#mc why tee

[satoruxx]

the way i was staring at my screen when mc threw a whole ass cup at caleb and he just stood there after it shattered and said "did that help you calm down?" in the most relaxed voice ever..

[no1ryomafan]

I keep forgetting if I talk about this here even vaguely-mainly next to my awful memory I really use my tumblr like once a week lol-but as my mega man fixation scarily crawls back to me and I find out about more of the media that inspired it I realize I’m definitely more huge on series focused on “human looking robots who develop sentience and how that causes so much conflict for humanity” over “giant humanoid robots who don’t have sentience most of the time and are just a vessel to its pilot even if the machine does bring up conflict one way or another”

But Ryoma fucking Nagare still has to be my favorite character soooo people probably just think I’m a mecha fan anyways next to all robot media overlaps.

[solarpixie99]

.

[syluses]

fuck me like i’m famous

popstar! rafayel x female reader

in theory, attending your favorite popstar’s after party seems a dream come true. for you, it certainly is. in reality, though? it doesn’t live up to it- at least not innocently.

content popstar! rafayel, nsfw, smut, dubcon, fingering, disillusion, mc learns why idolizing celebrities isn’t wise (by being banged by one during his afterparty), yandere & obsessive undertones, 18+ characters

sidenote hrm… was supposed to be a lil drabble but it snowballed into almost 5k words. hopefully the fishie girlies will like this lil meal tho since he’s kinda a rare sight on the blog 💔 rafayel is freaked the fuck out in this deadass... also i literally had nothing better to name this but i believe chase atlantic kinda fits raf’s vibes here so :,] OH & THANK U FOR 600 FOLLOWERS I LOVE YALL ♡♡♡

Lights glitter on his face in the after party.

You don’t know what you did to earn God’s favor in this life, but whatever the reason, you’re thankful for scoring yourself that ticket. He’s all you listen to; a staple to each of your playlists. And so for what Thomas did- gifting you a special pass he had as an extra to your favorite popstar’s show- you’re ever in his debt.

He might be his publicist; that spare ticket may mean nothing to him. Alright, but-

It might as well mean the whole world to you.

Girls crowd his spot on the couch. It’s decadent: the room bathed in dim, yellow lights as the drinks, generously taken from, sparkle on the table before it. He kicks his long legs out on it and stretches an arm behind the woman at his side. She’s beautiful, scantily clad, all of them are- some curled up to his shoulder, others drunkenly twirling around the room- and because of it, you feel a little out of place.

In jeans and a band tee, you weren’t prepared.

Not for this.

One part of you is positively gushing at the scene that unfolds around you, deciding you could die in peace now that you’d finally experienced one of his concerts, especially in such an exclusive way. Still, another part of you, dwelling low in your belly, twisting like a bad gut feeling, quietly thinks, Has Thomas mistaken me for a whore? Perhaps it’s wrong to think that of those girls... But you also don’t believe they’d take any real offense to that if they were to hear your internal back-and-forth, because they seem delighted to put on their shows for him.

They can’t be blamed, right? I mean… It’s him. Rafayel. Everybody and their mom would trip over their own two feet trying to get an audience with him.

Still.

You ball your fists in your lap.

A-Are you even meant to be here?

Rafayel was always bold on camera, yes; flirtatious to a fault. Sure, he was a playboy and you were aware of that, the whole community was. Really, it was integral to his charm.

But this—

One of the girls giggles when she stumbles over her high heels and into Rafayel’s lap. It’s convenient. Too convenient: even if she’s only half aware of her surroundings, in for a bad hangover tomorrow morning, she still manages to go flying right towards him. You know the purple-haired man must be aware of it too, her frolicking stunts.

Nonetheless, he catches her in his arms before she topples, and he laughs, too.

It’s a pretty sound. Then again, everything about him is. With his dyed, lavender curls and the softness to his otherwise coy face, the little moles dusting it and his glossy, pink lips— he’s beautiful. All the more in that outfit. Cheeky but not enough as to be scandalous. His stylist and his designer have your applause. Clearly, they know what they’re doing.

On stage, he’d seemed playful, but was able to keep his gallivanting at bay. With a wink, though, all that sex appeal just oozes out, and—

It’s weird. How you can spend so much weeks and months and years idolizing somebody, and then suddenly have all that worshipful intent collapsing in a breath. Within the span of not even an hour, you’ve become so disillusioned with this celebrity- your all time favorite- that you can hardly bear to look at him and his wanton display.

Sat on the armchair opposite of it all as it takes place, deathly quiet, you begin to feel sick.

Is this really him?

You knew he was a flirt, yes, but- but what the hell is even this? Is this what he demeans himself to after each show? Just some cheap manwhore with his hand-selected throng of groupies, sipping away at an expensive wine just moments after he set the mic aside after a love song you’d thought to be heartfelt—

Your glass, the one a suited man offered on a tray and you took only to mimic the others, remains untouched before you.

This is startling. And far from your preferred scene.

M-Maybe you ought to go home. And soon. Is what you’ve been thinking for closer to thirty minutes now, and yet you’re too nervous to speak on it. I mean, maybe if you just stood up and left, nobody would notice your slipping out— the room is far from bright and everybody’s buzzed on something, anyway—

Marbled, coral-blue eyes stare at you over the rim of his glass, and they glint with something you think is mirth.

Curiosity, alongside it.

It makes you second guess yourself. Taking your leave.

He’s been watching you for a while now. Even when the stunning women gather in a flurry around him, tugging on his hair and teasing with whispering breaths in his ear, his attention doesn’t remain on them for long. It drags back to you and, for all the distractions occuring around you (the stereo playing an all too familiar song, the drunken chatter, the unease in your chest), he’s impressively focused.

It’s unnerving. It’s divine. He’s all you listen to in the car and in the shower and in your bedroom when you’re dancing to his newest album in an oversized sleep shirt and panties. You’ve cried to him and laughed to him and now he’s here, in shocking clarity, and you were so so excited, rambling about it to your girlfriends for months, but now you’re not so sure of what you’re seeing. If you like it.

He seems less god to you, now; oh, still heavenly, still angelic, for sure, but he toes more along the line of something wicked— like a cherub fallen.

And you can’t find it in you to get up and scurry out even when that’s all you can picture yourself doing in your head, escaping.

When you catch his eye again, you dip your chin (not out of reverence, no longer, but rather unease) and bite on your lip until you taste blood.

So when he lifts his hand with a snap then, the girls pouting as they crawl off him, dissipating no different than fog- you’re ever thankful for the opportunity to finally get up and leave, too—

A voice chimes over itself, layering over the familiar song playing in the background.

“Hey- wait up, cutie.”

You pause when you belatedly realize it’s calling for you.

As if your legs are stilts, you turn around hesitantly (strange: because really, shouldn’t you be happy he’s noticed you?) and try to lessen the shock on your face- even though his amused little smile tells you it’s as clear as day.

He laughs pleasantly, playful to a fault.

“What’s that silly face for? Oh, IIIIIII see, you’re feeling a lil left out, is my guess. Here,” he pats the cushion beside him and you actually blanche. For a moment you think your heart has stopped beating and those thumps you hear are the drum beats in his song as it drifts through the now empty room.

Save for you and Rafayel, it’s completely barren; the better part of its energy has left with the dancing girls but whatever remains of it, he holds.

You eye the spot beside him, unmoving.

An excuse, you realize right then— you can still spit out an excuse.

“I-I’m not one of the girls,” you stammer with a wince before clearing your throat, “I- I don’t even think I’m really supposed to be here.”

Another laugh, and a dismissive wave of his hand. You try to make yourself laugh too if only to appease him, your idol- endlessly nervous.

“Oh, well that’s just untrue,” he teases. “C’mon, don’t be shy~! I was just playing around with the others. It’s just you and me now, so no need to feel all nervous,” he assures, the image of harmless as he crosses his leg over the other and waits.

You blink rapidly. “I—“

You’re about to spew out a feeble rejection and that’s when his face drops.

You’re not sure, for all the records and posters and billboards you’ve seen of his face, if he’s ever made that expression. Not on camera, at least.

He lowly murmurs, “Aren’t you a fan?”

“I-…. Well-….”

A fan? For years now! His number one! A stupid girlish voice in the corner of your mind shrieks, and you almost dredge some joy out of this whole thing.

Letting out a shaky sigh, defeated, you creep over to him on equally shaky legs and take the spot beside him— all with great hesitance, though.

His pretty face alights again. Some of the pressure loosens up, even if only by a little, and your shoulders relax by a smidge.

Maybe it’s fine. Maybe you’re crazy and this is how he interacts with all his listeners no, no it’s not. Or maybe this is just a normal, celebrity thing and you’re blowing this way out of proportion here.

Just like he did with that other woman- that other likeminded fan or plaything or- or you don’t know- he loops an arm around the back of the couch behind you.

…What’s different, though, is that, unlike with her, he rests his hand on your shoulder and hugs you closer to his side. Clinging.

Rafayel smiles. Charming. Frivolous. With a glint in his eye, intense and engrossed, that’s weirdly sober when taking the half empty drink he sets down on the table into consideration.

“There. Good girl. So tell me, pretty,” he starts thoughtfully, fingertips twirling your hair as he leans into you. For the popstar that takes very little seriously, you think he appears awfully interested in some no-name girl who happened to score herself a limited-time lanyard to see him sing.

You swallow thickly. In the back of your mind, thoughts race. So does your heart. You might explode.

H-He didn’t act like this with the others— did you somehow present yourself in a way that made him think he could take more than what the others let him? More than what the others practically begged him to, but for some fucking reason he wouldn’t—

“Did you like the show?”

“Y-Yeah.” You don’t mean to whisper, but a certain, resigned silence is what you’ve been reduced to. His other hand stretches across his body to rest on your thigh.

Rafayel hums. But before he can speak, you- rudely, might he add- cut in. “I- I have to go home soon, so-“

Amused, he snorts. “Relax, alright? Tonight, you’re a very important person, aren’t you? Home can wait,” he muses, so close he’s near nuzzling your cheek.

A very important person? Funny. You’re just another fool bouncing around amongst the nosebleeds- a face he’ll be hard-pressed to catch and certain to forget. Honestly? This whole facade of his is as cruel as it is unbelievable.

Gradually, he’s letting you down.

Your throat bobs. Almost a bit bitterly, you remind, “I- I know you’re a popstar, but we’re still strangers. You don’t have to feel like you need to entertain me or be nice to me.”

“Huh. You’re one smart cookie,” he wryly comments before giving his head a tiny shake, almost more to himself than to you. “Um, look, cutie, you’re definitely no stranger to me,” his words leave you dazed because they sound genuine. You snap your head up to look at him, needing to gauge his expression and fish for deceit. You… find none.

He smoothly continues. “But I guess I’m no stranger to you either, huh? And tonight, you’ll be like, extra acquainted with me.”

✦

It’s difficult.

-When he’s hovering over you and gently pushing you onto the plush cushions into a half-lying position, to not only push him off but find the strength to.

Physically, Rafayel’s no hulking display of power, but he’s intimidating all the same. Mentally, he’s more or less your idol and although he may not hold too much weight in stature (still, he’s stronger than you), he still holds enough golden trophies to decorate a shelf— and too much influence for you to really comprehend.

Or try to toy with.

…You should want this. Should want to lie down and offer yourself up to him with eagerness— it should be like a blessing and yet you’re hesitating.

…Why are you hesitating? A voice in the back of your head, the one that had raved endlessly to her friends about the upcoming concert, asks perplexedly. You’ve no answer. But the man atop you seems to wonder much of the same, too; his brow twitching just slightly with what you think to be dejection before he tilts your chin with long, slim fingers to kiss you and it’s gone.

He moans into that first kiss. Prettily and soft.

Heat flutters in the core of you, your body involuntarily responding to him even as your eyes snap open and shift to where the door is- or where you think it is (have the lights gotten dimmer? or is he just all you see?)- his palm tugging at your hair softly to lie you down.

His lips are plump, pink, just as gentle as they look as they meld against yours— definitely aroused, there’s no doubt there, his warm breaths tinged with needy whines- but there’s an odd affection in them, too. Something personal and doting.

When he tries to slip in tongue, you reel away but there’s nowhere to go. Not really. Not when your head finally touches the cushion and he lets out a small, disapproving sound before giving up on that goal- for now- and attacking your neck instead.

It’s good. Delicious; that perfect mouth knows its way around a mic and a lover, you suppose- suckling and kissing and nipping with the barest amount of teeth as if he’s intent on leaving a mark.

You can’t hold back on it anymore— you drop your hands that had been hovering awkwardly on his broad shoulders, mewling in response, and he shivers.

“Yeah, cutie, make some noise,” he chuckles mildly. You think back to the auditorium. The roaring cheers and shrieks, the phone lights waving in the air and the mist rolling beneath his feet as he sang.

His hand descends down your belly, and you’re brought back to now.

It’s more instinct than anything that has you clamping your legs shut as soon as his fingers reach the denim. He tuts at you, and yet the glimmer in his eye is… endeared, almost.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t shut me away now,” Rafayel scolds, thought it lacks any real bite. Still, your lashes flutter and you stare agog at him.

Like this, he’s positively gorgeous as he props himself up mere inches away- albeit his little grin can almost be considered vulpine. “Didn’t I put on a great show for you out there? Don’t tell me I get nothing in return,” he pouts, tone light but what lies under it is a layer of desire. Opaque and thick.

Hesitantly, you mull over his words. I mean, you just really want this to be over- so to hell to with it, maybe you should just submit yourself. The sooner you appease the playboy with what he wants— that is, some nameless girl he perceives as cheap enough to get on her back for him— the sooner you can leave and pretend Thomas never gave you his special ticket.

The popstar’s words turn comforting as he watches you carefully. “If you’re shy, don’t worry. I’ve seen it plenty’a times before, you know.”

Bigheaded, you think then. Bigheaded but he has every right to be.

Maybe if it was any other guy bragging about the chicks he fucked and scrutinized, you’d throw up in your mouth— and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t cringe a little on the inside— but it’s embarrassment for yourself above all that stirs in your stomach. It joins the butterflies as your cheeks warm over.

“Now,” he continues, his familiar lilt flattening into heavy, breathy lust, “All I want is to see yours. I’m sure your pussy is pretty, cutie- really,” he convinces.

A tremble. “So pretty.”

Oh, you’re erupting on the inside— heart snapping like a snare drum in your chest, overpowering the faint music and drowning it out- your hand shaking where it weakly closes over the back of his own, now only half trying to drag it away.

He hammers the last nail into your coffin. With a ragged, but gentle breath and- as he leans in- a surprisingly chaste peck to your lips, appreciative of what he has before him.

“Won’t you show me it?”

But jaw slack, you hesitate. And- Of course you hesitate. The reasons for your deliberation, that weird gut feeling, become clearer and clearer as seconds progress:

Firstly, he’s the image of fame- and if you were to deny him, if he said the smallest word over it, your whole entire social life as you knew it would backfire on you. The possibility of his saying mean things on the internet hangs in your mind. Rumors circulating, as untrue as they are vivid, coming to bite you in the ass. For as many hours as you’ve spent watching and listening to Rafayel, you don’t know his true colors (as evidenced by right now); that includes what a wounded ego would look like if you rejected him.

Secondly, you hesitate because—

Because he’s perfect. Much like an idol on a pedestal, carefully set there with a singular light overhead to define him and him alone.

In a dark room, all look to him.

Once- an hour ago- you did, too.

Maybe you still do. You don’t know. There’s a whole bunch of feelings (confusion, awe, a betrayal that makes you question just how parasocial your relationship with him was) swirling inside you, none able to be grazed or grasped, and it shakes a part within.

“Please?” He breathes, ever headstrong.

…Your rationale is headlong, falling into the abyss with a word.

“O-Okay,” you all but squeak out. It’s the best you can manage. Rafayel’s breath hitches at that, though, your given assent, no matter how feeble, planting satisfaction deep in his chest.

And so with that he’s swiftly undoing your jeans and rucking them down your thighs.

It’s less out of good will that you help him shimmy them off you, to a bunch above your shoes, and more so eagerness to be done with this whole thing.

When he tucks his knuckles beneath the waistband of your panties- cutesy cotton put on full display for him, perched above pretty thighs- he curses under his breath.

His hands are as big as a man’s but as soft as a woman’s. His fingertips are dutiful as they brush along your folds, as singleminded, hungry, as the former.

…But when they nudge between your pussy lips and at your tight hole, his thumb prodding expertly at your clit, it’s like he has all the awareness of the latter.

“Ah, you’re so wet…” he muses aloud. Very pleased with his discovery.

His eyelids, dazzling with some glittery shade his makeup artist applied prior to his show, droop and don’t meet your flustered stare as he focuses on the space between your legs. And he takes it upon himself to rid you of your panties, too: for as adorable as they are, Rafayel knows it’ll be ten times better for you both if he can just-

Finally fucking see for himself what you’ve got goin’ on down there—

Undies midway down your leg, he comments, “you’re really hyped up after the show, huh?” His exhale is a shaky sound. His gaze is utterly fascinated (and perhaps a touch unnerving, what with its intensity) when it bounces back to that soft dip below your belly.

You’ll give him this much credit— for as wild as that glint in his unblinking stare becomes, he’s fortunately gentle with you.

He wets his lip absently. “Yeah… it gets me going, too. All the lights and cheering faces... Feeling the bass vibrate up from the floor. Can I be honest, though, cutie? When Thomas- oh, shit-“ he shivers when he inserts a digit in- his pointer one- and your hole instinctively clamps down around it, juices glistening to the base of his knuckle as you try not to squirm.

Y-You can’t believe this is happening. Your clothes are all in a disarray- the only piece intact, actually, is your tee that just so happens to be merchandise of the popstar that hovers over you now with his hand between your legs—

You blink back to real life when he sharply inhales.

“…When Thomas told me you were comin’, I made absolute sure to know your standing. That way, I could find you easily in the crowd. I was gettin’ so worked up just looking at you. Could you hear it-? My voice began to shake.” he chuckles, voice euphony to your ears. Familiar in its lilt but not in its timber.

His words stun you. They don’t make sense- is this is all some cruel, sick game after all-? Or- Or maybe he’s mistaking you for someone else? or he’s just choosing a really weird, admittedly screwed up way to let off some steam. God knows, what with his recent album built on the back of unrequited love, he needs the stress relief—

But no. He continues on like nothing is amiss, like your heart doesn’t plummet to the tips of your toes at his offhanded admission, and you forget how to breathe.

“When our eyes met- you looked like you were doubting yourself, but I really was staring at you, you silly girl.” Again, he’s fucking laughing, albeit this time, it takes on a more self-deprecating tone. You witness, almost unseeing, as his facade crumbles in increments. More and more he undoes it by the seams- much like he is with you.

“I was… Hm. I was even singing about you. All those stupid pining love songs— who do you think they’re for, princess?”

A gasp punches out from your lungs. You don’t know what it’s for- his nonsensical confessions, or his handling as he stuffs in another finger (you could’ve used some more working up to it, sure, he knows, but he’s a little impatient tonight) and scissors you open.

Wet shlicks ring in between guitar riffs. Your essence flows all over his knuckles and the numerous- horrifically expensive, you realize- jewels lining them. Rafayel doesn’t seem nearly as appalled as you do, though... If anything, aroused.

It feels so good. He’s hitting that spongey spot inside you just right. It’s a surreal experience, so much so you almost feel like you’ll coalesce into a dream at any moment. The melody playing in the background, the opulent couch as it groans beneath you with every piston of his arm, the twinkling, but dim lights and his face. That picturesque, idol face.

“Here, I’ll tell you the answer…” he leans over you to whisper in your ear, subjecting you to all the charm of a siren. You’re helpless to it ‘cause you’re just a girl.

“You. Always you.”

