one to talk to…”

“So, talk to me. Tell me what it said.”

Steve let out a breath as he shook his head, glancing your way to see that you were paying attention appearing almost…hopeful.

“It was so long ago. I think it was something like…’Eddie, thank you for being there for me when I needed someone. Most of my life I’ve felt like I don’t really belong anywhere and I’m never enough but you showed me that isn’t true. I don’t have to be a ‘king’ or popular. I don’t have to be some asshole like my dad. I can just be Steve.

A freak.’”

Both men laugh before his eyes fully lock with the metalhead across from him and he moves his body till his nose is inches from his own.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks and I want to see where this relationship can take us. Hopefully far away from Hawkins where we can be happy. If you feel the same meet me in the bathroom by the gym during lunch so we can talk and I can kiss your lips.

Steve.”

Eddie’s palms cupped his cheeks as he surged towards him crashing his mouth to his own. One of the jock’s hands clung to his face just below his ear while his other arm wrapped around his waist.

For three years, they both thought of this moment. They craved it desperately under the anger and pain leaving the other to dream about their encounter at night.

To Steve, Eddie still tasted the same but his kisses were bolder, driven now by experience.

To Eddie, Steve’s tongue was better than he remembered and he lightly moaned at the feeling of being pressed against him as their cocks grazed through their jeans.

When they finally pulled away, they didn’t go far as the pretty boy chased the metalhead’s lips before choosing to rest his forehead on Eddie’s as they tried to catch their breath.

“I missed you…so much…That’s why I drove to the trailer park, baby. I just wanted…to see you.”

The long-haired boy exhales as he absorbs his words, words he had always desperately wanted to hear and thought he never would.

The sound of squeaking fills their ears and the turn in time to see you curling up into a ball on your side facing your wall on the bed.

You were so happy for them but your internal dialogue was whispering about how they wouldn’t have to be alone. They could ignore you now and focus on each other. You waited for the inevitable sounds of them walking out of your room hand in hand as you cried yourself to sleep.

Your frame didn’t stir when you felt your comforter being pulled up over your hip and the sound of your bedroom lights being turned off. Something sounding like plastic hitting plastic had you trying to identify the noise until a soft voice followed by acoustic playing made you realize it was cassettes being moved around.

You heard more movement, like a jacket being removed and shoes hitting the floor before your mattress dipped on both sides and you were suddenly encased in warmth.

Eddie’s soft eyes met yours as his arm slid under your pillow below your head and he slung the other across your waist above Steve’s whose palm rested on your upper belly pulling you back towards his chest while his steady breath warmed your shoulder.

You blinked away the tears and placed your own arm on the metalhead’s hip, pushing against his lower back to urge him closer to you which he acknowledged by scooting towards you till the tip of his nose grazed yours.

Your hand caressed the skin under his shirt as your fingers intertwined with the ones on your stomach as your eyes began to close and sleep took over.

***

Eddie’s eyes groggily opened as the rumble of low thunder subtly shook the wall of your room.

Now that everything was calm, he was able to take in his surroundings all be it through the minimal light illuminating from Christmas tree lights you had hung along the ceiling.

You had so many posters of different bands and movies including one of his many Corroded Coffin banners hovering just above your desk in the corner. Along your dresser were hair products and some jewelry with a few books from school.

Clothes lined the floor including theirs near your window next to the stereo that continued to softly play. Your sheets of course smelled like you and he couldn’t help but inhale your pillow before stretching a bit to notice a few polaroids hanging against the wall above his head.

Pressing up onto his elbow, he took in each photo with a little smirk. One had to be one of your friends from where you moved from. You had a hug grin stretched across your face as she hugged you from behind with an equally large smile. The one beside it was your dad holding your palms when you were a child as you stood on his toes with your tiny feet.

The next few were ones he didn’t anticipate.

In the middle was a photo, you had taken while lying in Eddie’s bedroom at home while you both were smoking. He had been lazily strumming the guitar when you blinded him with the flash laughing so hard afterward at his reaction.

The next was you and Steve after one of his games he assumed since the boy was covered in sweat wearing his jersey. You were sitting on his lap with the camera high in the air as you barred your teeth in a growl and he stuck out his tongue behind you.

The last photo was another image he assumed was you as a baby with a woman holding you in her arms. She was looking down at you with a wide smile that pierced the metalhead’s heart.