You’re dizzy. Your head is light but your lower half is heavy, the inner portion of your thighs numbed and sticky. Your limbs tingle but all you can feel is his lips tenderly suckling at your neck and your gushing walls as they constrict around their intruder.

Though they, too, ease up on him. He’s good at disarming you. That’s how you were walking in here, anyway, disarmed and beyond yourself with excitement.

Rafayel moans over you, finding a great amount of pleasure in the whole ordeal.

“You gonna cum? yeah?” He’s sweet, purring in your ear, making sounds as pretty as a girl- maybe even more so. His voice has won awards for a reason. You recall binging musical ceremonies on the internet and shrieking as soon as his name was called to stage, his seeming nonchalance as he accepted an accolade…

Yet you saw his ears, too, the tips of them red under the resounding applause, and wondered just what or who it was that had him bowing his head to the camera—

“A-Ah, mmph- Rafayel, please—!” You choke, fingers curling into his shoulder. In response, he lets out a pleasured, breathy sound, all encouragement and delight in his eyes.

“Mhm. Go ahead. Cum. Cum, pretty girl, all over my fingers. Oh- I really wanna taste you- will y’let me taste you afterwards?” He’s moaning unabashed as you come undone at warp speed. It’s shameful and your cheeks toast over but you clamp your eyes shut and choose to bask in the feeling of it all as it overwhelms you.

He’s good. So good. Masterful with it, really. Not like any of the bungling guys who courted you for all of one date (the more patient: two) before ripping your pants off and sticking their fingers inside without prompting or even half the skill to back their confidence.

No- he’s every bit qualified and then some.

Your nails dig into his clavicle. Rafayel doesn’t care- if that pinch of pleasure between his brow is the least bit credible, maybe he even likes the sting.

“Good girl. There, good girl.”

It’s building inside you. He works you up progressively, rapidly, and it shows in the little gasps you make that fall back to back, the L shape you make with either of your legs as they hitch up around his hips and quake, the ball in your gut that suddenly hardens before—

“Ngh— Rafayel-!”

You scream. Louder than the music. Louder than his words of encouragement, sugar-sweet, hungry, susurrating as they spill in your ear. He sensually nibbles on it and wraps his free hand around your head- with a misplaced affection, you think- to anchor you throughout your climax. He manages to keep you grounded there on the couch but only barely.

Your mind does slip off to another place, though, floating in white oblivion for a number of seconds as your limbs offer small trembles.

Rafayal takes close to nothing serious. So the light, but bubbly laugh that draws you back to consciousness with a sigh is fairly appropriate.

What isn’t is his touchiness as he drags you to sit on his lap— boneless; your skin damp with heat, your damned pants still cuffed awkwardly around your ankles— and croons into your neck. Holding you close like a lover would in the after glow. But this isn’t the after glow, this is the after show. But then again, if his earlier words were true- the ones that barrel back into you with clarity, the haze dissipating- then…

But no. No, how could that be? Those songs aren’t about you— and when you met his eye during the opening, and all the times afterward, you were sure it was just your imagination, especially after the fan beside you threw up her arms and cheered as if his stare was for her instead—

You might know Thomas (very vaguely- more of a friend of a friend you’ve seen at a few get-togethers; you follow him on insta), but that doesn’t mean Rafayel, the man he works for, should know you... I mean, you doubt they hang out often, anyway. Especially not since Thomas would more or less be viewed as the king of no-fun in the popstar’s eyes.

His whole job is to assure that Rafayel keeps his lips sealed tight: you can’t imagine that he’d be loose with his own by chatting with him about you, a girl he’s not all too familiar with but knows just enough to throw a spare ticket at.

So there’s just no way any of this is true.

Half of you expects Rafayel to shove you off his lap at any second, snap back to the reality that you’re not the woman he mistook you for, and flusteredly point you to the door. The other half of you is like it’s waiting for him to pull out his cock (it stirs underneath your ass, hard and by the feel of it, very excited) and take all that’s left to.

He moves your hair aside your shoulder and rubs along your back, instead.

And he whispers in your ear (or into your neck, really), his warm breath fanning there as he says like it’s a vow:

“Wanna see you at my next show. Better be there.”

Your throat bobs. As he speaks, you try not to focus too much on the fluid that oozes from your pussy lips and onto his expensive, designer slacks- but that’s no easy task when he seems to want for that, slightly lifting his hips up.

“No. Before that, even—“ he pauses for a moment, seemingly deep in thought before smiling, resolved. “Oh, I know- I’ll have Thomas help get you settled in with the tour bus. That way, you can just be on the road with me.”

You gawk. Whatever he’s saying doesn’t reach you; you’re only receiving that garbled bits of it, like a radio interpolated by static between voices. Your palms lift to his chest and push there softly.

Smoothly, he takes them in his own and kisses the knuckles, peering up at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky, giggling.

“Doesn’t that sound just great, cutie?”

“I- wait, you-?”

“I’ll name my next song after you- my next album, even!- and then we can go public immediately.” You can recognize it for what it is, even coming from someone as frivolous as him.

A promise.

“The fans will love you,” he says excitedly before leaning in and smushing a kiss to your damp hairline, murmuring there with a fiery tinge of what you think is devotion. “But not as much as I already do.”

He fishes into his pocket, then, one hand still securing your waist.

“Lemme give Thomas a call… I guess he kinda deserves my ‘thank you’, too, huh?”

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[jinwoosbabyboo]

I have a silly thought that I would like to share with you. Sometimes, I make random noises as a sort of verbal keysmash. Wouldn't it be funny if the verbal keysmashes were somehow Lemurian swear words? Or an old Philos curse?

Gibberish … Maybe?

How I imagine the LADS men reacting to you accidentally saying something in another language. Whole time you just made a random noise and have no clue what they’re even talking about. A/N: Imagine saying "manamana doot dee de dee tee" and they think you just cursed them out in a different language

Zayne

Doorways and staircases really suck sometimes because why did you completely forget what you came in the kitchen for as soon as you walked through the cased opening. You stood there dumbfounded and made a random noise which you could only refer to as a ‘verbal keyboard smash’

Zayne: Where did you learn that? MC: Learn what? Zayne: You just said ‘Forevermore’ in latin MC: I literally made the most random noise my brain could think of Zayne: That was latin clear as day MC: How the hell do you know latin? Zayne: I studied it MC: Why? Zayne: Why not?

From then on Zayne sends you random quotes in latin just to see if you can tell what they say. You keep telling him you never learned latin and have no clue what he’s talking about. After months of him teaching you bits of latin you two have your own little secret language now.

Rafayel

Your brain must've stopped working for a second because here you are opening the oven with your left hand and reaching in with your right hand. The problem? The oven mitt is on your left hand. Just as the tip of your finger is about to hit the edge of that scalding hot cookie sheet you pull your hand back making the most random shocked noise.

Rafayel: What did you just call me? MC: What are you talking about? Rafayel: You just basically called me a barnacle muncher in glubbanese MC: Glubba what?! Rafayel: Who taught you that? MC: Nobody taught me anything what in the blue fuck are you talking about? Rafayel: Are you seeing other Lemurians? MC: I made a random noise Raf get outta my ear with all this

You turned to pull your baked goods out of the oven and set them on the stove. You quickly turned the oven off before turning back to him.

MC: Also aren’t you the only Lemurian left Rafayel: Me and my aunt Talia … wait!

He grips you by the shoulders

Rafayel: Was it her?! I knew it! I'll be back MC: NO! I-

You didn’t get the chance to finish your sentence as he turned on his heels and made a beeline for the front door. You try to stop him from storming out the door, but he was too fast. You stare at the door dumbfounded because you still have no clue what the actual fuck glubbanese is.

Xavier

Xavier was the perfect body pillow to lean against while you read a book. Perhaps you were a little too immersed in your book because when the major plot twist came the most unintelligible string of gibberish came out of your mouth. You felt Xavier stiffen behind you which broke you immersion.

MC: What's wrong? Xavier: Why did you say that? MC: Say what? Xavier: You just said something rather strange in Philosian MC: I said what in philosophy? Xavier: I’d rather not repeat it MC: Xav I literally just made a random noise Xavier: Well that random noise is ‘hairy anus’ in philosian MC: WHAT???

You sat up so fast you somehow managed to fall off the couch hitting your elbow on the coffee table. Xavier pulled you back onto the couch checking to make sure you were okay before you notice the grin he’s trying to hold back. He finds this whole thing hilarious.

MC: Stop laughing! Xavier: I should’ve known you didn’t mean to say that MC: I didn’t say anything I made a random noise Xavier: I’m sure you’ll be more careful next time MC: If Philosian sounds like random throat noises then yea I guess I'll be more careful

Sylus

You were laying on the plush couch in Sylus’ study while he was taking a few business calls. He said he would be done soon however the boredom was getting to you. With absolutely zero thought you blurted out a random noise. You didn’t think much of it until you looked over and saw Sylus starring at you; his brows furrowed and his head cocked. You sat up confused on why he was looking at you as if you’d just called him a no neck bitch or something.

Sylus: Where did you learn that? And when? MC: Learn what? Sylus: You just tried to curse me MC: I didn’t do anything…… Sylus: That was a curse in ancient Philosian MC: That was random gibberish Sylus: …. MC: Fix your face Sylus: Trying to get rid of me sweetie? MC: I’m not trying to do anything! Sylus: Unfortunately for you those curses don’t work on me you’ll have to try something else MC: What in the blue hell do you mean ‘try something else’ I didn’t try anything in the first place!

Ever since you supposedly tried to curse him in a language you’d never heard of he’s constantly teasing you. He checks in from time to time to see if you’ve taught yourself any new spells and you tell him the same thing every time.

MC: Sylus it was a random noise Sylus: Keep telling yourself that Sorceress

[sipthegossip-if]

THE WOLF IN SHEEP'S SKIN. Arlo Kent is warm, lively, bright, cheery, bubbly. Every other word in the dictionary that would make anyone in their presence feel comfortable, maybe even safe. Because they ask the right questions at the right time, laugh in a way that makes you feel relaxed. The sort of person who remembers your pet's name, your favourite drink and the off-hand comment you made some six months ago at lunch.

To the crew, they are background noise. To the rest of the world, they don't exist. To you? Arlo doesn't know what they are to you. Yet. But they know what they want to be. And they know what you are to them.

Arlo likes to think of you like this parasite that lives under their skin and feeds off them. The only difference is that this host likes it. Isn't the highest form of love just complete devotion? There's a sick of kind of pleasure in willingly submitting themself to you. Yes, you breathe in my veins. Yes, I will gladly cut myself open if you were to ask. Would you stitch me back up, baby? Yes, i would bleed on the bathroom tiles for you because how I could I not? You asked. You.

You. You. You. You.

How do you do this?

You will grow out of it, most people say but you see, Arlo is not the type of person who ever grows out of things. They still order the same ice cream flavour they did when they were nine, even though their friends think it's basic. Because Arlo Kent never learned to fall out of love like that.

*ROMANCING ARLO KENT : Arlo believes that their hands have no other purpose than to hold yours against them. There are 206 bones in the human body and all of Arlo's crave the feeling of your frame against them. 365 days and not a day goes by where you don't invade their thoughts. You are Arlo's only home. Is that bad? Arlo hopes you don't find that pathetic.

All Arlo desperately, tremendously, murderously, wants is you. Is that too much to ask for? There is just so much of you living inside Arlo without their permission. Why won't you let them in too? You know. To make it equal.

Arlo doesn't believe in a God but they pray for you anyway. Every night before they go to bed, they hope there will come a morning where they will not wake up alone but with the feeling for your warm body beside them.

But it's alright. It really is. Arlo will take their time. Not because they are patient, but because they are certain.

You two are inevitable. Arlo will take as long as you need. The sea kisses the shore until it forgets what it was like to exist without them. Until the jagged edges soften.

Until surrender feels like choice.

Because when you will have nobody, you will come to no one but them. Arlo will make sure your eyes begin searching for theirs, when they aren't around. You will begin to laugh more when they are near. You will start calling it fate, as if it was some divine intervention and they didn't weave the threads of fate themself. But despite that, they will not correct you.

Arlo will never not chase you. In every universe they will find you. Over and over and over and over— until there is no version of you that doesn't love them back.

PERSONALITY : Arlo is an amicable person. The kind that always pssts at a cat, that passes by, feeds the strays in their area and helps an elderly woman cross the street. They are helpful, thoughtful, observant, endlessly polite and a great listener. Has a huge friend group. Chatty and loves social media.

APPEARANCE : m!short dyed blonde hair in surfer waves. f!medium dyed blonde hair with curtain bangs. They have a fake tan. m!5'6. f!5'3. Likes to dress casually, stuff like a white tee and sweatpants but has no qualms dressing up for you.

*romance progresses slightly differently for naive and skeptical mcs.

[blissfullsvn]

bungee

summary. there are two things to know about han taesan. one, han taesan is hard to understand, and two, han taesan does not like you. it turns out that neither of these are particularly true.

pairing. han taesan x reader genre. fluff, college/university!au word count. 1.3k warning. brief mention of drinks being spiked (not from MCs) a/n. in love with the concept of taesan looking so cool but being the most idiotic specimen on earth but even i think he’s questionable here 🧍‍♀️ nonetheless, i hope you enjoy this as much as i did! reblogs are welcomed with open arms :D masterlist

taesan has always been a bit of an enigma.

he dresses like your typical emo skater boy, but is obsessed with chococat. he hates being called a cat, but has all kinds of cat-related accessories for his outfits. he looks like he would never be seen within a five-meter radius of any dessert, but always has five packs of pudding in his bag. 

but above all, what truly confuses you is how he treats you.

for starters, taesan doesn’t like you.

at the very least, he’s uncomfortable around you.

that’s a well-established fact. has been, ever since you started hanging out with jaehyun and naturally integrated with the rest of his group. taesan has always kept his distance with you, even after you’ve grown close enough with everyone else for them to show up at your door unannounced. whenever it comes to you, he’s always chosen to be at the sidelines, walk a few steps behind, pipe up with minimal responses.

but it’s not like you have anything against him for that. you know it’s impossible for everyone to get along, even if it’s within the same friend group—especially when you joined later than everyone else—and it’s not like taesan has ever said or done anything offensive to you; he just . . . tolerates you. 

as easily as your friends welcomed you with open arms, you simply accepted that that’s just how it’ll be between the two of you; floating in parallel orbits without ever reaching each other. and you’re okay with that.

. . . despite your tiny, little crush on him.

you don’t know when it started, but from some moment onwards, you frequently found your eyes drifting towards taesan. on monday, when the lecture is particularly boring; on wednesday, when the lecturer enters ten minutes late; on thursday, when his smile is especially blinding and there are strands of white fur on his black tee.

so, maybe your crush isn’t actually minuscule, and the chances of it being reciprocated are less than zero, but you can live with it. that’s just how taesan is with you.

but that’s also why it’s confusing when taesan does things that are so . . . uncharacteristic.

like when you’re having lunch at the cafeteria, and he casually picks up the banchan on his own tray to replenish yours. or when you let out a whisper that you’re cold, and he’s the first to remove his jacket to drape it over you. or when you once dug through your bag and pockets to find a hair tie before settling with a pen, and from then on you always see him with a hair tie on his wrist.

it’s even more confusing when you stare at him afterwards, equal parts flustered and fluttery, and all he does is look back at you in question, as if asking you “what's up?”, like what he did was nothing out of the ordinary; like it’s something he has no problem doing for you; like it’s something as normal as breathing.

and then, when you’re left to wonder what exactly it means, losing sleep and sanity, taesan would show up the next day, acting as usual—distant, aloof, withdrawn.

as much of a whiplash it is, you can’t say it’s particularly surprising. taesan, in all his enigmatic glory, has always been difficult to understand, to comprehend, to grasp.

but right now, you might be a step closer to figuring him out.

“don’t.” taesan’s hand is around your wrist, grip firm but gentle. he’s huffing a little, hair disheveled. it’s clear he had been running towards you, but you haven’t a single clue why. 

“what . . . are you doing?” you look at your wrist, the way his hand engulfs it entirely, and then to his eyes. his pupils are so deep and dark that you’re drawn in immediately, and it’s then that you realise: you and taesan have never looked at each other face-to-face, this close before.

instead of looking away, which is what you expected and what he would have done, he does something completely uncharacteristic, once again.

for the first time, taesan takes a step inside your orbit.

your breath hitches at the proximity, and you almost want to ask if jaehyun is around the corner, filming this as a poor idea of a prank. but it’s taesan who’s in front of you, and he would never agree to anything like that. especially not when he’s looking at you like . . . that.

it’s so intense that you have to look away, find a spot on the gravel to ground yourself. but that doesn’t last long, because you’re immediately pulled back to him when he speaks, just like a force to a satellite.

“don’t have dinner with him,” he says—commands.

under normal circumstances, you might have butterflies. be thrilled, even. because this implies that he had been thinking about you; that what you do does affect him.

but right now, what you feel is something closer to indignation. you’re all dolled up, ready to meet someone new and have some fun, and hopefully rid yourself of your chronic illness of pining. but then the reason for all this comes and demands like you owe him?

before you can chew him out, taesan speaks again, and all the words on the tip of your tongue immediately melt away.

“he’s a terrible person.” he clenches his jaw. “has a reputation for . . . tampering with people’s drinks.” his grip on you tightens. “and i overheard him offering to take someone else out tomorrow.

“so . . .” he softens, his fingers slackened against your skin, “don’t go out with him.”

“i. . . .” you open your mouth but shut it immediately. this was the last thing you expected him to say when he came up to you, so you’re not entirely sure how to reply. you decide to say the most appropriate thing first: “thank you for telling me.

“but . . .” you continue before he adds anything, “why?”

“why?” taesan repeats, reeling back in surprise. “what do you mean?”

“why . . . did you come all the way here?” you tilt your head in question. “your class just ended, didn’t it? that means you ran all the way from campus to my dorm to tell me this. which i’m super grateful for, of course!” you add quickly. “but i’m just . . . confused.” internally, you wonder when you’re ever not confused by him. “a phone call would have sufficed.”

taesan blinks, as if he hadn’t thought about that.

“oh.” he lets out. “that . . . wasn’t on my mind.” he scratches his nape. “i just wanted to see you.”

you freeze, your brain short-circuiting. it takes a while to recover, but even then, taesan is still looking at you like he hadn’t just spewed out your new sleep-deprivation material, like it’s truly something as normal as breathing for him.

“taesan.” you call out, and the way his thumb brushes your skin in response sends a jolt down your spine. “do you . . .” you pause, rethinking your wording, before deciding on a far safer option. “are we good?”

“huh?” he tilts his head, wondering if you’re making a joke. when he sees that you’re not, he answers definitively. “of course.”

you let out a shaky breath, unconsciously leaning towards him. so . . . you’re good. taesan doesn’t dislike you. that’s good enough—no, way better news than anything.

“okay.” you nod, and a strike of confidence hits you. emboldened by the newfound knowledge, you inch closer. “i’m all dressed up, but i just found out my date is an asshole. what should i do, taesan?”

“huh?” taesan looks flustered, and you revel in that information now that the smokescreen blocking your vision has disappeared. “you . . . can still go out?” his tone is hesitant and clumsy, but nothing short of endearing.

“right.” you nod. “so go out with me, taesan.”

taesan splutters. “w–what?”

“be my date instead, taesan.”

and for the first time, you know what his answer is going to be.

a/n. don’t you just love it when ppl discover communication

© blissfullsvn 2025. All Rights Reserved.

[mggssocks]

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: Fem!Kook!Reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: explicit sexual content, MC being kind of a bitch lol.

a/n: here's an extra long chapter to hold you over until I have the chance to start writing chapter five! also look at the scene matching with this gif and the end of the chapter (super proud of myself lol)

Rafe is sprawled across your bed. Comfortable. Too comfortable. He’s in his boxers- which are still damp, but not enough for him to care. Not that the two of you did anything. He just strolled in, stripped down, and claimed your bed like it was his birthright. He even tossed his clothes into your hamper without asking, like he lives here.

You’re lucky you’ve been doing your own laundry. If Chelsea -your parents’ maid- had been the one to collect it this week, she’d have a full-blown heart attack finding Rafe Cameron’s drenched designer jeans and clinging white shirt buried among your sleep shorts and socks. She’d tell your mother. And your mother would start planning your elopement or your funeral.

You kneel in front of the hamper now, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, trying to ball it up in yours. You shove it down deep, beneath your soft tees and cotton tanks, hoping it blends in when you load the washer later.

Your eyes flick up instinctively -just a glance- but you pause when you see him.

He’s lying on his side now, one arm propped under his head, completely focused on the TV. Fran Fine is mid-rant, exaggerated and nasal and ridiculous as always, and Rafe- Rafe Cameron of all people- actually chuckles.

Real. Quiet. Almost soft.

You mentally curse yourself because, God help you, you smile at the sound.

“You’re watching The Nanny now?” you ask, trying to shake off the warmth threatening to melt the iciness you’ve worked so hard to maintain around him.

He shrugs, eyes still on the screen. “She’s hot. And mean. I like her.”

“Figures.” You stand, brushing your hands on your thighs and leaning against your dresser. 

“So, are you gonna tell me why you’re really here, or are you just planning on hiding from a hurricane in my bed all night?”

He glances at you, the humor flickering off his face just for a second. It’s quick. Almost invisible. But you catch it.

“Tannyhill lost power,” he says. It’s nonchalant. Too easy.

You narrow your eyes. “You have a generator.”

“It broke.”

“Convenient.”

His mouth tugs slightly to the side. Not a smirk. Something else. You don’t push- yet. But you don’t sit down either. You keep your distance, because even when he’s lying half-naked in your bed, Rafe has a way of making you feel like you’re the one exposed.

“You always deflect like this?” you ask. Your tone is light, but your eyes are sharp.

He stretches a little, but not lazily. Like he’s restless. Like there’s something crawling under his skin that he doesn’t want to name.

“You always interrogate your houseguests?” he volleys back, gaze fixed on the ceiling now.

“Only the ones who sneak in soaking wet, throw their clothes in my hamper, and then pretend they don’t have an agenda.”

Silence hangs for a beat. The laugh track from the TV fills the background. His fingers drum lightly on the blanket, a steady rhythm that’s meant to distract from the way his jaw tightens.

You don’t know what it is -can’t name it- but something is off. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just… off.

His chest rises on a slow inhale. “Can’t I just be here because I wanted to see you?”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“You ghosted me.”

His eyes finally meet yours again. This time, there’s no smirk.

“Yeah.” It’s all he says. But his voice sounds… hollow.

You shift, your arms folding across your chest like a shield. “You didn’t want to see me when you were with Sofia.”

The name hits the air like static.

Rafe looks away. Scrubs a hand down his face. He’s unraveling in micro-movements now. The twitch of a brow. The way his foot taps once, like he’s trying to ground himself.

You watch all of it.

And you realize he’s not just here for you.

He’s hiding from something.

And maybe you’re not sure what.

But the storm inside him feels a lot louder than the one howling outside your windows. You make your way toward the bed and let yourself fall backward, the mattress dipping beneath you with a soft thump. The fabric of your dress shifts as you land, the neckline gaping just enough to expose the slope of your cleavage.

You feel his eyes almost instantly. Of course he’s looking.

Rafe’s gaze settles in that small reveal like it’s a goddamn magnet, his head tilting just slightly to try and catch more than he should.

You groan- frustration painted over faint satisfaction that he’s even here.

You hate how much of you wants him to look.

“I can make you make that sound for real, if you want,” he says, voice thick with teasing, one hand creeping slowly across the mattress, reaching for your frame.

You roll to your side, deliberately facing away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

He huffs a low, amused breath. “You’re relentless.”

His head tips back and he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing like he’s trying to clear his thoughts- or erase them.

“You’re basically naked in my bed during a hurricane and still not telling me why you’re here.”

“Does there need to be a reason?”

“Yes.”

You flip back over, propping yourself on your elbows. Your legs kick lightly behind you, your nightgown slipping ever so slightly up your thighs. It’s innocent enough- except nothing about you looks innocent to him in this moment.

Your hair’s a little messy, your lips a little pouty, your tone annoyed but your presence undeniably inviting.

And Rafe can barely sit still.

“I can say anything,” he shrugs, eyes gliding over your legs, “but honestly? I just wanna put you through the mattress.”

It’s a dodge. A cover. But he’s not exactly lying either. Your legs stop swinging.

The warmth that pulses from the center of your body startles even you, and the way your thighs press just slightly together isn’t lost on him.

You study him for a beat. Trying to decide if that’s really it. If he just came here in the middle of a storm with soaking wet clothes -and those eyes that don’t miss a thing- just to get off.

You don’t buy it. So you shift. Slowly. Crawling over the bed until you’re straddling his hips.

He leans back on his elbows, a smug expression already blooming on his lips. He thinks you’re giving in.

You are- but not in the way he expects.

You slide one finger down his chest, stopping right above the waistband of his boxers.

“Tell me why you’re really here,” you whisper, lips hovering just above his, “and I’ll let you do exactly that.”

It’s a power move. But it’s not just a game. You need to know.

Because if he says the wrong thing, you’re pushing him off this bed so fast his wet clothes won’t even be put in your washer yet by the time he hits the front porch.

Rafe’s lips part. His hands grip your waist. You feel the shift in him almost instantly. His cocky mask falters, just slightly, and when he looks up at you now- he isn’t teasing.

He lets out a long, slow breath and gently lifts you off him, settling you beside him instead. You blink, caught off guard. His hand stays at your hip, grounding you.

“I saw your dad,” he says quietly.

You stiffen.

“In his car. With some woman.”

He swallows. His voice is different now- low, but not cruel. Careful, even.

“She was… younger. Blonde. Not like your mom. It wasn’t professional.”

Your throat tightens. But you don’t cry. You don’t say anything for a long moment- just stare at the ceiling, your chest rising and falling in careful, quiet breaths.

He moves closer, resting a hand across your stomach, thumb brushing soft circles into your side. You still don’t speak. But you don’t pull away either. So he stays. Holding you like it’s the only way he knows how to tell the truth.

You think.

Everything floods in at once-memories crashing into you like the rain against your windows. Every single day you’ve ever lived with your father as the backdrop… flashes in an instant. You remember being little, standing on his dress shoes while he spun you around the kitchen.

You remember the way he spoiled you-waking up to a brand-new car on your sixteenth birthday, thousands spent on impromptu girls’ nights just because you’d had a rough week. His voice echoing in your head, giving advice that always started wise but ended in rants. Rants that bled into pressure. 

Pressure to be someone. To be perfect. To follow a path he traced for you before you ever chose it yourself.

All those speeches about honor. Discipline. Control. And yet he gets to blow it all up?

He gets to cheat on your mother. To destroy your family from the inside out. And somehow you’re the one who’s supposed to keep it together? Screw that. If he gets to live however he wants-why can’t you?

Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck this.

Before you even realize it, your body moves faster than your thoughts. You swing a leg over Rafe’s lap, straddling him again- and this time, your lips find his without hesitation.

It’s fast. Needy. Dizzy with heat and frustration.

Your hands slide up his chest, wet hair sticking slightly to your fingers as you kiss him like he’s the only solid thing in your storm.

But he stops you. Pulls back just slightly, breath heavy against your cheek.

“Woah, woah, woah-” his hands frame your waist, voice suddenly more serious. “You sure?”

His brows knit together. He’s not cocky now. Just searching your face like he’s trying to read the cracks in you.

Your hands slide into his damp hair, tugging slightly. Your eyes meet his, glassy but firm.

“I’m sure.”

You kiss him again- deeper this time. And this time… he doesn’t pull away. Everything is happening too fast for you to think straight, let alone wisely.

You’re about to have sex with a guy who’s been toying with your feelings- who’s made you question yourself more times than you can count.

And for what? Because your dad is cheating? Because everything feels like it’s falling apart and you need something -someone- to anchor you?

The rationale is gone. Slipped through your fingers and twisted up somewhere with the wind and the rain and the chaos of the hurricane outside.

All that’s left is impulse. Heat. The ache for control in a moment where everything else is spinning.

Your lips refuse to part from his, greedy and feverish, like letting go might shatter the spell. You shift, pressing into your knees, lifting yourself just enough to tug your nightdress up and over your hips. The fabric pools around your waist as your skin meets the humid air.

Rafe follows your lead, his hands moving with an eager kind of restraint as he pushes his boxers down, the wet fabric sliding over his thighs.

Your hand slips between your bodies, slow and intentional, fingers wrapping around him with a teasing touch that makes him inhale sharply through his nose. You trace him softly, deliberately, watching his face shift.

But then- he breaks the kiss. Breathless. Serious.

“My wallet’s in the car. I don’t have a condom,” he admits, his voice low.

You pause, logic flickering in your mind. You’re not on birth control. You should stop this- back out, or at least settle for something safer. Mutual pleasure. Hands. Mouths. No risk. But… yolo… right?

You hold his gaze, deadpan. “Your pull-out game better be A1.”

He studies your face, just for a second, then nods with that cocky, reassuring smirk. “It is.”

You lift yourself off the bed, positioning yourself perfectly over Rafe's rigid length, which still glistens from your wetness. You pretend the wetness between your thighs only started now- not when he first walked through the door, rain-soaked and smug, his shirt clinging to every inch of his body.

Sinking down onto him, your eyes flutter shut in pure bliss as your walls envelop his thick cock. Rafe's breath catches and his muscles relax into the mattress beneath him. You start slow, your hips rolling in a deliberate, sensual rhythm. But it doesn’t stay gentle for long-soon, the pace quickens, urgency building as you rock and grind against him, your movements growing more desperate, more unrestrained.

Your palms press firmly against his chest, grounding yourself against the steady rise and fall of his breath as you move harder over him. His skin is warm under your touch, muscles taut beneath your fingers, and you use his strength like an anchor, chasing that high.

The bed creaks in protest, shifting under the rhythm of your body, but you barely register it-too wrapped up in the overwhelming pleasure building low in your stomach.

Typically, riding isn’t your first choice in bed. Not even your second. Honestly? It’s probably your last. But tonight, with the way Rafe’s hands grip your thighs, the way his eyes are locked onto you like you’re the only thing that exists-it feels different. 

The rhythm between you builds, your body rising and falling against his as the storm outside rages on, a chaotic symphony to match the one unfolding in your bedroom. The faint hum of The Nanny still plays in the background, Fran Fine’s voice comically misaligned with the tension in the room. But there’s only so much the TV can cover-only so many moans and stifled gasps it can excuse.

Your bed creaks beneath you, the headboard tapping softly against the wall with each movement. It’s not violent-just insistent. Focused.

Then you feel it bubbling up, the pleasure threatening to crest. You let out a moan- his name, breathy and high-and suddenly his hand is over your mouth, smirking underneath you like the smug bastard he is.

“Careful,” he murmurs, cocky and low, his eyes half-lidded. “You sound like you want your parents to know you’re getting ruined right now.”

“Shut up, smart ass,” you moan out, breath catching in your throat as you use what’s left of your strength to flip the both of you over. He lets you -chuckling into your neck- but the moment your back hits the mattress, he takes control again, slipping his hands under your thighs and shifting his weight so he’s hovering over you.

The smirk is still there, cocky as ever, but softened now by something else-something heavier. 

He leans in, brushing his lips over yours just once before speaking, voice barely above a whisper.

“You like it better when I’m on top, don’t you?”

You don’t answer, but the way your legs tighten around his waist is more than enough. He grins, lowering his hips to meet yours again, slower this time- deeper. Your head falls back into the pillow with a breathy gasp.

“I knew it,” he mutters, lips trailing along your jaw. “You act like you hate me, but your body-” he pauses, pushing into you harder, “-she’s honest.”

You bite your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of another moan, but it slips out anyway. The storm outside rages louder, the windows rattling in their frames-but here, in this moment, the only thing that exists is him. And the way he’s ruining you.

“Rafe-I’m so close,” you breathe out, voice breaking on the moan that follows.

Before the sound can fully leave your lips, his hand covers your mouth again-smooth, familiar, like he’s done it a thousand times. The move is effortless, casual. His other hand stays braced beside your head while his mouth travels down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone. You gasp beneath his palm, nails clawing into his back without mercy, dragging red lines down his skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself to the moment.

There’s no explaining this if your parents come knocking. No “it was the TV” excuse that could cover the sound of the bed hitting the wall like this. Your muffled moans. The low growl of Rafe’s voice against your skin.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, lifting his head to look at you-his hand still on your mouth, his eyes locked on yours. “So damn tight- taking me so well. Just like I knew you would.”

Your eyes roll back and he grins through his own panting, watching you unravel beneath him. His pace falters just slightly, his own release not far behind. You can feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his breath hitches when your legs clamp tighter around his waist.

You’re dangerously close now- your body burning, your thoughts a haze of pleasure and disbelief that this is happening. That he’s here. That this is him.

And when you cum, it hits like a wave- your whole body shaking under him as you cry out into his hand, back arching, toes curling. Rafe swears low, pulling you in tighter, chasing his own high until he pulls out and releases -finally- collapsing on top of you, breathing hard, both of you soaked in sweat and silence except for the distant thunder outside.

His hand finally drops from your mouth. He presses a kiss to your shoulder- surprisingly soft. And for a moment, the only thing either of you can do… is breathe.

“So it’s official… your pullout game is strong,” you tease, your voice still breathless, a lazy smirk curling at your lips.

Rafe lets out a low chuckle, following your gaze as your eyes peek down between your bodies to where the evidence of him glistens on your stomach.

He grins, cocky and proud. “Told you it was A1.”

You swat at his shoulder, still catching your breath. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow. “Bit late for that.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly beneath him, the hem of your nightdress bunched around your hips. You reach for the tissue box on your nightstand, but Rafe beats you to it. He leans over, grabs a few, and starts gently wiping the mess from your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world-like this is just… something you two do. It’s surprisingly tender for a guy who was just rearranging your insides.

“You’re smug,” you say, your voice softening as you lie back against the pillows.

“And you’re beautiful,” he replies without missing a beat. It’s so smooth it should annoy you, but the way he’s looking at you now- his tone more sincere than before- makes your stomach flip.

You study his face. He’s not smiling like before. His eyes have that unreadable expression again, the one that says he’s thinking too hard about something.

“What?” you ask cautiously.

He exhales, his fingers slowing on your skin. “About earlier…”

Your brows pull together.

“About your dad.” His voice is lower now, quieter. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have told you like that.”

You pause, a beat of silence stretching between you.

“It’s fine,” you say, even though it’s not. “I mean… it’s not like you cheated on my mom. He did.”

Rafe watches you closely, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re really okay or just pretending to be. You don’t give him much. You’re good at hiding it. You shrug. “Besides, I didn’t exactly seem heartbroken a few minutes ago.”

He frowns a little, like he doesn’t like that joke- but you’re already rolling onto your side, smoothing your nightdress back down like any trace of what just happened isn’t still lingering in the room.

“That’s how we’re coping now, huh?” he says, half-joking but half-serious.

You turn back to him. “Rafe, I have to live in this house with him. I can’t let myself spiral. So yeah, maybe sex and sarcasm are what I’ve got for now.”

He nods slowly, as if accepting your answer even if he doesn’t like it.

And then, after a pause, he says softly, “If you need anything…”

“I won’t call you,” you say with a smirk.

He laughs under his breath, then watches you for a long moment. “You’re kind of a menace, you know that?”

You slip back under the covers beside him, the silky fabric of your nightdress brushing against his skin. “You’re the one who came to my balcony during a hurricane and I’m the menace?”

That earns a crooked smile from him, one of the rare ones that almost looks sweet. Almost.

-

It’s 8 in the morning.

You and Rafe had fallen asleep not long after your… activities. You missed dinner entirely. Your parents probably wondered why you never came down to eat, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Rafe Cameron had been in your bed- half-cuddling you, though still somehow managing to keep a sliver of distance. Typical.

Now, you’re in the laundry room, shoving damp clothes into the dryer, subtly trying to bury Rafe’s jeans and shirt in the mix.

“You missed dinner.” Your mother’s voice slices through the quiet, and you jump so violently that you smack your head on the cabinet above the washer.

“Shit- ow!” you hiss, hand flying up to cradle the spot as you squeeze your eyes shut in pain.

“Watch your mouth,” she scolds, the spoon in her tea stopping mid-stir.

“Well, sorry, you-” you catch her death glare just in time and rework your words. “You startled me.”

Your heart is pounding, the sting in your scalp barely registering. Between your dad’s affair and Rafe hiding upstairs, you’re already fraying at the edges.

She lifts her chin. “Maybe if you weren’t sneaking around all morning, you wouldn’t be so jumpy. Why were you walking around at three A.M.?”

Your stomach drops. Fast and hard. Shit.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say quickly, turning your back to her as you keep transferring clothes into the dryer like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “The wind kept waking me up.”

That was a lie. The truth? Rafe had nudged you awake around three in the morning, grumbling that he was starving. You’d tiptoed downstairs like some sort of criminal to raid the pantry and bring him snacks.

“And you didn’t show up for dinner,” she presses.

You resist the urge to groan and instead take a deep breath, plastering on your most convincing fake smile. You turn to face her with a soft sigh. “Actually… I was thinking about what you said a few weeks ago. About my future. And I finally decided to start that diet you’ve been trying to get me on.”

She tilts her head, curious now.

“I mean, if I’m going to be taken seriously in the fashion world, especially designing for small figures, I should be able to fit into the clothes myself, right?”

There it was. The lie of the century, all to protect the fact that a boy -Rafe Cameron- was naked in your bed upstairs. And worse, you didn’t even want to be part of her designer world.

“Really?” she breathes, her voice suddenly bright, hopeful. “You’re doing the Valentina & Co. internship?”

She’s so excited, she loses that usual clipped, country-club composure. For a second, you almost feel guilty. Almost.

“I can’t believe this! Oh my god- this is huge. I have to go make some calls!” she says, already spinning on her heel with her tea sloshing in her cup.

You turn back to the dryer, letting your expression drop, eyes rolling hard. God, you love her- but she’s so easy to fool. So trusting. No wonder your dad thinks he can get away with screwing around behind her back.

You close the dryer door shut and hit the start button, pretending the churning inside wasn’t a metaphor for your entire life.

You slam your bedroom door shut and lock it, exhaling hard as your back hits the wood. You push your hair out of your face, fingers raking through it with more frustration than finesse. The sound startles Rafe, who’s standing by your keepsake cabinet, peering into your curated little shrine of growing up. His head whips toward you, but his attention is quickly drawn back to a photo-one of you, around eight years old, mid-sass in a pale pink leotard and tutu, hands on your hips, grinning at the camera like you owned the world.

“I didn’t know you did ballet,” he says, voice soft with genuine curiosity. His finger hovers over the frame, but he doesn’t touch it.

“For like ten years,” you reply, moving toward your dresser and yanking out a towel with more force than necessary. “My mom’s obsession with posture and poise. She thought ballet would mold me into the perfect daughter.”

Rafe finally looks away from the cabinet and toward you- toward the way your shoulders are tense, your movements rushed. His eyes flick down to your empty hands.

“I thought you’d bring me breakfast,” he pouts like a petulant child.

You shoot him a flat look. “Breakfast is the last thing on my mind right now.”

He flops dramatically onto your bed, arms splayed out. “It’s not the last thing on my mind. My stomach’s been crying since sunrise.”