“That was the last time I feel like she was happy.”, you whisper and Eddie shuffles back down to lay in front of you. “My parents fought a lot. It’s my first memory of them together…but it wasn’t always like that…some days there was a stillness…I miss that…”

The thunder that had gradually gotten louder boomed overhead causing Steve to sigh in his sleep as he instinctively pulled you tighter to him.

“I’m sorry I was so mean. I’m not perfect, I know that and relationships scare the hell out of me but—” Eddie’s calloused palm covered your mouth to silence you, letting it linger before moving it to caress your cheek.

Just as the rain began to tap against your window, he craned his head to give you a gentle kiss that lingered as he pulled away.

“The first time Steve and I were together, he told me about how much he enjoyed sucking your cock; the way you tasted, your whimpers, the way you grabbed him. Maybe you should return the favor.”

Eddie blinked as his eyes flicked behind you and hovered, telling you silently that the other boy was awake and listening especially when his lips tenderly began kissing the skin along your shoulder.

As his massive palm slid under your shirt to grab your breast, your lips connected with his while you listened to what sounded like the metalhead removing his. Rolling to face Steve, he helped pull your garment over your head before locking his mouth around your nipple eliciting a low mewl to fall while your gaze shifted to observe Eddie unbuckling the jock’s belt and pulling down his jeans with his boxers. Keeping his hand on your back, Steve moaned when he felt the other boy spit on his tip and stroke it along his hard shaft.

The long-haired man allowed his tongue to flick along his slit and the pretty boy’s eyes rolled at the feeling as he turned his head to do the same with your nipple. Your fingers tangled in his hair as the vibration of his groans rippled through you and your hips rolled seeking friction.

“Fuck, baby, that it.”, Steve strained as his palm settled on the back of Eddie’s head as he began to fully take him.

“How does it feel?”, you whisper, his jaw going slack as his tip hit the back of his throat.

“S-So fucking good. Shit. C-Come here, honey.”, he commanded, guiding you to straddle his face and his fingers move your panties aside to allow the organ between his teeth entry.

“Steve.”, you whined, his tongue maneuvering like a mad man as it stroked up and down through you folds.

“Aw fuck!”

At his exclamation, you turned to see Eddie still bobbing his head but you vaguely noticed his arm moving making you grin.

“I told you his fingers feel good, Stevie. S-Stretch you out so good.”

The man underneath you lost his mind as his hands clung to your hips to a bruising degree and he pushed his face further into you making your eyes close as you grabbed hold of his hair. Grinding your waist, you covered your mouth as he sucked and slurped at your clit, smothering your scream as the ball in your belly dropped.

Lazily lifting your leg, you collapsed on your side next to him as he continued to make little whimpers at the pleasurable feeling.

Eddie came off him with a sweet pop but continued to stroke him as he tilted towards you to kiss your lips.

“I’m not ready.”, he murmurs giving you two pause. “I can’t…I’ve never…I’m not ready.”

The metalhead knew what he meant; Steve had his cock in a few ladies throughout his time as the King of Hawkins High but he had never experienced someone inside him nor had he tried it with another man before either.

“I’m sorry…”

“No, hey, no reason to be sorry.”, Eddie coos as he caresses his cheek hoping to calm his worry. “Do you want me to stop? We can focus on our beautiful girl.”, he praises, beaming your way.

“I don’t want you stop. Not yet.”

Steve watches with glassy eyes as you lean over to whisper something in the other boy’s ear eliciting a nod before positioning himself on top of him.

“If you decide you do just tell me ok, sweetheart?”

The boy nods and Eddie grins as he pushes down his pants with his boxers that you help push to the floor. The jocks mouth waters as he takes in the metalhead’s physique, his dick twitching at every tattoo and defined muscle his honey irises passed over.

His gorgeous, ring laced hand reached for Steve’s cock, holding it against his own loosely as he tested the waters by rolling his hips.

“Jesus.” The friction was more than delicious and he desperately needed him to do it again. “More.”

“Yeah? You like that, baby?”

The pretty boy licked his lips as he nodded and lifted his arm to wrap around you so he could pull you to his side and kiss your lips. Hearing Eddie’s soft grunts of pleasure, you pushed up onto your elbow to give him a passionate kiss that had him pressing his waist harder against Steve’s.