You don’t smile, not yet. You gather your clothes and your towel, piling them into your arms, then pause at the edge of the bed.

“I told my mom I started a diet,” you say flatly, staring past him. “Said I was getting serious about the fashion industry… that I wanted to start fitting into the clothes I’m supposedly going to design.”

Rafe sits up slightly, brows furrowed. “Wait- what?”

“I lied,” you admit, the words falling from your mouth in a tired breath. “To cover for you. I panicked and said I was starting the Valentina & Co. internship she’s been begging me to apply for. And now she’s calling people. Setting things up. She’s… excited.”

He studies you for a second, eyes softer now. “But you don’t want that?”

“No.” You laugh without humor. “Not even a little.”

There’s a silence between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then Rafe stands and walks toward you, slower this time, careful. He lifts a hand to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About everything. Your dad. Your mom. That you feel like you’re trapped in a life you don’t even want.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know. But I still hate seeing you like this.”

His hand lingers a second too long, and his eyes flick toward the bathroom door behind you. He smirks.

“You know,” he says, voice dipping just slightly, “showers are known to be therapeutic. Cleansing. Healing.”

You arch a brow.

“And you think joining me would help me heal?”

“Absolutely. Two bodies, one purpose,” he says with faux solemnity. “Let the steam melt our problems away.”

You roll your eyes but a reluctant smile threatens to break through.

“Fine,” you sigh. “But if you leave wet footprints on my rug again, I’m kicking you out.”

“I’ll be a ghost,” he promises, already starting to pull his shirt over his head with a grin. “Silent. Steamy. Respectfully naked.”

You shake your head and walk toward the bathroom, not bothering to hide the little smile tugging at your lips. Maybe the storm outside wasn’t the only thing slowly clearing up.

-

You stand quietly in your bedroom, a towel wrapped snugly around your torso, still damp from the shower. Across from you, Rafe is drying himself off, one hand gripping a towel at his waist, the other lazily running along his chest and shoulders. His skin is warm and flushed from the steam, water droplets still clinging to his collarbones.

You should look away- but your eyes trail over him anyway, from the slope of his shoulders to the curve of his back to the way his arm flexes as he dries himself. He’s casual about it. Comfortable. Like he belongs here.

And for a fleeting moment, it almost feels like he does.

But then your gaze shifts toward the French doors. Outside, the rain is softening-no longer slamming against the glass, just quietly pattering now, more of a whisper than a storm. The gray in the sky is still heavy, but light is starting to peek through.

Your heart sinks. He’s leaving soon.

Rafe seems to notice too. His head turns, following your gaze to the doors. A faint crease appears between his brows.

“Looks like it’s clearing up,” he says, voice low, almost reluctant. Then his eyes slide back to yours. “Are my clothes almost done?”

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out at first. Your throat feels tight. You know you should say something casual-keep it light, cool, distant. You don’t want to look like you’re wishing he’d stay. Like you care more than you should.

“Uh… I’ll check,” you finally manage, your voice soft and a little too quick.

You turn away from him, unwrapping the towel from your hair and shaking out the damp strands. 

You move with more urgency than necessary, as if getting dressed will give you something to focus on other than the dull ache blooming in your chest.

You shimmy into a pair of underwear, tug on a white ribbed tank top, and step into your favorite overalls-worn in all the right places, soft with age. You don’t bother to style your hair, just twist it up in a loose clip as you glance over your shoulder.

Rafe is still standing there, towel low on his hips, watching you-not in a lustful way this time, but quiet. Like he knows what you’re not saying.

Neither of you speak for a beat. The sound of the rain fills the silence between you. Then you clear your throat, holding up your end of the lie. “I’ll go see if the dryer’s finished.”

You don’t wait for his reply. You just step toward the door, hoping he can’t read the thoughts spinning behind your eyes-he ones whispering that you don’t want him to go.

-

You’re curled up on Becca’s bed, sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand but unmoving. The lines you’ve started are light and hesitant, like your focus is somewhere else. Because it is. You haven’t added to the drawing in fifteen minutes.

Becca’s at her desk, flipping through a stack of magazines, pretending not to watch you, but she’s been sneaking glances every few seconds. Finally, she sets them down and swivels her chair toward you.

“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What’s eating at you?”

You blink down at the page, realizing you’ve been shading the same corner of a skirt hem over and over. You exhale, drop the pencil onto the page, and lean your head back against her headboard.

“Nothing,” you mutter.

Becca raises a brow.

You chew the inside of your cheek, then sigh- more to yourself than to her. “I caved.”

“Caved?” Becca repeats, tilting her head. “Caved what?”

You press the eraser of your pencil against your temple, tapping it in a steady, nervous rhythm. 

“Rafe showed up on my balcony last night,” you say slowly. “In the middle of the storm. Like some absolute psychopath.”

Becca’s eyebrows rise. “Wait-what? Why?”

“He wouldn’t leave,” you mutter. “Said he couldn’t stop thinking about me. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. So I let him in and hid him in my room all night like some fugitive.”

She stares at you, eyes wide. “What the hell did he even want?”

You pause, your voice quieting. “He told me my dad is having an affair.”

Her expression shifts instantly. “Oh, Y/N…” she murmurs, rising from her desk and sitting beside you on the bed. Her arm wraps around your shoulders without hesitation. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the worn edges of your sketchbook. “That’s not even the worst part.”

Her grip on you tightens slightly. “There’s more?”

You laugh bitterly. “Yeah. We had sex.”

Becca’s quiet, not surprised, just… waiting.

“I stayed in my room all night after that,” you continue. “Didn’t even come down for dinner. My mom started questioning me this morning-asking if I’d been avoiding food again. I panicked. Rafe was still in my room, hiding in my bathroom, so I just blurted out that I’d started that dumb diet again and-and that I wanted to do the Valentina & Co. internship.”

Her jaw drops. “You said yes to the internship? The one you’ve spent the last two years refusing?”

You nod, still not looking at her. “All because I didn’t want her to come upstairs and find out I had Rafe Cameron half-naked in my bedroom.”

Becca’s silent for a moment, then lets out a breath. “Wow.”

“I feel so stupid,” you whisper. “Like… what am I even doing? It’s been two and a half weeks. We’re not even anything. He shows up in the rain and suddenly I’m throwing away all my convictions-everything I said I wouldn’t do-for a guy who might not even give a shit.”

“You’re not stupid,” Becca says firmly. “You’re human.”

You finally look at her.

She shrugs. “Look, yeah-maybe it wasn’t the most rational series of choices. But you were caught off guard. The storm. Your dad’s affair. Rafe showing up out of nowhere. You’re allowed to want comfort. You’re allowed to feel something for someone, even if it hasn’t been that long. It doesn’t make your feelings any less valid.”

You look down again, your voice barely above a whisper. “But what if it was just nothing to him?”

Becca shakes her head. “Then that’s on him. Not you. You didn’t imagine the connection. He keeps coming back for a reason. And even if he never says what you want him to-what you deserve to hear-that doesn’t make you weak for hoping.”

You lean your head on her shoulder.

She rests hers against yours. “Also,” she adds, “I’m very impressed you managed to sneak Rafe Cameron past your mom. That’s like elite spy-level behavior.”

You smile, just a little.

“There she is,” Becca says softly.

-

Dinner feels like a performance you never agreed to audition for. The table is set perfectly, the lighting soft and warm, but none of it feels right. The silence is sharp, broken only by the occasional clink of silverware and the low buzz of your father’s phone, lighting up every few minutes with new messages he doesn’t bother to hide.

You sit across from him, jaw tight, appetite gone. Your mother, blissfully unaware of the minefield between you and him, offers a smile as she slices into her food.

“So,” she says lightly, “how are your designs coming along? Have you started anything yet for Valentina & Co.?”

You glance at her. You know she means well, but the question lands like a weight on your chest.

“I’ve only just decided to do this, Mom,” you say, forcing calm into your tone. “I need time.”

She nods, clearly trying to be encouraging. “Of course, of course. I just thought maybe you’d feel inspired with the rain and everything.”

Your dad chuckles under his breath. He’s still looking at his phone. “Time,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You’ve had plenty of time, if I remember correctly. Years of it, actually. Maybe if you’d taken things seriously from the beginning-”

You drop your fork with a quiet clatter. “I didn’t realize this was a performance review.”

That makes him look up. His brows lift, just slightly. “It’s not. But if you’re going to finally commit to something, I’d hope you actually follow through this time.”

You blink at him, your voice low and even. “Unlike some people and their commitments?”

The tension spikes instantly, your words landing harder than you intended. Your mom glances between you, brows tightening.

“Okay,” she says gently, “let’s not turn this into something it doesn’t need to be-”

“Funny,” you cut in, eyes still locked on your dad. “Because that’s exactly what he’s been doing.”

Your father stares at you for a second too long, like he’s trying to read something in your expression, but he clearly has no idea what you know. He leans back, arms folding slowly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You want to say it. You almost do. You want to slam the truth onto the table like a card he didn’t expect you to hold. You want to ask who he keeps texting and if she knows he wears his wedding ring while he’s doing it.

But not like this.

You push your chair back, scraping against the floor. “Forget it.”

“Y/N,” your dad starts again, but you’re already walking toward the stairs.

Your voice is clipped, your hands fists at your sides. “I’m not doing this right now.”

You don’t stop until you’re in your room, door closed, heart hammering. You’re not going to blow this in front of your mom. You’re not going to let him spin it or lie his way out of it. You’ll talk to him.

Alone.

And when you do, he’ll know you’re not a kid anymore.

-

Marie and Becca were never really friends- at least not in the way that counted. They didn’t dislike each other, but their relationship existed solely because of you. A mutual civility born from proximity. Their moms had a long-standing, mostly unspoken rivalry—something petty and suburban and wrapped in polite smiles-so growing up, they were rarely in the same room unless you were there to bridge the gap. Which is why, instead of hanging out at one of their houses, the three of you end up here- perched inside the wood-paneled sauna at the country club. A neutral zone. No one’s turf.

The steam curls thick around you as you lean your head back against the warm cedar wall, eyes closed, trying to let the heat melt away the hum of your thoughts. Sweat clings to your skin, your breathing slow and deliberate, but nothing inside you feels relaxed.

Not when Sofia is just a few doors down.

You’d seen her the moment you walked in. She was behind the bar, expertly mixing a drink without looking up. She hadn’t noticed you -or maybe she had and just didn’t care- but either way, her indifference hit harder than it should have.

You felt stupid. Like a stalker.

Becca had said it outright earlier this week, and she wasn’t wrong. “You’re obsessing over a girl who doesn’t even know she’s in the ring with you,” she’d told you. “It’s not a love triangle- it’s just sad.”

At the time, you’d laughed it off. Now, it just stung. Because the truth was, you had become obsessed- tracking Rafe’s behavior like it was a math problem you could solve if you just paid close enough attention. Whether or not she was there. Whether or not she meant anything.

It was pathetic. You feel the weight of it all pressing down on your chest, heavier than the steam.

“Hello?” Becca’s voice breaks through your haze, a little sharper now. “Are you alive in there?”

Your eyes blink open, heat-stung and dry, to find her and Marie both looking at you.

“You okay?” Marie asks, a little softer.

You nod quickly, sitting up straighter, swiping the back of your hand across your damp forehead. “Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out.”

Becca gives you a look like she doesn’t buy it, but she lets it go. She stretches her long legs out in front of her and says, “Wanna go to the bar?”

You hesitate for a moment, instinctively glancing toward the door like Sofia might be standing right outside it. Then you force yourself to nod.

“Sure,” you say. “What the hell.”

Because maybe pretending you’re over it is the first step to actually getting over it.

The three of you are dressed again, stepping out into the cool night air. The sky is navy and soft, the heat from earlier having surrendered to a light breeze. String lights drape overhead, casting a golden haze across the patio- warm, intimate, almost romantic. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses filters through the air, but you hardly register it.

The three of you walk toward the outdoor bar like you own the place. Not on purpose. It just happens- shoulders back, heads high, an unspoken confidence in your pace. You’re at the front, leading them without meaning to.

Your dress is something your mom would never approve of- baby pink and shorter than she’d like, hugging your hips just right. Your hair is down, wild in its natural texture. You didn’t style it. Didn’t try. And that’s exactly what makes it perfect.

You look like everything Sofia’s not. Everything she probably thinks you are. Kook perfection in a package that screams effortless, untouchable.

When you approach the bar, you feel her eyes before you see them. Sofia doesn’t acknowledge you. Not directly. But you catch the subtle shift when she notices the three of you sit down. A glance. A blink. And then nothing. Like she never saw you at all.

Becca takes the seat beside you, her long black curls falling over one shoulder as she adjusts the tight yellow midi dress clinging to her frame. She pushes her hair out of her face with a confidence that doesn’t need validation.

Marie sits on your other side, the soft glow of the patio lights highlighting her cheekbones. Her curls frame her face like a halo, and the powder blue shirt-and-skirt set she’s wearing makes her look like she stepped out of an editorial.

Together, the three of you look like a trio out of a glossy TV show- Powerpuff Girls: Coastal Edition. Or maybe Mean Girls, if they wore less pink and carried more edge.

You don’t mean any harm. You didn’t ask to come here. Becca suggested the sauna, and Marie tagged along, and then someone brought up drinks and here you are. Still, guilt coils in your stomach.

You -a kook- perched pretty at the bar, while she -a pogue- works behind it.

You don’t even know her. Not really. And yet your presence here feels like a silent challenge. A move you didn’t mean to make but made all the same. Becca, for her part, doesn’t seem to recognize Sofia. Maybe she was too drunk at the Tannyhill party. Or maybe she just doesn’t care enough to connect the dots. You do.

“Sofia,” the male bartender calls, drawing your attention. You glance up reflexively.

“Going on break,” he tells her, tossing a towel onto the bar before disappearing into the back.

Sofia nods, casual, and you immediately look away. Down at your phone. Pretending you suddenly care about the weather app. Your thumb scrolls without direction. Just something to keep your hands busy. The bar isn’t packed tonight. It’s laid-back, easy. The kind of slow night where one bartender is more than enough. Sofia stays behind the bar, alone.

You wonder if she volunteered. Or if it’s just what she does- handle things. You don’t know. You don’t know what she’s good at. What she likes. You don’t know anything. And that bothers you more than it should.

“What can I get you ladies?”

You look up. Sofia is standing across from you, hands resting loosely on the edge of the bar, eyes scanning the three of you. Her voice is calm. Detached. Professional in a way that feels a little too practiced.

You feel her eyes skim over you, but her expression doesn’t change. No hint of emotion. No flicker of recognition. It shouldn’t sting. But it does.

“Three shots of tequila,” Becca says before you or Marie can say anything.

Sofia’s eyes flick across the three of you, her expression unreadable. “Can I see some ID, please?”

You don’t say anything. Just reach into your Dior bag, digging through the soft leather for your matching wallet. You take your time- not intentionally, but the process feels exaggerated under Sofia’s gaze. You know she’s watching.

You pull out your ID, the one with the photo that somehow looks better than real life, and slide it across the bar. The edges are pristine. She doesn’t say anything, just takes it, looks it over, then holds out her hand for the others.

Marie’s already ahead of you, digging out her license with an easy smile. Becca moves slower, cool and unaffected as always, her yellow midi dress catching the light as she shifts.

Sofia gives the three IDs a cursory glance before setting them back down. “Three shots of tequila coming up.”

She taps the bar twice, not unkind, but sharp -more habit than hospitality- and turns her back to you, grabbing glasses from the shelf behind her. Her movements are efficient, distant. There’s no flair, no small talk.

You lean back slightly, trying to look unbothered. But there’s a weird pressure in your chest, like the air’s too thick. It doesn’t help that you saw her when you walked in- hair tied up, sleeves rolled, her shirt clinging to her back from the heat behind the bar. She hadn’t looked up. You don’t even know if she noticed you at all. Maybe it’s better that way. The clink of glass snaps you back as she places the three shots in front of you.

“Lime and salt?” she asks, voice flat.

“Obviously,” Becca replies with a raised brow, not realizing -or not caring- who she’s talking to.

Sofia nods and turns away again, reaching for a small dish of lime wedges and a tin of salt. She sets them down with a little more force than necessary. Not enough to be rude. Just enough for you to notice. She doesn’t look at you again. You don’t say thank you.

You can feel the imbalance hanging there- Sofia behind the bar, working a double, and you on the other side in a baby pink dress your mom would absolutely hate, sipping liquor you didn’t pay for. It’s not a crime, but it feels like one. She didn’t acknowledge you. But she saw the bag. The wallet. The card. The kind of life you come from.

You wonder if she hates you just a little for it. You hate yourself for caring. The three of you clink glasses together- Becca shouting something obnoxious and triumphant, Marie laughing so hard she nearly drops hers. You force a smile, play along, licking the salt from the rim of your glass before tossing back the tequila. It burns, sharp and unapologetic, clawing its way down your throat. You suck on the lime, your face twisting with the sour bite before laughter bubbles up. You let it out. You look carefree. Effortless.

But you feel her eyes on you.

You don’t look at Sofia directly, just glance past her- enough to catch her in your peripheral. She’s watching you, briefly, her gaze steady. You meet it, just for a second. Just long enough. Then she looks away fast, printing a receipt and sliding it to a couple at the far end of the bar like nothing happened. It makes something twist in your chest. Then the air shifts.

You glance around -more instinct than curiosity- and your pulse spikes. Rafe.

He strolls in like he always does, like the world belongs to him and it’s only right he showed up late to collect his prize. He looks annoyingly good, hair damp from the ocean or maybe the humidity, that familiar smirk already blooming across his face.

Your heart jumps to your throat as he walks straight to the bar. Straight to Sofia.

You look down at your lap, hands tightening around your phone. You don’t want him to see you here. Not like this. Not dressed like this. Not with your friends. Not at her bar.

You don’t want him to think you followed him. Or worse- that you followed her.

“Uh- bartender? Can we get another round?” Becca calls across the bar, loud and impatient, the way she always is when she’s been drinking. She isn’t trying to be rude. But she also isn’t trying not to be. You don’t look up. Not yet.

You can feel Sofia and Rafe still standing close, talking quietly, like you don’t exist. Maybe you don’t.

Still, something drags your eyes upward. And there it is. Rafe is looking at you. Not staring. Not smiling. Just… watching.

His eyes sweep over you- curious, almost confused. Like he doesn’t recognize you at first. 

Which wouldn’t be surprising. You don’t look like the girl who yanked open a storm-drenched window and let him into her bedroom. Not tonight. Not in this dress. Not in this world.

Sofia notices his gaze shift and starts moving back down the bar toward you, her expression unreadable.

“You want me to start a tab?” she asks as she reaches for more glasses, her tone flatter this time, clipped. She doesn’t bother looking at any of you.

There’s something different in her voice now. Not hostile. Just… done. Like she’s tired of pretending this interaction is normal.

“Yeah, that’d be great actually,” Marie says quickly, her tone softening the moment, trying to fill the space Becca left jagged. Sofia doesn’t respond. Just nods and reaches for the bottle again. You look down at the shot forming in front of you, and for a second, you wish you hadn’t come at all.

“Nice dress,” you hear from your left. You look over.

Of course it’s Rafe- leaning against the bar like he owns it, like he owns the air between you. His eyes drift over your body, shamelessly. You feel the weight of his stare on your legs, on the stretch of skin your dress doesn’t bother hiding.

Marie is sandwiched awkwardly between you, clearly aware of the tension but trying not to make it worse. She leans back slightly, torso angled away, giving you both a clearer line of sight while pretending she’s still part of the conversation. You glance toward Sofia.

She’s noticed, obviously. Her movements shift- more deliberate, more performative. She starts wiping down an already-clean section of the bar with aggressive focus, as if the shine of the wood matters more than whatever’s happening three feet away.

“Thanks,” you reply, your voice clipped but polite, offering Rafe a brief smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

His stare lingers. Drops again to your thighs- the same ones his hands had gripped the other night. You wonder if he’s remembering it. You wish you weren’t.

He draws in a slow breath and straightens, his fist tapping the bar idly like he’s weighing something in his head. “Can I get you ladies a drink?”

Before Becca can chime in with another round of tequila, Marie answers for all three of you. 

“Three dirty martinis.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow, amused, but doesn’t argue. He glances at Marie, then back at you, like she’s some minor interruption between points A and B. He gives a single nod and turns to the other side of the bar.

“Sofia,” he calls.

You hate the way he says her name. Too casual. Too familiar. Like he’s done it a hundred times. Like it means nothing. Or maybe like it means something.

Sofia doesn’t respond right away. For a second, you think she might pretend not to hear him. But then she turns, cool and composed, her expression unreadable.

“Yeah?” she asks, voice flat as she walks toward him.

“Three martinis. Dirty,” he says, jerking his chin toward the three of you. “Think you can handle that?”

Sofia doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t even nod. She just starts gathering the ingredients like she’s making drinks for strangers.

You wonder how often she’s done this for him. Mixed drinks. Mixed signals. He turns back to you while she works, his elbow resting lazily on the bar, his body still angled slightly toward yours despite Marie between you.

“You always dress like that when you’re not talking to me?” he asks, smirking.

You don’t dignify that with a real answer. Just sip your water and raise an eyebrow.

“You always follow girls into bars they didn’t invite you to?” you shoot back, your voice low and dry.

He laughs under his breath. “Touché.”

The tension crackles between you, thick and layered. And through it all, Sofia mixes the drinks quietly, like she’s not listening. Like she doesn’t care.But you know she does. Sofia slides your drinks across the bar, one by one.

Yours nearly tips as it skids too fast across the polished surface. You catch it just in time, fingers wrapping around the delicate stem before the liquid can slosh over the rim. It still teeters, dangerously full, but it doesn’t spill.

Rafe watches Sofia the whole time- his eyes trailing her as she turns away and resumes her fake cleaning routine, wiping at an already-clean glass with a rag that’s definitely just for show. She doesn’t look back at him, but she doesn’t need to. Her silence is loud enough.

“Thanks, Cameron!” Becca calls, lifting her glass with a playful grin. Marie joins her, offering a small cheers in his direction.

Rafe turns back to the three of you, nodding slightly. That classic rich-boy gesture that says you’re welcome without actually using the words.

Then his attention slides to you. Fully. Like he’s choosing you out of a crowd.

“No thank you?” he says, raising an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

You exhale through your nose. “Thank you, Rafe,” you reply, more pointed than polite.

That catches Sofia’s attention. You can feel her eyes on you, sharp and cutting. You pretend not to notice as you take a sip of your martini. It’s cold, briny, and a little too strong- but you welcome the distraction. Part of you wonders if she spit in it. If she spit in his. Becca and Marie are giggling behind you, caught up in some private joke. Their voices buzz around your ears, distant, meaningless.

Then Rafe gives a small jerk of his chin. A gesture meant just for you. Like he’s summoning you.

Who the hell does he think he is? Some silent command like he owns you? Like you’re already his, just waiting to be called?

You hate yourself a little as you slide off the barstool anyway, murmuring a quick “be right back” to the girls as you make your way to him.

His gaze is shameless, dragging down your body now that you’re standing. The dress fits you like second skin. His eyes take their time, slow and appreciative, like he’s mentally peeling it off you already.

“What?” you ask, leaning an elbow on the bar, standing too close and not far enough all at once. You’re fighting the urge to smile, to flirt back, to fall into that effortless gravity he carries.

“I really like that dress,” he says, lips twitching as he brings his drink to his mouth.

“You called me over to tell me that?” Your eyes flick down to your martini. You bite your lip, hiding the way you kind of like that he did.

“Not necessarily.” He lets the words hang, and when you look back up, his blue eyes are waiting- steady and sure. “Come over to Tannyhill tonight.”

He says it like it’s a given. Like the answer’s already yes. Like you’ll drop everything just because he wants you to.

And the worst part? He’s right. But you don’t give in without a fight. You tilt your head, schooling your features into something vaguely unimpressed. “Why should I?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Sofia. Her eyes are still on you both, jaw tight. But she recovers quickly, switching back into customer-service mode as a new guy takes a seat at the far end of the bar. Her smile is fake. Her posture stiff. You can tell she’s listening.

And something about that -about her watching- feeds the part of you you’re not proud of. The part that spent too many nights scrolling through her Instagram, comparing yourself to someone who never even saw you. Now, you’re the one being seen. You hate it. You like it. You hate that you like it.

“I enjoyed the other night,” Rafe says simply.

“And what makes you think I did?” you blink up at him, feigning innocence.

“The scratches on my back,” he says- too loudly, too proudly.

You gasp and shove him, palm flat against his chest, but he laughs like it’s the best thing he’s heard all night. He stumbles back a step, dramatically, even though your push barely moved him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. One you try to hide by taking a sip of your drink.

He leans in again, voice low and laced with amusement. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you felt around me.”

Your breath catches. His eyes drop to your lips for a beat too long, and your body betrays you- stomach tightening, heat pooling low, cheeks flushing with the kind of embarrassment that has nothing to do with shame.

You shift your weight, glancing around like someone might’ve overheard. It’s not busy, but still- this is not a conversation you should be having out in the open. Especially not here. Especially not with her behind the bar.

“You’re such an asshole,” you murmur, shaking your head, playing it off even though your heart is racing.

He smirks. “You like that though.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Please. I’ve had better.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Name one.”

You open your mouth -ready with some clever retort- but then a voice cuts through the tension.

“Rafe,” Sofia calls, tone brisk but casual. She doesn’t look at him, just slides a receipt across the bar where he’d left a drink tab open. “Your tab’s still open. You want to close or keep it running?”

The question sounds neutral, but the air shifts. Just enough for you to notice. Just enough for it to twist in your stomach.

Rafe leans against the bar again, all lazy charm. “Keep it open.”

Sofia nods once, doesn’t smile.

Then her eyes flick to you. “You want to keep yours open too?” Her voice is polite- on the surface. But there’s an edge. Not rude. Not overt. Just enough to remind you of where you are. Of who she is.

You glance at your drink, then at her. “Sure,” you say, matching her tone.

She gives a tight nod, jotting something down, then walks away without another word.

Rafe watches her for a second, then turns back to you, his grin returning like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just stir up some invisible tension with nothing but proximity and a few whispered words.

“You were saying?” he asks, cocking his head.

You arch a brow. “I was saying that if you’re trying to get me back in your bed, you might need a new strategy.”

“Oh?” he leans closer again, lips curved. “Seems like this one’s working just fine.”

“I’m going back to my friends now” you start to turn away but his hand lands on your hip. Butterflies erupt.

“So you coming over?” He asks, his voice not subtle again. Sofia definitely heard that. Your cheeks continue to burn as your hands come over his, not reluctantly pulling it off.

“We’ll see” you turn away, walking away this time.

“I’ll see you tonight” he shouts after you.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You just slide back onto your stool, taking a long sip of your martini like your heartbeat isn’t still hammering in your chest.

Becca leans in first, eyebrows raised and lips twisted in amusement. “What was that about?”

“Is he obsessed with you now?” Marie adds, grinning into her drink. “Or are you playing hard to get?”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off. “I’m not playing anything.”

Becca snorts. “Sure. That dress says otherwise.”

You start to reply -something witty, something dismissive- but you’re interrupted by the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat. Sofia.

She stands behind the bar, polite smile in place, but there’s something colder behind it now. She 

doesn’t look at you directly.

“You girls want to close out your tab?” she asks, tone neutral but tight. Too tight. Like she’s holding something back.

Marie blinks, caught off guard. “Oh, uh… we were thinking about getting one more round actually- unless you’re closing soon?”

“We’ve got time,” Sofia says, still not looking at you. “Just figured I’d ask. In case you needed to be somewhere else.”

The comment lands heavier than it should. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe not.

Becca shrugs. “We’re good for another round.”

Sofia nods once and turns away, already moving toward the liquor shelf.

You watch her, the knot in your stomach tightening, and suddenly the victory of making her jealous doesn’t feel as satisfying as it did a few minutes ago.

[hiskillingjar]

Rape/Noncon (Strade/MC)

second person. gn mc, referred to without pronouns, explicit genital mention or gendered pet names. we at hiskillingjar.org.edu support rape kinks, and want to assert that enjoying rape kink does not mean you want to actually be raped. thank you.

"Come on, don't be a pussy."

“Excuse me?”

Your boyfriend pulled away, suddenly very compos mentis when he had been so distracted by his arousal, and glared hard at you, his dark eyes narrowed with contempt.

"Me not wanting to fucking rape you doesn't make me a pussy." He said through a tight sneer, gradually pulling away, the mood harshly buzzed.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry, that was harsh, but," You grimaced as his flaccid cock slid out of you, watching as he sat back on the single bed in your dorm room, crossing his arms like a petulant child. You huffed, sitting up too. "Come on, you know it's not actual rape, right? It's just us playing pretend."

"Well, it feels like it.” He bit back quickly. “You think I want to have sex with you while you're crying and screaming 'no'? Are you crazy?” He sat forward, placing his feet on the ground and standing up to get away from you. “It makes me feel like a fucking creep."

"You're not a creep, though, you know that.” You insisted, sitting forward, holding the duvet to your middle as he got redressed into his underwear. Great, so much for a fun night together. “It's just a little fun between us, don’t take it so seriously."

"Why do you find this fun?” He asked as he pulled on his shirt, a tee advertising your college’s debate club. You just hoped tonight wouldn’t be a talking point when they next met. “Why can't we have, like, normal sex?"

You stared at him like he was saying something quite stupid.

"Because it's boring?" You said, with a raised brow.

"Oh, it's boring, is it?” He scoffed, pulling on his jeans and redoing his belt. “What, it's boring for me to show you how much I love you?"

‘I love you.’ Fuck, you’d only been dating for two months and he was already doing this.

"Ugh." 

You couldn’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes and letting out your own scoff, and from the glare he immediately gave you, that was the wrong thing to do.

"Is that all you have to say? 'Ugh'.” He asked flatly, staring at you before turning away and grabbing his overshirt from your desk chair. “You’re unbelievable. No wonder everyone told me not to deal with you."

"Babe-" You said, sitting forward.

"You need to figure yourself out.” He interrupted you, pointing a finger in your face like he was a fucking parent scolding you for doing sex wrong. “What you want is...i-it's sick, okay?"

"You're sick."

-

"You're really sick, you know that?"

"STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP-"

Strade’s voice was a deep growl as he squatted down over your tense thighs, his weight pressing down on top of you, pushing your bound body into the concrete. His thick cock then breached your entrance forcefully as you squirmed and cried out your protests, the girthy length rough and unlubed, and wanting only to put you through as much pain as possible. 

Even spending just half a day with him, you knew that much. 

"No, nonono, please stop, ghhh..." You cried out as he pushed harder against you, hot tears making your eyes sting. “Stoooop…”

"I can feel how much your body wants it.” He continued as if you hadn’t said a thing, curling a hand into your hair and pressing your face against the ground, his cock pulsing inside of you as he pressed deeper. “I can feel just how tight you are." He leaned into you, his chest against your back, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear. "It's stupidly hot."

“Ghhh,” You moaned brokenly as he began a forceful pattern of deep thrusts inside of you, grimacing because fuck, why did your passage feel wet now, was there blood, surely there must have been, how could you already be bleeding?

Your boyfriend never made you bleed. 

You might have wanted him to at one point, but you would have given anything to have his slow thrusts and lazy sweet talk now.

The grass was always greener, wasn’t it?

"You're one of those freaks that gets off on this, aren't you?” Strade then asked, his thickly accented rasp deep and dangerous, and making your core throb with nonconsensual wanting, because…how could you possibly want this? “I know your type. You keep your fingers in your panties just thinking about guys like me, thinking about getting raped in a basement. No wonder you were so easy to pick up at the bar.”

“No, nonono,” You protested, squirming, clawing at the ground with broken nails digging splinters of keratin into your delicate fingertips. “I’m not, I’m not-”

“Yessss, you are,” He drawled with a filthy grin, nipping at your ear and tugging at it, like he was simply playing with you, like he was doing this sort of thing properly, keeping the air light and playful and non-realistic. “There’s no point denying it, buddy. I know it the moment I see it.”

You tried to hold back a sob as he pulled away from you, grabbing your ass roughly and forcing you up into a painful kneel while his fingers poked and pulled at your entrance. You were bleeding, surely, and your insides felt sore when the cool breeze of the basement hit the ruined muscle.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, you know?” Strade continued, lining himself up again and driving his hips forward, pushing deeper with the new position, making you howl. “Desires aren’t the same as, ngh, material reality…I mean, I bet none of your fantasies were this authentic, huh?”

The hand in your hair forced your upper body off the ground, and your back pressed against Strade’s chest, making you clench up even tighter around his cock.

“What was it, you asked your boyfriend to pin you down, slap you a little, fuck you even when you said no?” He asked, hooking his stubbly chin over your shoulder and pressing you closer to him with a strong forearm to your chest. “Child’s play, really. And nothing to feel bad about.”

You grit your teeth, squeezing your eyes shut to stop yourself from crying out more, giving him the resistance and cowering and fear that he surely wanted from you. 

You couldn’t, you wouldn’t do any more for him, not when you had already done so much-

“OOF-!”

He drove a hard fist into your soft gut and forced your body to stay upright when all you wanted to do was keel over in pain.

“Don’t worry, liebling,” He murmured hungrily in your ear, as he punched you again and again and again and again and again-

“I won’t give you a single thing to enjoy. That way, you won’t ever have to feel bad.”

[dat-town]

all your perfect imperfections

Characters: Leehan & female reader

Setting & genre: just comfort, new but established relationship au

Summary: Letting people close is hard but Leehan makes it easier.

Warnings: MC is insecure about being barefaced in front of Leehan but he is being the best boy! stage name used

Words: 0.76k

Author’s note: happy bday for our Busan prince! Leehan is such a comforting person in my opinion and he deserves so much love. title is from John Legend’s All of You

@restlessmaknae thanks for all the shared fangirling and comfort <3

There’s something about the way Leehan looks at you.

As if he was in awe, like he had never seen anything so interesting. He looks at you like he looks at his fish – and with him it’s a great compliment. His soft brown eyes sparkle and gloss over like he finds you fascinating, one of a kind, a little miracle. He doesn’t even glance away when you catch him looking and the intensity of his stare makes you shy.

You feel your cheeks heat up as they redden like ripe cherries, your fringe falling into your face as you tuck your chin into your chest in a feeble attempt to hide your face.

“Stop,” you protest weakly, staring down at your socked feet on the floor of your boyfriend’s room. Leehan’s own alien-patterned ones appear in your vision soon enough and you feel the pads of his fingers gently touching your chin. There’s no force behind the touch, yet you know what he wants. When you lift your head, you find him much closer than before. So close that you have to tilt your head to look him in the eye. But there’s nothing but comfort in his closeness.

He looks truly angelic under the soft glow of his fish tank and the silver moonlight that peeks through the curtains. From this close, you can see the way his lashes cast a light shadow over his cheekbones, the small easily missed mole adorning his face and even the razor cut on his chin from a recent shaving accident. He’s beautiful.

“What? Why?” He asks oh so innocently but with mischief glinting in his doe eyes and a cheesy smile on his lips because of course he knows, there’s no way he doesn’t. You have never been good at handling his full attention on you.

“It’s embarrassing,” you mutter, lifting your hands, practically swimming in the sleeves of his too big hoodie, to cover your cheeks.

“There’s nothing embarrassing about it,” Leehan says just as quietly, no longer joking as warmth deepens his voice. It echoes off the walls, goes straight into the chambers of your heart.

He covers your hands with his, caressing the apple of your cheeks with his thumbs like that and he smiles sweetly, reassuring like there is nothing wrong in the world, not with him at least. You huff, giving up on hiding, and lower your impromptu defence system, letting him see the imperfections dotting your face: redness, acne and all.

It’s your first time sleeping over, it’s his first time seeing you barefaced, with no makeup, ready to bed and yet, he doesn’t look at you any different. He looks at you as if in his eyes you were just as pretty as on your first date when you walked barefoot in the sand under the stars, listening to the melody of the sea.

Leehan slowly intertwines his fingers with yours, pulling both of your hands close to his chest, pressing down so you could feel the beat of his heart, steady and loud, through the soft material of his worn tee. A loved piece, you can tell, and it says so much about Leehan, about how he values and holds onto things he finds precious that it makes you smile fondly.

“Thank you,” he says just as mellowy as it is sudden and it makes you confused. You furrow your brows since you don’t quite get what he means, not until he tips forwards to lean his forehead against yours, his sea salt scent embracing you like a warm hug.

“For trusting me,” he adds and you melt. Your chest swells with so much gratitude and love that it should be overwhelming.

You never told him, you didn’t have to, he picks up on your mood, quirks and worries as if it’s second nature to him. He must know how hard it was for you, baring yourself, even if it’s just your face. How your teenage insecurities and the stupid beauty standards have formed unhealthy thoughts that are hard to suppress on bad days.

“I’m so in love with you,” you sigh, letting out a fond chuckle and you feel Leehan’s smile against your temple before he presses a gentle kiss there. You feel his heartbeat pick up in his ribcage as he whispers the words back and you nuzzle into his chest more, inhaling in his closeness and wishing that time would slow down.

You have never felt more safe and loved than right there and then underneath the blue glow of his room.

[misc-obeyme]

Helllooo!! How are youu? For the drabbles, can i request solomon + apron? Thank you and have a nice day! I love you!! 🫶

Hey there, anon! Tee hee, I love you too~

Okay well I had multiple ideas about how this could go, but I ended up with something a little suggestive... I couldn't help it lol.

Thank you for participating!

COZY COMFORTS EVENT

GN!MC x Solomon with prompt apron

Warnings: none

It had been a long day and you were ready to come home. You were hungry and you thought about what you might make for dinner as you shrugged out of your coat and shoes. You made your way to the kitchen, but stopped in your tracks when you heard humming coming from that direction.

"No," you whispered to yourself. "Don't tell me…"

You crept slowly to the doorway. You wanted to see if Solomon was actually cooking in there or if it was a false alarm. You had to know if you needed to make a quick retreat and act like you hadn't been home at all.

You peeked around the edge of the doorway and had to bite your lip to prevent yourself from making a noise.

He was definitely cooking, which was certainly bad.

But far more distracting was the fact that he was wearing your apron.

There wasn't anything particularly unusual about the apron itself. It was a practical thing that you had purchased long ago, simple and functional. It wasn't that odd for him to be wearing it, since you didn't allow him one of his own.

Except that Solomon also seemed to have lost his shirt.

From where you were standing, you were looking at his back. His skin was covered in pact marks and you could see his body moving beneath them as he stirred something in a pot.

It was all you could do to prevent yourself from sneaking up behind him and kissing the nape of his neck. You wanted to run your fingers through his hair and across every mark you could see. You were grateful he still seemed to be wearing his pants.

But you had lingered too long in the kitchen doorway. Solomon turned and saw you. For a moment, the two of you stared at each other. Then Solomon grinned.

"MC!" he exclaimed. "Perfect timing! I was just finishing this soup! You must be hungry. Why don't you come have some?"

You smiled at him and came into the kitchen. You walked over and tugged on the apron.

"What happened to your shirt, Solomon?" you asked.

Solomon looked down at himself as though he had forgotten about it. "Oh, I spilled sauce on it earlier. I figured it would be better to just leave it off for now."

"You're supposed to put the apron on before you spill on yourself," you said.