“Shit.”, the metalhead breathed, releasing his grip to kiss up the other boy’s chest before his head fell beside his. “I got you, Steve.”

Both men panted heavily as Eddie found a steady pace, your nails running gently down his back giving him more motivation while Steve’s fingers petted and occasionally pulled your hair.

“F-Faster, Eddie, baby, please.”

The long-haired boy pushed up onto his palms to honor the request and the jock took the opportunity to move some of it behind his ear while cupping his face. Steve spent years thinking about this moment. Eddie on top of him with his face scrunched in pleasure, his beautiful lips open as a grunt filled breath escaped him.

What he didn’t realize was Eddie had dreamt of this to but more so with Steve riding him as his head fell back and he moaned with every bounce.

Since they met you, you effortlessly slid into the equation like the final puzzle piece of the perfect landscape. Every time your palms or mouth caressed their skin, they felt almost feral and were struggling to keep it together.

“I’m gonna…”

Eddie nodded as his lips reconnected to his and he reached back down to pump their dicks with his hand. Steve whimpered as he pushed your face into his neck, clinging to you like a child does a teddy bear as his body trembled and his seed shot out, hitting his stomach. At the sight, the other boy followed mewling loudly as his rhythm faltered and his release painted the man’s stomach beneath him.

“Goddamn it. Fuck, Steve… you did so good, sweetheart. So fucking good.”, he murmured gently, eyes glancing around till he found a rag to clean the mess they had made. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah…yeah…need—need a minute, please.”

Eddie smiled as he placed his lips on the man’s forehead and you watched as his eyes closed at the tender action.

“I like hearing you use manners like that.”, he teased causing Steve to lightly chuckle. Chocolate irises flicked to you as his palm reached out to smooth your hair. “How are you feeling?”

You lopsidedly grin as you scoot out of Steve hold and roll on your tummy, pushing up on your knees with your ass in the air. A wicked grin spread on his features as he maneuvered off the other man to position himself behind you and playfully spanking your behind.

“You can take a minute if you need to.”

“Thank you for the approval, babe.”, he sasses even as he hisses while lining himself up with your entrance. “Fuck, I’ve never been this sensitive before.”

“Maybe we should do it at the same time…”, Steve suggested making you and Eddie giggle as the metalhead leaned over you, pressing his chest to your back.

“Have you done that before? Do you feel comfortable?”

“It’s been a few months but yeah I’m comfortable. I have some lube in the…” When you gesture towards your drawer, the jock rolls over to dig through it, promptly finding what he needs while the other boy flops to his side, bringing you with him.

After taking the bottle, you can’t help but laugh again when you hear the obnoxious squirt causing Steve to erupt in his own fit of giggles as he turns to face you. Gentle amber irises scan your features, his palm reaching out to touch your skin when your eyes flutter at the feeling of Eddie’s fingers between your cheeks.

“Fuck me, you’re so tight. I’ll go slow ok? I’m going to have to anyway or else I may fucking bust before we get going.”

As he places a steading hand on your hip, you tilt towards Steve to kiss his lips, your moans turning into subtle whimpers as you curse under your breath.

“Everything’s ok, honey. You’re doing so good.”

Glancing behind you, you listen to Eddie’s soft mumbles of restraint as he keeps slowly thrusting his cock into you. His arm hooks under your knee, lifting your leg into the air and Steve utilizes the opportunity, licking the pads of his fingers to bring them to your clit.

“Oh Goooood…”

“I know, baby, I know.”, he coos waiting for the metalhead to give him a signal that he’s ready which he does when their eyes meet. “Ok, are you ready for me?”

“I’ve never had two people at once.”

“Do you want to stop?”, he whispers.

“No. J-Just go slow.”

This was completely new for them, seeing you so vulnerable. When it came to fight or flight, the latter wasn’t an option. Even when you were enjoying yourself out in the world, you had this strength that they admired.

Since you had curled up into your bed, your vulnerability leaked through and they wanted to show you that they were there and that they cared.

You were safe with them.

“Of course. We got you, Y/N. We’re here for you, pretty girl.”

You nodded as Steve lined himself up with your entrance and gradually pressed into your cunt.

A heavy breath fanned your face as he whined at the overwhelming feeling of you clinging to his overly stimulated cock.