Solomon chuckled. "I know, but I was so eager to get started that I forgot."

You ran a hand up his bare arm, fingertips lingering on a pact mark on his bicep. You were pleased to hear his breath catch. You stepped in even closer and put your other hand on his waist, settled halfway on his skin and halfway on the apron tie.

"MC," he said and the low roughness of his voice indicated your ploy was succeeding. "The food-"

You interrupted him with a kiss. You had effectively distracted him from the soup still on the stove. With any luck, it would burn and even Solomon would have to admit it was inedible.

You couldn't help smiling into the kiss as his arms closed around you. While you didn't want him cooking, you could think of other reasons to have him wear your apron again.

cozy comforts | masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[theshypinkflower]

Idk if you've already answered this, but what are your general headcannons for Rhino and Kangaroo? How do you view their personalities, and how do you think they are likely to interact with the MC and Fox. I love your headcannons! 🫶💕💕💕

OOOOOO IVE BEEN WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO ASK THIS

🦏Rhino (Darius Gonzalez):

-personally, I believe hes a single dad. He has such heavy dad vibes. His daughter is so sweet too <3 shes his little princess who he'd do anything for.

-that being said, hes an extra loyal body guard to fox. He knows hes got a little girl waiting for him at home, and while Fox may be a bit above hurting kids, hes not above hurting his employees.

-bros gotta be mixed. I originally though black and white but upon further inspection my guess is afro latino. Maybe half Mexican and white.

-lowkey really chill dude. Hes very laid back. He likes a lot of splatter horror movies and his room has framed posters of some classic slasher flicks. Owns a lot of old band tees with bleach stains and faded prints.

-mechanic build. Bro is all arms. Ofc hes got a bit of a stomach <3 and some thick thighs.

-he has a part time day job painting houses and fixing roofs. It's easy and flexible hours so hes not having to juggle his body guard job and his kid all in one.

-TATTOOS. Hes got cool looking sleeves with them. He originally wanted to be a tattoo artist, but ya know...got roped into...this.

-He LIKES the goreporn fox produces. Hes not obsessed with it, he can get off to softer stuff too. He was kinda just clicking around looking for something to get off and kinda dug to deep...

-Hes on high alert for the police. Not because hes done anything wrong, but if hes not careful they'll find out about his...job. And honestly fox can lie and say that he just works for a porn company if the police ever try to interrogate him about Rhino's employment. But CPS would NOT like hearing that he works for a porn company when he has a kid. The only time hes had run ins with law enforcement is cause of his baby mama having beef with him and because he got into a couple of bar fights.

-before working for Fox he was probably a bouncer for some exclusive club. Fox noticed him and started keeping some tabs on him before deciding to hire him. After all, you gotta have muscle around!

🦘Kangaroo (Adrian Lee):

-the much energetic one of the bunch! He makes a lot of jokes and laughs a lot. To him gore is much of a joke than it is a turn on. But it can be both!

-the scar on the left side of his body I imagine is actually from acid burn. Acid is a bit more controllable than fire is, and of course the damage was inflicted by fox. My guess is Kangaroo probably was one of his victims beforehand, or he helped one of Fox's victims out and got caught. At least Fox paid for the skin grafting! Bro is still missing an ear tho

-this is more of a crack hc, but me and my friends have a joke where Kangaroo is actually Australian. You can guess why.

-hes blind and partially deaf on the left side thanks to fox. I dont think the acid got in his ear, I just imagine Fox fired a gun right next to Kangaroo's ear to torture him some more. The blindness is def from the acid tho. It was all done on a stream too. So everyone got to see his skin bubble as he writhed on the floor.

-his part time day job is working cashier at a grocery store! It's kinda hard finding jobs where the employer doesnt outright scream when you walk in. Let alone jobs that hire you while being half blind. (All of fox's guards have part time jobs to hide the fact they work for a sadistic snuff maker).

-Hes a cat person! Adrian loves cats, especially the hairless ones. He thinks they're so silly and goofy. He adores cats. Bro def feeds strays in his free time.

-Hes much of a gore enjoyer than Rhino is. Like I said it gets a laugh out of him. Plus he doesnt mind seeing some getting all cut up before brutally fucked <3

-Kangaroo works out regularly. It's kinda like his reminder that hes alive. He use to do cool shit like that one Baki pose where hes holding himself with nothing but his arms, but since the acid he just works out to stay in shape. He does a LOT of cardio and boxing (I imagine that's the actual reason why hes named Kangaroo).

[acotarfrustrations]

Acomaf feyre is turning into something that acotar feyre would absolutely despise and honestly it's so sad the way sjm sniped what SHOULD have been the main character of the series (bcus we all know rhys is the real mc). Like her mind raping tarquin to steal something that she could just ask for when he literally thinks they're friends.

The thing about amren making a meal of any guards that see them steal the book particularly bothers me because this should be the main book where we should see emotional consequences of feyre's actions utm and with andras. Killing an innocent fae for a stupid reason should be SOMETHING SHES VEHEMENTLY OPPOSED TO. ITS WHAT HER WHOLE ACOTAR ARC WAS BASED ON AND HAVING TO GO AGAINST THOSE MORALS DESTROYED HER MIND

NOw all of a sudden it's just another tuesday. Not to mention the things they're doing? WARS HAVE BEEN STARTED FOR LESS. Coming under the guise of diplomacy to a foreign nation to steal their precious artifacts, steal their jewels, and possibly kill their citizens if they see what you're doing??? Why didn't tarquin just kill them?? Those are blatant acts of war

It's so stupid because even Feyre acknowledges that what they're doing is dumb and makes no sense and asks why they can't just ask tarquin for the book. RHYS DOESNT EVEN GIVE AN ANSWER. He's just like "oh well Cresseida told me tarquin is ambitious so, uh, yeah we have to steal the book"

ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID????

It literally feels like rhys only wants to steal it because he's jealous and thinks tarquin wants to fuck feyre so he wants to steal it to not only prove a point but ruin any potential allies that feyre could have outside of IC. Anything to get Feyre dependent on him am I right?

And I feel like this would distress acotar feyre so much because she's not blinded by the rose tinted glasses of rhys' penis and she would be able to clearly see what was going on.

Rhys intentionally waited until feyre was in a very vulnerable state, forced her to come to his house, gave her things he knew she wanted and would benefit him, and uses his mind powers to cater to her every whim and give her what she wants so she can be on his side. Not because he loves her or she's his mate, because it's strategic and there's the added bonus of pissing tamlin off in the beginning. When shit hits the fan for feyre and tamlin, he immediately takes that opportunity to get her to work with him and induct her into the rhys circle jerk cult and now she's thinking like him.

He's so deep in her head that the reader is literally watching sjm change parts of a character's core values to mold her around her love interest and call it empowering feminism, using her trauma and her "darkness" as a justification.

And this "he's not 'dark' enough to be with me" thing particularly bothers me because it's actually a common mindset for traumatized people when it comes to relationships. Thinking that your trauma has ruined you for a healthy relationship and that it's something that you don't deserve so you should actually date evil people because they're the only ones who understand your trauma responses so you won't feel like a burden is a very real mindset and feyre is displaying it to a tee. And Sjm is romanticizing it.

Like yeah rhys might understand her dark side or whatever but that is because he is more evil than her. He sends her to the weaver in what feels like a cruel prank just to go get a ring, he uses her as bait, he shuts her ideas down for no reason, he only tells her what he wants her to know, he grooms her into being a tool for him instead of letting her explore her own personality, and he only shows her around velaris. The only time he takes her somewhere else, he and amren decided to be complete assholes to the summer court and pull a completely unneccesary heist to make feyre feel pressured to join in their schemes and cement this "it's the NC against the world" mentality to isolate her and prevent her from making friends

Like I just imagine book 1 feyre feeling horrified and disgusted at what she becomes and it's honestly so sad. At this point, I honestly only feel sorry for feyre but I think acowar is going to be the breaking point that actually pushes me into hating her. Like at that point, I think she actually becomes one of the IC, mentality actions and all, and idk I just feel so bad.

[skania]

OnK Chapter 151

Me two weeks ago:

Me reading this chapter:

The fact that Aka did parallel Chapter 30 makes me feel like we're definitely going to see some Tokyo Blade & Private parallels as the anime covers those arcs. For the better or for the worse.

But we'll get there in due time. For now, time to laugh at the writing again 😂

I have to hand it to Aka. I mentioned that last chapter highlighted like half the reasons why I find romantic Aqua/Kana so poorly written, and this chapter right here did a fine job at highlighting the rest 😂

I want to be an actress! Well... Aqua wants me to be an idol and it may not be so bad actually, I want to be Aqua's Oshi no Ko! Aqua is ignoring me! Being an idol sucks, I quit! I'm going to be a great actress! I may have a chance with Aqua actually. I just want to be his Oshi no Ko!

It's wild to me that Aka had Kana say that her current dream is just to be Aqua's Oshi no Ko. Absolutely wild. This girl was so desperate to become a well-known actress that she was willing to be casting-couched for it, yet suddenly now it's actually it's fine that I peaked when I was five tee hee!

She's obviously lying to herself and settling for the level she is in now because she thinks that reaching that level of notoriety is out of her reach, but...

Not gonna lie, as someone who has seen Akane be called everything from obsessed to emotionally dependant to simp, it is hilarious to witness Kana's writing right now.

But I guess it couldn't have been any other way, because what Kana asks out of Aqua this chapter is a reflection of what she has wanted all along:

I mentioned it before that Kana started fixating on Aqua as being that person for her, and this chapter shows that's still the case. There's nothing inherently wrong with that IMO, in fact it could be empowering to know that as long as this one person is in your corner, you can take on the world.

The problem is that so far, Aka hasn't quite written it that way. The secret behind Kana's acting is that she wants people to look at her, she wants people to acknowledge her, to love her. But when that desire is centered on Aqua and Aqua alone, she gets so hung-up on him that it's debilitating. She literally became a shell of herself during that year Aqua was no longer a part of her life.

Last time I felt Kana was acting pathetic, Aka confirmed that she was indeed meant to be perceived that way, and Kana gave herself a reality-check:

I thought Kana's moment of self-awareness was going to lead her to be emotionally independent from Aqua, but it seems that the fact that Aqua wound up saving her either way undid that progress. Now that she has hope that he may date her if she makes a move, she's taking it so far that she's ranking her romance with him over her lifelong dreams.

All this to say that since Aka once deliberately wrote Kana being overly dependant on Aqua to show that it's not how she is meant to be, I can't help but hope we may see something similar later.

Granted, Kana being written like a shounen love-interest whose entire purpose is just to get with the MC has always been a risk, so I guess this is par for that course lol

As for Aqua, I mentioned before that I believe Kana is everything he liked about both, Ai and Sarina and thus, the perfect Oshi... and this chapter has Kana declaring out-loud that she wants to be his one true Oshi No Ko.

Moreover, this is happening right after Ruby told Aqua this:

And while Sarina is undoubtedly Goro's Oshi, Kana wants to be Aqua's. The issue with that however... is that Kana wants to be the only person Aqua looks at, his Number One.

Meanwhile, Aqua kind of has his hand full in that regard already, so it's no wonder that through his shock, he isn't able to "catch" the ball symbolizing that particular part of Kana's dream 😂

There's his eyes, too. Last chapter I said that Aka seems to want us to compare the Aqua-Ruby chapters we got in this volume with Kana's, and the way Kana's confession was structured seems to confirm this is the case. So following that comparison, it stands out to me that Ruby's words brought out Aqua's white star and Kana's didn't. Especially because just a few chapters ago we saw Kana bring out Aqua's white star just by being Kana:

In this chapter Kana praises him, validates him, confirms that she is into him (which he has likely known since, coincidentally, at least Chapter 30), yet Aqua’s star remains black all throughout.

Why is that? Is it just his self-hatred and his guilt-complex keeping him from accepting that he’s the object of Kana’s straight gaze?

Or could Aka be hinting at something else?

Aqua has a lot of issues. Some have been with him since he was Goro, and others he has developed during his current life. We saw that Ruby's words pacified the "Goro" within him, but Aqua dismissed Ruby's affection as being aimed at him because he once was Goro. It's not something he feels he has earned in his current life. Kana is the other side of that complex equation. Everything she knows about him are things he has been willing to show her, but what about everything else? What about his trauma and his dark impulses? What about his past? Aqua likely thinks her view of him is skewed, and he is not wrong in that regard. But I'll stop there before I bring Akane into the mess lmao

All in all, for the time being, I feel like what we saw this chapter tracks with my thoughts here:

Aqua, Kana, Ai and Aka's concept of Oshi

Kana is the Ultimate Oshi (parallels to Sarina and Ai) + 1

Even more parallels and a theory about their purpose

Considering how lousy Aka's writing has been lately, I feel like this is still the most interesting route he could take. After all, if we abide by the values he preached in Kaguya, then Oshi is meant to be a platonic concept. So following Aka's logic, for Aqua and Kana to end up together, Aqua would need to tell her that he doesn't want her to be his Oshi, but his lover.

Of course, it's entirely possible that Aka is going to walk back on all of that. Oshi no Ko is supposed to be its own manga, after all. Maybe it's his attempt at writing tropes in the most straight-forward way possible and Aka's new idea of a big love declaration is Aqua finally waving the white lightstick at Kana's graduation concert.

If the curtains truly are just blue, I hope the writing will remain as hilarious as it has been these past few chapters 😂

In the meantime, the other thing that stood out to me this chapter was Aqua himself. We all know that being a surgeon was Goro's dream, so it makes sense for Goro to chase that dream in this new life as Aqua. I was even happy for him when he first brought it up because this life is his chance to do everything he wanted but couldn't in his first life!

But last chapter we had a big showing of "Goro" telling "Aqua" that he is free to live his own life now. In other words, instead of trying to do what Goro would have done if he had a second chance, he can focus on doing the things that he wants to do as the individual he has become during his life as Aqua Hoshino.

So, I feel like this begs the question: is being a surgeon truly Aqua Hoshino's dream? Like not even something he wants to do alongside other things, but his outright dream?

I can't help but wonder. Particularly because, in my opinion, the TB arc did a good job at foreshadowing that Aqua Hoshino is made to be an actor.

In this chapter Kana seems to be fooling herself into giving up on her childhood dream because she thinks it's out of her reach. It would fit, then, for the Aqua in this chapter to be fooling himself as well.

If we entertain the thought of wanting to be a surgeon being a vestige of his old life rather than something Aqua truly dreams of in his current life, then his reaction in these pages becomes more interesting:

Kana assumes Aqua is just embarrassed, but these panels to me read like something more than that - for more reasons than one.

Just like Goro guided him to Kana last chapter possibly based on his own wants, in this chapter Kana unknowingly guides him to Goro's.

She is completely right. Every word she says rings true.

But I'd argue that everything she said was already accomplished by Goro in his previous life. He did save lives (although not as many as he would've wanted, and not the ones that counted the most for him), he was a light to Sarina, etc. etc. He was a good doctor.

Everything Kana says about Aqua was already true of Goro. On the other hand, Kana's description of Aqua paints nothing but virtues, and we know for a fact Aqua isn't only just light. More than that, we know for a fact that Aqua doesn't see himself that way.

Much like how in Chapter 149 we got Kana giving a very positive but very one-sided description of Akane that leaves out her negative traits, Kana more or less does the same thing with Aqua here.

In Chapter 149, Akane first got flustered (her idol Kana-chan was praising her, after all) and then sobered up; possibly because for her it's the opposite (she isn't a goody-two-shoes nor normal nor decent, and men would prefer women who are - like Kana).

I feel like in this Chapter, we may or may not have seen a repeat of this with Aqua. It's his Oshi no Kana praising him, but does he really believe the things she's saying of him? Or are they just a reminder of what he is not (according to himself)?

I can't help but wonder, because last time we saw Aqua blushing to the point that he had to hide his face, Mengo and Aka made sure we could see his blush.

The way he is drawn here is very obviously meant to be paralleled to this chapter, he shields his face in the same way and all. So why not simply show his blush, just like they did in Chapter 29?

Granted, this is just me naturally going for the most interesting possibility lol It is entirely possible and even likely that this is all as simple as it seems. But to be fair, in Chapter 30 he throws the ball at Kana in the same way and it wasn't because Kana was right. At the contrary: it was because he was having a moment and Kana drew the most basic conclusion out of it, one that embarrassed him lmao

Geez it's kind of sad how this manga lends itself to two completely different readings and the most basic one is the one with the highest chances of being true 😂

[lizzychanstuffss]

Remembrance: Love and Deepspace AU 2

Au premise: So, what if mc actually remembered everytime she's reincarnated, and what if she regrets the choices she's made in every single reincarnation and is finally using this timeline to try and fix it once she realizes this might be her only chance. But she is entirely unsure if the boys remember their past lives with her, so she must navigate all these feelings along with judging if they remember too. AN: Tee hee Xavier time! I was actually a Xavier girlie before Sylus took me. Anyways nothing all that special to note here enjoy! Also this wasn't proofread either!

Xavier x mc | Xavier x Y/N | Angst | Mc is slightly less depressed in this one | Route: Xavier | Other Routes

Chapter 2: Xavier Prologue

Your hunter's watch beeped, taking a peak at the glowing screen you took in the candidates and nodded to yourself as you stood. Making your way out along with a few other hunters. The location was nearby, you got on your bike and kicked it into high gear trying to beat the wanderers before they could cause any major damage to the surrounding area or cause any casualties. It was late spring and the winds were starting to change.

Once had arrived all the other hunters had already gone off before to try and gather intel about the current situation. Doing the same you headed off in a direction you didn't see anyone go, it seemed to lead to a warehouse. The place was abandoned, the vines and broken windows and broken off door gave that away.

Shrugging you headed inside the building figuring there might be a wondered hiding somewhere inside. Leading with your gun you headed inside ready to attack if needed. Your breath was steady nothing about this call was unusual so you were rather calm, and also you really didn't think anything would be in here. Or so you thought.

As you walked forward you eventually were stopped by the sight of a man sitting on the ground. However, as you got closer the features started to become clearer and then instantly you recognized the face. You stopped a few feet away from him, an invisible wall forming that you couldn't quite pass.

So instead you went to turn around, but it was to late by then. He had woken up.

Don't turn around

So you didn't, you kept walking, trying to get away. But unfortunately for you, he was just a bit faster.

"What are you doing here?" His tone was more flat than normal, a tinge of worry bubbling up in your chest as you turned to face him. You hadn't realized how close he actually was, only about a foot of distance between the both of you. You were left speechless as you took in his features, along with a dull ache.

"It's dangerous here, wanderers are around you should leave" You kept your tone flat not wanting to give anything away. Not wanting him to know that anything was off about this. He just shrugged unbothered by your warning.

"I'll be fine" Your eyebrow twitched, you may love him but at this moment it was becoming increasingly clear how indifferently stubborn he could be. You crossed your arms about to give him a stern talking to but then you came back to reality. A reality where you aren't lovers and he's not the crown prince of Philos.

"It's my job to make sure people aren't in harm's way, unless you're a hunter you shouldn't be here"

"I am a hunter...." He informed you.

"Why didn't you lead with that?" You just stared at him as he gave you another shrug of indifference. Before you could get more annoyed with him there was the sudden rawr of a nearby wanderer.

"Well seems like duty calls, let's go!" Both of your demeanors turned serious as you headed outside and there was a group of wanderers surrounding the building. Xavier quickly summoned his light sword and you aimed your gun starting to fire at a few of the beasts.

Although something odd then happened during this fight, the two of you without thinking resonated. It was second nature as you both summoned a blade of light and struck down several wanderers. But neither of you even thought anything of it in the heat of the moment.

Eventually, you took down the final wanderer, wiping your brow you huffed a smile on your face as you spoke. "Good work Xavier-" Cutting yourself off as you spoke before looking over at him. You hadn't even realized you said his name without thinking.