“Goddamn.”

Eddie had continued doing little pumps behind you, allowing you to get used to the feeling of him but as the other began to fill you, your body tensed slightly gripping him like a vice.

“F-Fuck…baby…it’s ok. T-Try—oh my God—try to relax your body.”

“Feel…feel so full…”

“I know, sweet girl. Trust me, I can feel him… we’re so fucking deep…”

While the metalhead spoke, Steve tried his best to use the distraction to his advantage pushing steadily into you till his hips connect to yours. You were sandwiched perfectly between them with Eddie’s breath warming the nape of your neck and Steve’s chest hair slightly tickling your chest.

A few seconds pass before they both pull back and thrust into you at the same time.

“OHMAGO—!”

The metalhead’s palm firmly covers your shout and muffles the pleasure filled groan that follows.

“Are you ok?”, he asks a bit rushed, sighing in small relief when you confirm. “You have to be quiet or else your neighbors will tell your dad.”

“I-I don’t care. Fuck…do that again…”

Placing his hand over your mouth once more, they repeat their movements and your eyes roll to the back of your skull as you loudly whimper.

Both boys find a steady rhythm, sweat and humid breaths sticking to you as you do anything you can to pull them closer.

“Harder, Steve, PLEASE!”

As you press your face into the pillow beneath you, you hear smacking above you but you don’t need to look to know that they were kissing.

“Give her what she needs, Stevie. Fuck her harder. O-Our girl deserves to feel good.”

“Will—fuck—will you cum with me?”

“You wanna fill her up at the same time?”

Steve nods emphatically but it’s interrupted when your pussy clenches tighter around him at their filthy words. A ringed hand moves your hair away from your face and you feel their eyes on you as Eddie murmurs praises.

“Atta girl. Come on now. Let go for us and cum. You can do it, baby.” You scream into the pillow as you tumble over the ledge and their pace slows to give you a moment to breathe. “That’s our good girl. Shit, sweetheart, you always look so beautiful when you cum.”

One of your arms lifts to circle around Eddie’s neck behind you as you sloppily kiss him while Steve places open mouth kisses along your neck and chest. Their hips smack loudly into yours as they chase their highs before grunting against your skin as they thrust their releases inside you.

Both men whisper soft apologies when you wince as they carefully pull out.

“I know, Y/N. It’s alright.”, the metalhead soothes as he climbs out of your bed and you whine as he grasped your hands to bring you with him. “You have to take a shower.”

“Why do I have to?”

“Because you smell.”, Steve teases as he rounds the corner into your bathroom after you both, flashing you that signature Harrington smirk.

“Noooo…”, Eddie clarifies, his voice echoing as he sticks his head into your shower and turns it on. “It’s because you had a very long day yesterday and now you just put your body through a lot of exertion. You need a warm shower to just…decompress.”

“A lot of exertion, huh?”

“Mhmm.”, he grins as he circles his arms around your waist and lifts you into the tub. Eddie enters right behind but realizes in that moment that the jock is lingering by the sink. “You to, Steven, get in here.”

“Oh, um, are you su—ok.”

When he climbs in you feel squished between them once more but in a soft almost protective way. You feel Steve behind you reaching for something but you don’t know what it is until the cool shampoo touches your head and he firmly massages it in with his fingers. Glancing down, you watch as Eddie takes your bar of soap and runs it along your body, his palms trying to be as gentle as possible especially between your legs.

When they finish cleaning you, you startle the metalhead slightly by switching places allowing him to be in the middle. Steve doesn’t say a word as he tilts his head back and allows the water to fall along his hair as he sighs.

Taking your soap again, he runs it along the jocks stomach cleaning any remnants of his skin.

Steve’s hand fell on the side of Eddie’s neck, his thumb caressing his jawline silently begging for him to his eyeline which he grants.

Their lips softly connect, the most tender kiss they’ve exchanged tonight.

His grip glides slightly upward just under his ear, holding him close as Steve’s eyebrows dip before releasing his hold but is replaced with yours as you hug Eddie from behind and rest your head on his back.

“So what happens on Monday, Munson?”

“That’s up to you, Harrington. Do you want to hang out with a freak like me?”

#######################

@debkk16 @myherometalhead @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @micheledawn1975 @twirls827

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