"You did a good job too," He said his sword dissipating into light. You let out a sigh as he seemingly didn't notice you said his name when you shouldn't know it, or he simply didn't think anything of it.

Wait...why didn't he think anything of it?

Looking over to him you decided not to push your luck for now in case this ended badly.

But didn't you want to avoid him, didn't you think it would be better if you weren't in his life?

There was a storm brewing in your mind.

Are you sure you want to do this? What if he doesn't remember you? What if he hates you? You should just leave.

Biting your lip you were about to walk away before you felt a hand on your shoulder. Turning around his eyes were looking into yours, this time it seemed like he was searching for something. The moment only cut through when he spoke again.

"Do you want to go back to the Hunter's association together?" He was giving you those puppy dog eyes that it seemed like you could never quite resist no matter how hard you tried.

"S-sure we can" And of course you gave in.

"Thanks, did you take your bike here or a car?" He asked his tone soft as he let out a soft yawn.

He was always so cute when he was tired.

You almost smiled at that but held back not wanting your intentions to be shown in the moment just in case this ended poorly for either of you.

"Bike, you fine with riding on the back?" You asked him raising a brow as you made it back to the area you had parked along with the others. Who had just happened to also make it back all around the same time? Xavier got some looks from the other hunters before you quickly reassured them that he was with you. Xavier just gave them some pleasant smiles and explained that he simply had a different uniform than the other hunters. You felt like that might be a lie but you actually had no clue yourself.

The ride back to the Hunter's association was uneventful and also rather short. Once you had gotten back you simply assumed you would part ways.

It's better this way.

But to your surprise, Xavier just stared at you before asking.

"How did you know my name?"

There it was, those dreaded words. Or maybe this was a blessing, maybe you should just come clean, and then if he thinks you're crazy and leaves then you'll never have to see his face again and the guilt, the pain can just all go away. But what if....he remembered too? What then? Would you simply just keep living but pretending that you two were royalty in your free time, or should you go and try to stop crime with wanted criminal Lumerie the possibilities actually sounded fun when you thought about it like that.

"I must have seen your file or something" It was the best you could up with at the moment, you didn't have the guts, to be honest. Not yet anyway.

Wait, not yet?

No, you couldn't do that to yourself, one mission with him was fine but seeing him more. You knew the guilt would eat at you to much for something like that.

"Well then I'll get going then, oh right my name is Y/N by the way. Just in case we see each other" You knew why you were talking like this. Because as much as that guilt ate at your very soul, there was a part of you that craved him. You wanted to hold him in your arms and whisper sweet nothings to him while he was fast asleep on your chest stroking his hair. That was the part that was driving this need to fix the damage you caused him in the past life.

"Oh, okay, yeah of course" There was a happiness in his tone that you couldn't help but wonder if you caused. But you knew a surefire way to test it so.

"Actually...if you wouldn't mind, would you like to get some lunch tomorrow? My treat" You gave him a warm smile.

Smiling was always easier when it was at him.

"Oh, sure, that would be nice" His tone wasn't full of any apparent emotion and yet you know how to read it. He was happy, but why? He shouldn't know you think time. Should he?

"Great, I'll see you tomorrow then" You nodded to him as you waved goodbye and headed back inside the building. As you walked away the guilt started to set in, the fear and doubt. But at this point, it was too late and you had committed so you might as well make the most of it.

[persphonesorchid]

Lovin' On You - MYG

Summary: After what happened at the fair, Yoongi is plagued with a re-occurring nightmare of a life that was once his. For a reason that escapes him, he's held on to the Lover's card.

Genre: Enemies to lovers, fluff, angst.

Warnings: talking about nightmares, Yoongi and Mc still don't know what to do with themselves. They're honestly so annoying oml. Yoongi bites his nail and it bleeds just a little bit :(. Mc has a nightmare, but don't worry! Yoongi's there :) Unbeta'd

Wordcount:7.8k

Masterlist - Here

Read Hatin' On You - Here

If you like my content, please consider supporting me - Here

Notes: It's HERE YAY! Finally wrapped this up at 2am this morning! :))) I hope the wait wasn't too annoying, and I really hope you guys enjoy this!! Feedback is appreciated and encouraged! Let me know what you think! I hope after the long wait that this is okay for you all! Have a good day! :))

Yoongi’s standing in a doorway. There’s a storm raging behind him. It rattles the wooden panes of a house that’s cold, the wind blows and leaves and rain follow. His heart is at his feet, scattering in the breeze that blows in from outside. He’s cold and soaked from the rain but he doesn’t even have it in him to shiver.

The first beat of his heart then is harsh, it stalls his breath, catching it his throat where it stifles him. The other kicks so hard he thinks it’d burst right through his ribs.

There’s a woman on the floor, and he says a name he doesn’t know. A name he could barely hear over the thunder that claps, a name that clings to his throat with the way he chokes on it. She stares right through him, eyes dimmed and dull. He stumbles forward and drops to his knees before he reaches her. The floor is hard, digging into the silk of his clothes and the cold, soaked skin beneath.

Her blood is cold and his hand slips as he grabs for her, pressing his hands against the wound that still bleeds.

“N-no. Why...why are you laying here?” He sits in the blood, and it stains his clothes. She’s heavy as he lifts her, staring into her eyes that can no longer see. “Why are you laying here? Wake up. Wake up!”

Yoongi startles awake, sitting up in his too warm sheets, gasping for air. His heart pounds in his chest like he’s been running, his throat feels raw like he’s been screaming at the top of his lungs. He kicks the tangled covers off and stumbles out of bed. With a hand pressed over his mouth he runs to the bathroom across the hall.

He spills the dinner he had into the toilet, sitting on the cold tiled floor. When he’s done, he sits there and sobs, and he wishes he knew why he was crying. Why the sadness he felt sealed him in this little corner, closing around his throat in a way that makes him gasp for air. And the guilt, there’s so much that Yoongi feels as though he could reach into his chest and scoop it all out.

It isn’t his.

These emotions do not belong to him, and Yoongi wishes he could leave them alone. But every night - or ungodly hour of the morning - for the past week, he’s here. Reeling from the too vivid fragments of a dream, a memory that doesn’t belong to him either.

It was his, maybe, a couple lifetimes ago. Where a man and a woman met a tragic end.

He squeezes his eyes shut, wiping his face with the collar of his tee-shirt. He’s tired of this and in general, he’s not gotten much sleep since that night at the fair. Yoongi sighs, long and drawn out, standing on shaky legs to flush the toilet and wobble over to the sink to brush his teeth. He stares at himself in the mirror, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, the mess of his hair and his tired, red eyes.

He wonders how you’re doing. If you’re asleep right now, all warm and cosy in your sheets. Or if you’re in the same predicament as he is. The thought of you going through the same thing doesn’t bring him comfort, instead, worry draws his brows together.

He remembers well the panic you were in, standing in the middle of a storm looking through him. Your fingers were cold when they wrapped around his wrist then, calling his name so softly he’d barely heard you.

He’s been suffering, constantly reliving a moment that wasn’t his. He’d hate if you had to do the same. He’d had to make sure you stayed grounded there with him, in the middle of whatever insane shared subconscious acid trip you’d both went on. He couldn’t let you fall into whatever you were feeling.

Yoongi sighs, flipping the light switch as he walks out the bathroom. He stands at the open door of his bedroom, staring at the rumpled sheets of his bed and wonders if getting back into it would be worth the tossing and turning. Sleep is already long gone and the furthest thing from his mind, so Yoongi walks to his kitchen instead.

He feels a little lost, not quite sure what he’s doing standing there in the dark at four in the morning. Tired of this seemingly endless loop of the past week, but too restless to attempt putting an end to it. He does the same he’s done all week when he wakes up at ass ‘o clock; make a cup of coffee, sit at the table and stare into the swirling pool of liquid.

“Fucking hell.” He presses his palms into his eyes and sighs.

Yoongi sits there until his white ceramic cup is empty, and he makes another, and the sun is scattering orange and pinks, coming up between the clouds. His phone chimes where he’d brought it and left it on the table, a short vibration and a brief glow of his lock screen shows a text alert.

He stares at it for a moment, noting the time to be just a bit after six am. He wonders who it could be at this hour, if it’s Seokjin or Jungkook after staying up too long, playing video games. Or maybe, Namjoon, owning up to that broken mug still sitting in his trash that Yoongi knows he broke.

He unlocks the phone with a press of his thumb. It’s neither of the people he thought of, but a short string of words in a good morning text from you.

Yoongi’s a little surprised.

Even after that night at the fair, after he’d said you should both start over, and you agreed; nothing much has happened. It’s a bit hard, to break out of the habit of not keeping up with you simply because he has no reason to.

His finger hovers over the text box, mind mulling over what exactly to say. A simple good morning back, after not much thought, and then, asking why you were awake this early.

 As soon as the text was sent and received by you, you’re calling him. For a second, his heart races as he fumbles to swipe at the pick-up prompt. The same way it did when that lost kid at the fair mistook you both for a couple.

Yoongi didn’t let the thought linger, storing it in a little box to mull over another time when his palms aren’t sweating. Or when he isn’t stumbling through a greeting like he’s never spoken to you before. Well, he has...but never in a way that doesn’t send you two bickering.

“Hey...” Your voice is soft, and he barely hears you over what he assumes is you shuffling about in your sheets. “Sorry, I know this is random, ‘cause we don’t really talk...”

“It’s okay, what’s up?” Yoongi presses his phone between his ear and shoulder, getting up to refill his cup with more steaming coffee. You go quiet for a moment, long enough that Yoongi has to check to see if the call is still connected. “Y/n?”

“This is gonna sound weird...but I don’t think anything can be weirder than what happened last week. Honestly, nothing’s ever gonna top that ev- “

He calls your name again, as he catches on that you’re rambling and not actually getting anywhere close to telling him why you called. “What’s wrong?”

You sigh, whispering something that he doesn’t catch before speaking up, “I’ve...Have you...” you trail off, groaning.

“Take your time, I’ve got all day.” Yoongi didn’t actually mean it in the way it sounded, he really does have all day.

“Okay, let’s talk about the weather then. Cause you clearly don’t wanna hear what I have to say. What if it’s something really important? What if I was dying? Bet you wouldn’t sass me then.” You go off in a tangent, and Yoongi lets you get all your words out. There’s a little smile tugging on the corners of his mouth, which, all in his lonesome, he doesn’t bother to hide. This feels familiar, a tug backwards to where you both were before that night last week.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Yoongi can’t help the soft chuckle he hopes you didn’t catch, and that’s because he’s stirring a spoonful of sugar into his coffee very loudly to cover it. He shuffles back to the chair at the dining table, slumping into it, tracing the handle of his mug with a finger. “And besides, if you were dying, I’d be the last person you call. Matter of fact, I’d probably hear it from Seokjin.”

“I wouldn’t even have the time to call him.” You laugh, it’s a nice sound, and before, for reasons he couldn’t understand, it was like nails on a blackboard. It’s pleasant, makes him smile again for no reason at all.

“...Anyway. I’ve been having dreams...” You finally say, and despite the way it warrants the concern from earlier, he keeps quiet. You saying that to him can only mean one thing, and its exactly what Yoongi was afraid of.

“We all have dreams, Y/n.” Is what he says instead, because he’d be damned if you knew he’s been worried about you. Not right now when nothing between you both has gone further than a handshake and an attempt to move forward. You’re barely friends.

“Yoongi.” The way you say his name has him pursing his lips and relenting. “This is serious.”

“Okay.” Yoongi sighs, he was hoping you wouldn’t say that. He sets his mug down, not quite feeling for the coffee anymore; he’s had more than enough of it anyway. He’d be lucky if he would be able to sit still in a couple of hours. You’re quiet again, but Yoongi knows to give you a moment, so he waits, getting up instead to poke through his fridge.

He’s studying the left-over rice and the eggs on the top shelf when you find your voice.

“Do you think...are you busy? Can I come over?” You ask softly.

Yoongi hums, a little distracted, reaching for a small container of garlic butter he’s sure was Seokjin’s idea. He squints at the yellow and blue label before shaking his head and putting it back, “You don’t know where I live, though.”

“.... I was there last month, remember? Hobi dragged me over there for that get together thing...”

“Ah.” Yoongi nods, pulling out the rice he tucked in a Tupperware bowl and a couple eggs. “I don’t even remember seeing you then...” He’s lying; he does. He remembers that he told Hoseok to not bring you along, but all the little shit did was roll his eyes and brought you anyway. Yoongi’s anything but rude, so he had no choice but to suck it up and stay as far away from you as possible.

Everyone acted nicely and pretended not to notice the tension.

“I heard there’s pills for that you know? I got some for my Grandad some time ago, works miracles.”

“Fuck off.” Yoongi grumbles but doesn’t do much else as you continue to tell him how good it would be to get them. He doesn’t mind this, there’s a sense of normalcy in your banter and he finds comfort in it. “Get here before I change my mind.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

There's a beep and then you’re gone and Yoongi’s wondering if he should make more rice.

A half hour later, there’s a knock on the door, and Yoongi turns the heat of the stovetop off to answer it. You’re standing on the other side, a nervous air about you as he lets you in. He closes the door behind you, giving you a moment to take your shoes off and trail behind him to the kitchen.

He'd fussed a bit over the fried rice he made, that still sits in the pot, cooling on the table, and Yoongi bites the inside of his cheek.

“Have...Have you eaten?” He asks softly, not quite sure what to do with himself now that you’re here. You shake your head, and he silently nods and moves to the cabinets to grab bowls and utensils, he sits opposite you when he finished serving the bowls, setting one down in front of you.

You eat silently for a moment and Yoongi doesn’t want to rush you, so he eats too, a little awkwardly. It’s hard when it’s just the both of you, without your friends to act as a buffer, and Yoongi studies you as you eat, pointedly avoiding his gaze.

“Are you okay?” He ignores the urge to reach for your hand and curls his free one against his thigh.

You finally look at him, raising a brow, “Are you? You look like shit.”

Yoongi’s quite aware of how he looks, he’s not been getting enough rest and it shows. He chuckles though, a brief shake of his shoulders and he shakes his head, looking down at the fried rice in his bowl, “Wow. Thanks, you really know how to compliment a guy.”

“You’re welcome.” You smile, and Yoongi’s lost in it, almost blinded. You let your spoon rest in the bowl, a small furrow between your brows and concern in your eyes. Yoongi’s a bit surprised at that, though, he thinks he should try to get used to it... if you’re gonna be friends and all. “Seriously though, are you?”

Yoongi lets out a breath, tongue poking into his cheek, “Could be better, honestly.” He raises a shoulder in a shrug, “Sleep’s hard to come by.”

You hum softly, sighing, “You too, huh?”

“The dreams...?” You suddenly look as tired as Yoongi feels, nodding your head quietly.

Your eyes shift to somewhere above his head, and something cracks in Yoongi’s chest at the sadness in them. It’s the same as that night, out in the storm, and he doesn’t hesitate to take your hand this time. He reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours first before he draws them closer and into his hand. “Hey, talk to me.”

You let out a soft laugh that sounds sardonic to Yoongi’s ears, but he doesn’t pull his hand away and instead tightens his grip and calls your name softly. You take a breath, something he sees more than he hears, your eyes meet his and there’s a shine to them that makes Yoongi uncomfortable. It burrows into his chest and stays there, gnawing at the strings. He doesn’t want to see you cry so he looks away first and sighs softly.

“I’ve been getting them, too.” He says, still not looking at you, he focuses on the warmth of your hand in his, “Just one, every time.”

The sadness from this morning returns, and Yoongi feels as though he’s standing in that doorway, staring at the woman on the floor with a grief that isn’t his. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, as though it would stop the image from flashing behind them. It doesn’t, and he sees it anyway, like if his eyes are open. He drums the fingers of his free hand against the tabletop in a rhythm and focuses on that for a moment.

“It’s always...” he sighs, “just her...on the floor...” He doesn’t want to say more and he’s glad when you don’t ask him to. He tries not to look at you, because looking at you makes him remember. You’re not her, he reminds himself, though, there’s some similarity in your presence. The feeling of the air in the space you occupy that doesn’t allow him to let it go.

He almost rolls his eyes, really, because why is he so caught up in this? Part of him still believes that what happened that night never did.

But you’re here, you, who just this time last week, he’d wanted nothing to do with. You didn’t matter enough for him to spare a thought if it wasn’t for complaining or trying to rinse Seokjin’s ears out with a few choice words because yes, you - absolutely, most definitely - had to be at the fair with them.

Yoongi still thinks Seokjin traded spots with Jimin to pick you up on purpose. Just out of spite.

He doesn’t think it’s too much of a bad thing now, since really, you’re all he thought of in the days following, and, under no good circumstance, this past week.

You, who shared the same weird moment with him, and that stupid card is sitting on his dresser, still. He’d said that you both should start over, and he meant it. He’d like to backtrack a bit, he thinks, figure out the when and why you both had started out the way you had.

Maybe you were laughing too loudly, or maybe you tried too hard to be nice meeting him for the first time. Whatever it was...now that Yoongi’s taking a moment to think about it – albeit, a terrible moment, he’s sure he’s been silent for a while now – he didn’t like you.

He wonders what it was now, why it was mutual...he doesn’t know. And he probably wouldn’t know for a while.

Maybe it’ll come to him later, when all this is done, he’ll figure it out.

“Hey.” Your fingers wiggle against his palm but you don’t pull them away. Turning your hand just a bit to hold his and squeeze softly, “Where’d you go?”

“Sorry.” Yoongi offers a faint smile and not much else, and goes quiet again, watching you watch him with a slight frown and something he can’t put a name to in your eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m okay.”

He listens as you tell him about your dream, just one that reoccurs, stuck in a loop like he’s been for the past week. In your dream you’re no longer standing on the outskirts of a memory, but right in the middle of it playing the part of the woman that met her end.

Once the food was finished you both stay at the table, not quite sure what to do now.

“Have any idea what it might be?” You ask softly and Yoongi can only shake his head.

“Trauma response, maybe.” He mutters, leaning back into his chair, “...What if we check the fair? It’s supposed to be here still, we might be able to find something out. Or at least a way to stop the dreams?”

You perk up, “Yeah, I think that would be a good idea...” then you pause, “But...She disappeared, remember? The whole place was gone when we woke up...I’m not even sure if it was there to begin with...”

Yoongi hums, rubbing his fingers against his bottom lip in thought. That’s true, and even now it still confuses him how everything disappeared as though it was never there. It makes everything feel as though it was just a dream. With a plan in mind, both you and Yoongi leave his apartment, heading down the stairs together to his car.

Once settled in, Yoongi turns the radio on, he has a feeling you won’t be doing much talking and needs something to fill the silence before it gets awkward. The drive is a long as he remembers, out of the city and a couple miles or so before he could see the tops of the fair attractions. It’s void of fair-goers, considering it’s only eight in the morning, and the little ticket booth just outside the entrance is empty.

Yoongi shuts off the engine, setting his hands on the wheel and peers through the windshield. Further inside, from where he could see, there’s a few people – most likely staff – going about their businesses’. They don’t seem to notice you both, too busy setting up for what would probably be the last and busiest night of the fair. “Don’t suppose we could just walk through the gate, huh?”

There’s a sigh from you, “We could just be normal people and ask, you know.”

“They’re closed, they won’t let us in.” Yoongi hums, not to mention, they’d probably think you’re both crazy with the story you’d have to explain. “Or...” he unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car, “C’mon.”

Around the perimeter of the fair, there’s a sparse smattering of trees. It’s not much to hide a person, much less two sneaking around, but if Yoongi remembers correctly; that strange woman’s tent was just at the edge of it. He waits until you’re out of the car, expression a little distrusting – your slightly narrowed eyes giving him a once over. He thinks nothing of taking your hand, tugging you long behind him as he moves around to the corner of the entrance, he peeks around the booth and through the chain-linked fencing. Everyone on the compound seems far enough away, no one close enough to see you two act like teenagers up to no good, one bad step away from getting arrested for trespassing. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, loud enough to make Yoongi falter the step he was about to take. He turns to you slightly, lips in a flat line, you stare at him expectantly and Yoongi wave his hand.

“I don’t know, what does it look like we’re doing?” He asks, shaking his head at you before turning around again. The first booth that’s closet to the entrance has people milling about it now, two of them carrying boxes and the other person fumbling with something in their hands.

“I am so not climbing this fence, Yoongi.” You say, and Yoongi feels the finger of your free hand poking his back.

“Obviously, shithead. You wanna get arrested?” Yoongi rolls his eyes skyward and stares for a moment, sighing. “We’re going around, now keep quiet, you’re talking too loud.”

You grumble something to yourself, and Yoongi ignores you, waiting until the folks at the booth seem busy enough not to notice you both; backs to you. He pulls you along beside him, crossing over some shrubbery and into the trees, as you both move further along, there’s more people. The trees do a good job at hiding you both, and Yoongi knows it’s not much further when he sees the bathroom’s chipping paint.     

This is a terrible idea, but Yoongi’s had worse. Though, this is very high on his list of bad decisions.

Eventually there’s a break in the chain link fence, where the shrubbery and the sparse trees meet the edge of the compound. The space where he clearly remembers the tent being, is unsurprisingly empty.

“Now what?” You murmur next to him, quietly even though there’s no reason for you to be whispering.

Yoongi lifts a shoulder in a shrug, “Can’t say we didn’t try...Hey-” He reaches for you as you walk past him and onto the compound. He follows – of course he does – grabbing your wrist and tugging you back a little before you can get too far. “There’s nothing here.”

Yoongi scans the area anxiously, knowing his luck, someone’s bound to see you both standing here in broad daylight. It’s unnervingly quiet, save for the faint sounds of people around the compound doing their jobs.

Something settles in your expression that Yoongi doesn’t like, as you stare at the empty lot. There’s a furrow between your brows, teeth worrying at your bottom lip. Yoongi understands, he wants this over with as much as you do. He wants a night where his dreams don’t disturb the little sleep he can catch on a normal day. Not stuck in some endless loop of mishaps.

Yoongi releases his hold, keeping an eye out while you figure out whatever is going on in your head. He wants to ask, not let you sink too far, but shakes his head instead, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

It took a second to realise there was something more in there than his car keys. Small and sleek and making the hair on the back of his neck raise. Yoongi takes a breath, settling his nerves before pulling the item out of his pocket. By now, he’s used to it – stranger things have happened – but it doesn’t change the fact that he left the stupid card on his dresser.

The gold letters and design of the Lover’s card glimmers against the sunlight. The couple on the card stands in a beautiful, fertile landscape, reminiscent of the Garden of Eden. Behind the woman stands a tall apple tree, with a snake winding its way up the trunk. Behind the man is a bare tree in flames, and above them both is an Angel.

Yoongi doesn’t know if he expects the depictions on the card would shift the more he studies it. Or maybe, if he was really lucky, it would burst into flames in the direct sunlight and he can be rid of it. Unfortunately, Yoongi’s never that lucky. He wonders if it’s cursed, and given his luck it might as well be. Isn’t that how those silly horror movies go? Someone always ends up with a cursed object somehow.

There’s something unsettling curling in his stomach as he stares at it, and when you turn to him, he quickly tosses it. He sees it flutter to the grassy ground in the corner of his eye, and he’s certain you’d notice, too. So, he takes a wide step to reach you, offering a smile. “We should go...”

Maybe the tent would be here if you both return later. Yoongi wouldn’t be shocked if the strange woman only comes out at night.

There’s a faraway look in your eyes when Yoongi reaches for your hand, he hooks a finger into the sleeve of your sweater and tugs lightly. You blink quietly at him and Yoongi sighs softly, taking a step closer to take your hand. “We’ll come back later, okay?”

You nod minutely, and Yoongi takes the small smile you offer as a victory. Your fingers curl into his, and they’re a little cold, so Yoongi gently rubs his thumb against the back of your hand.

It takes a few steps forward before the hair on the back of his neck raises. The wind that blows by is certainly too cold for the dead end of Spring and Yoongi falters in his next step, he squeezes your hand lightly and stands still.

“Young man.”

The voice is one he remembers faintly, and he turns, tugging you behind him slightly. He’s ready to tell you to make a run for it, hand almost slipping out of yours to push you if he must.

The woman looks older in the natural light, she has more wrinkles than Yoongi remembers. Her silver hair hangs in ringlets, the dark robe like dress is the same as the last he saw her in, only now he notices the glimmering silver pattern that runs along the fabric. She still dons her many rings and dreamcatcher earrings, and a displeased frown directed at Yoongi. Behind her sits the little tent.

Despite her being the person you’d both been hoping to see; you don’t say anything and neither does Yoongi.

He glances at you for a second before looking back at the woman.

“It’s very rude to throw away what was given so graciously.” She waves a hand at the card that lies face down on the grass.

Yoongi narrows his eyes at the card and sucks his teeth before his gaze returns to the woman. “Yeah? Well, we don’t want it, so, graciously take it back.”

The woman narrows her eyes right back, not looking all too pleased, but Yoongi doesn’t care. He throws the card away and she suddenly appears? Nothing screams cursed more than that.

“.... Please.” Yoongi adds after a thought, his hand tightening around yours.

The shaman gives him a once over, eyes still narrowed before she sighs and waves a hand, beckoning you both forward. She bends down to pick up the card, straightening up to glare at Yoongi before she walks over and into her tent.

Yoongi takes a moment before following, turning to face you.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly, eyes searching your face, and he calls your name, equally as soft, squeezing your hand lightly. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I’m okay.” You say, finally meeting his gaze with a small smile. “Let’s get this over with.”

You lead the way forward, and Yoongi watches the way your hand fits in his, smaller in every sense of the word, your fingers slotted perfectly in the spaces between his. Your hand is warmer now, and Yoongi smiles to himself.

The woman waits patiently at the tent’s entrance, holding the flap open for Yoongi and you to duck under. Like before, you both remove your shoes before stepping up onto the raised carpeted platform. Yoongi only releases your hand once you’re both seated.

“Well then.” The woman begins, sighing through her nose. She places a small cup on the table along with a small white teapot. Yoongi is immediately apprehensive, which the woman notices, “This isn’t for you, child.”

The water she pours is clear and steaming, and all is quiet as she does so. She sips her tea quietly, eyes darting between you both. She places her cup down, smiling, “You two have come quite a long way.” She says with a slight raise of her silver brow.

“We’ve been having dreams.” Yoongi says, not in any way amused, “We want them to stop.”

The dreams have been nothing but a disruption to his daily life, haunting the little hours of sleep he gets and even his waking hours he can’t escape it. He’s noticed that you’re a lot less yourself than he remembers, he doesn’t blame you, after everything, but he’s starting to miss the banter. He misses the normality.

Some days he feels guilty about it, if he hadn’t stopped then, if he wasn’t so unnervingly curious about what this woman had to say, you’d both be well as rain and stuck in the normal routine.

“The dreams aren’t my doing.” The woman says, “Souls hold onto things: regrets, anger, guilt; unfinished business.”

“I thought souls with unfinished business don’t cross over?” You finally speak up, throwing Yoongi a small glance.

Yoongi’s never really believed in that type of stuff, ghosts and things of the like, but you’re right, he knows that much.

“Sometimes.” The woman says, “Like I’ve said, this isn’t the first time for you both. Your souls are just destined to be.” She says this a little too gleefully, clapping her hands together.

Yoongi coughs, trying his best not to choke on air, and he’s quick to say something before it gets awkward. “Right…How do we get the dreams to stop?”

“That’s up to you both. There’s nothing I can do to help you.” She says seriously, picking up her cup and sipping from the tea.

Yoongi opens his mouth to say something, but your hand on top of his stops him, and he calms.

“What do you mean by it’s up to us? Is there something we have to do?”

The woman smiles at your question, a twinkle in her eyes. She lifts her hand, the Lover’s card between her fingers, and places it on the table, sliding it back over to Yoongi.

“As I’ve said; souls hold onto things.” She says, “The dreams will stop once you’ve figured it out.”

As it be, the shaman was way less helpful that Yoongi hoped. Her cryptic words had you both silent on the drive back to his apartment, and he mulls over them as he pulls two bottles of water from his refrigerator.

It’s frustrating enough to think about, and Yoongi decides to think on it later, walking back to the living room where he left you.

“I think I understand what she meant...”

Ah, later is now, he supposes.

You look up at him from your spot on the couch, brows slightly furrowed.

“Oh yeah?” He passed you one of the bottles, “what, then?”

You hum, taking the bottle from him and looking off to the side in thought, “Their deaths...I remember feeling really sad and angry, but mostly sad.”

A sudden, unexpected wave of guilt washes over Yoongi. It’s something that doesn’t belong to him, but it affects him all the same.

“She didn’t want him to leave and he did.”

“...Yeah.” Yoongi mutters, sitting next to you. He lifts his thumb to lips, biting through the nail. He pulls too hard and hisses, looking down at his now bleeding finger. He picks at the nail that just hangs there, trying to pull the little strip off the flesh it clings to.

“Stop that.” You smack his hand away, “You’ll make it worse.”

Yoongi watches as you fish out your keychain, a small nail clipper hanging with the keys.

“It’s my fingernail.” Yoongi rolls his eyes, but lets you take his hand anyway.

You carefully clip the offending piece of nail away, and examine the rest of his fingers. You click your tongue against your teeth. “You barely have nails to bite on, you’re not doing yourself any favours.”

Shaking your head you tuck your keychain back into your pocket, “Do you have band aids?”

Yoongi stares at you while you take his other hand to look at, muttering about his terrible habit. The warm sunlight streaming in through the window makes you glow and he can’t look away, even when you lift your head and meets his gaze.

“It doesn’t need a band aid.” You’re quiet for a moment as you stare back, and Yoongi realises that right at this moment, there’s a shift.

Something that wasn’t there before – or perhaps he hadn’t taken notice – pokes a finger into his heart and tugs.

“Yes, it does...” You say softly, sounding a little distracted.

“That’s a waste of a band aid.”

“It isn’t. I’ll put one on so you don’t go at it again.” You release his hand and Yoongi feels like he’s been pulled out of a daydream, blinking up at you as you stand and stare at him expectantly.

“I have nine other fingers, you know.” He can’t help the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and you take his teasing in stride.

“Well, let’s hope you have nine more band aids.” Your smile is all teeth and Yoongi rolls his eyes, telling you he keeps the first aid kit in the bathroom.

“What do you think they’re holding onto?” You ask from the living room two hours later. The TV is a soft murmur in the background, and Yoongi stands in the kitchen making sandwiches because he doesn’t feel like cooking is worth slaving over the stove right now.

He’s making sandwiches.

“How do you usually feel after your dream?” He asks back, “Also, what kind of sandwich do you want?”

“Whatever’s fine,” There’s some shuffling, “And, I don’t know. I’d say sad, but I’m usually terrified, like I’m waking up from a nightmare.” Your voice is softer now and Yoongi can barely hear you, but he catches on pretty quickly.

Between the both of you, Yoongi would say he got off easy. He thinks he’d be much worse if he’d been dreaming the death of his past self on repeat. He honestly wonders how you do it; you’re as strong as they come.

Yoongi spends a few more minutes putting the sandwiches together and cutting them in halves. He puts the plate on a tray with two glasses of apple juice and walks back to the living room. “You said whatever’s fine, so don’t give me any shit for—”

You’re curled up on his couch, hands tucked under your head; asleep. Yoongi sets the tray down on the coffee table and then goes to his room for a blanket. You look peaceful, and Yoongi can only hope you stay that way. He can’t see the sadness in your eyes with them closed and recent, your expression calm and for the first time today you actually look like you’re here. Not off in your head somewhere else.

He throws the blanket over you, making sure you’re well covered before sitting on the floor. He’s finishing his portion of the sandwiches and reaching for a glass of juice when you suddenly jerk.

Yoongi pauses to look at you, and you seem fine for a moment, and then in the next there’s an expression of pain and you’re breathing too harshly.

Yoongi reaches for you, grasps your arm and gently shakes. “Y/n.” He calls, you don’t respond, and he tries again, “Y/n, wake up.”

He’s careful not to lean over you like the last time, lest you spring upwards and he’d be left nursing a headache. He’s at your side, shaking you a little harder now. “Y/n! Wak—”

Your eyes open and then you’re panicking. Your other arm wriggles out of the blanket, Yoongi’s unable to catch it before your hand smacks him right on the nose, forcing him to let go of the other one as you raise to sit up.

“Y—hey! Relax, relax! It’s just me.”  He grabs your flailing hands, pinning them at your sides, “Y/n. It’s me.”

You still look like you’re asleep as you watch him with some confusion, eyes glazed and glossy, and Yoongi’s not sure what to do when you call his name softly and the first tear falls. He’s up on his knees and pulling you towards him in an instant.

You cry and Yoongi feels his throat tighten and the telling sting behind his eyes. He holds you to him with a gentle hand at the back of your neck and the other rubbing circles against your back.

“I’m sorry.” He says, and he isn’t sure why, he has nothing to apologize for. There’s that guilt again, swelling in his chest and he can only tighten the hold he has on you. “I’m sorry.”

When you pull away the collar of his shirt is damp, and you muster a smile that looks tired. Yoongi’s looking at you, but he swears he doesn’t see you. Instead, there’s a young woman in silk, she’s sad but she’s smiling.

“Its okay.”

Yoongi blinks and she’s gone, and you’re fussing over his bruised nose and damp shirt. He catches your hand before you can poke at his nose again, he’s not even registering the dull throbbing of it. “Are you okay?”

You don’t meet his gaze and your other hand is wiping at the wet spot you left in his shirt. “There’s snot on your shirt.”

“That’s what soap and water is for; I’ll wash it. Answer the question.”

You nod slowly, “I’m okay.”

Yoongi stares for a moment, fingers tensing just slightly at the back of your neck as he realises that this is how you wake in your apartment – alone. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Your gaze flicker downwards, looking at his nose again, though he’s not quite certain.

“Okay.”

His phone chimes from where he left it on the floor, and he makes sure you’re fine before he turns to retrieve it.

Seokjin: I’m coming over.

“Oh great.” Yoongi mutters, unlocking his phone to send a reply back when the sound of his door unlocking fills the quiet space.

“I’ve been trying to get through to you for days, Yoongi.” Seokjin says from the entryway and Yoongi’s trying to process the fact that he was already outside when he texted. “You don’t call for love or money, you don’t even text! And I thought: Hey, maybe I should check on him so I know he isn’t dea—”

Seokjin pauses at the living room entrance, quiet now, blinking silently at you for a long moment before he looks at Yoongi, and back to you again.

“Am I interrupting?” Yoongi could see the smile he’s failing to hide, before it falls completely, expression shifting. “Were you two fighting again? Why are you crying, Y/n? And you, what happened to your nose?”

“We weren’t fighting.” Yoongi says, and turns to find that you did start crying again. “You said you were okay.”

Neither of you see it, but Seokjin is simply standing there, not too sure what he’s looking at. Eyes darting between the both of you, he feels like he’s missed something.

“I’m fine.” You say softly, smiling.

Seokjin is quiet for a moment longer, then clears his throat. You and Yoongi both look at him, “I’m glad you’re here, though, Y/n. As weird as that is to say...” He whispers the last part more to himself and then shakes his head, “Anyway, get changed! We’re going somewhere!”

“At least it’s not a fair.” You mutter, and Yoongi nods sleepily; the day’s finally catching up to him. He thinks he’d best stay away from those for a long time.

Yoongi’s not too sure why Seokjin insisted you both come out only to drag you two all around the mall for half of the afternoon, where the others had appeared, saying something about you both needing fresh air.

You all sat through a movie— Yoongi barely remembers it – with too salty popcorn and drinks, and now you’re at a table outside the arcade centre in the mall. He could see Jungkook running around the arcade with Taehyung and Jimin at his heels, with an armful of plushies from the claw machine.

Yoongi’s sharing a pizza with you, Seokjin is somewhere about, and Hoseok and Namjoon are laughing at something on the latter’s phone.

Yoongi leans his head against your shoulder, pizza slice still in his hand and chewing lazily.  He’s tired, and he’d sleep right there if you’d let him.

“Tired?”

Yoongi answers with a soft grunt, lifting his head to bite at the pizza. Hoseok and Namjoon are quiet amidst the noise of the arcade and the other mall goers.

“Are you guys dating now?” Hoseok asks and Namjoon smacks him, “What? I’m just asking what everyone is thinking! We don’t see them for two weeks and they’re all buddy-buddy!”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Jungkook dumps a large clear plastic bag with prizes on the table, “They’ve been like that since they disappeared at the fair.”

“They are right here.” Yoongi grumbles, dropping the pizza crust into the box. “You guys assume too much.”

“Assumptions are possibilities!” Seokjin takes the seat next to you, poking at Jungkook’s bag, “Did you rob the machine or something?”

Yoongi groans, “I’m going home. I’m too tired for this.”

He takes your hand and pulls you after him when he stands, waving to the boys. “See you guys.”

Taehyung and Jimin come out of the arcade as you both pass by.

“I’m sure there’s an explanation for that, one that makes sense.”

“Yeah, we stepped into an alternate universe.”

Yoongi takes you back to his apartment, because he doesn’t want you to be alone, and he tells you as much. It’s the reason you give back to him when he told you he’d sleep on the couch.

Now Yoongi’s laying in his bed with his heart somewhere in his throat. You’re an inch and a half away from him and you smell like his shampoo.

“Yoongi, are you awake?”

“No.”

He’s wide awake actually. Sleep just ran away and left him staring at his ceiling. He hears you chuckle softly.

“If I wake you later, I’m sorry.”

Yoongi turns on his side, he can’t see you in the dark and he searches for your hand with his. When he finds it, he squeezes gently, running his thumb softly over your knuckles. “That’ll be okay.”

You shift closer and Yoongi holds his breath. You tuck yourself against him and Yoongi’s heart does a thing; it stalls for a second and then it kicks. He’s not sure what to do with his free hand, so he takes a breath and settles it against the back of your neck, fingers playing with the soft hair at your nape.

“Thank you.” You mutter.

“For what?” Yoongi mutters back.

“For not letting me be alone.” You say, and Yoongi softly squeezes your hand. He tilts his head down, pressing a gentle kiss to your hairline that lingers. Despite everything, laying like this with you feels natural, like something he’s missed and he wonders which part of him missed it.

“Thank you for doing the same.” Yoongi smiles, “You don’t have to be, ever. We can do this every night if you want to.”

“Really?” You ask, and Yoongi feels you laughing, “Guess we’ll never beat the assumptions.”

Yoongi snorts, “Guess not.”

You’re quiet for a moment and Yoongi thinks you’ve fallen asleep, but you speak quietly again.

“You didn’t tell me what you feel after your dreams.”

“That’s because you fell asleep before I could.” Yoongi closes his eyes, “Do you want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.” Yoongi pokes his finger into the side of your neck in warning; he’s too tired for your snark right now.

“Sadness and a lot of guilt.” He feels light a weight lifted off his shoulders as the words leave him, and he sighs, “Y/n?”

You hum and Yoongi squints at the darkness behind you. “Do you think she was right? About our souls, I mean.”

“Which part?” You chuckle, and Yoongi feels you shift. His eyes are adjusted enough to the dark that he can see you.

“About our souls being destined.” It feels silly to ask, considering everything that’s been happening. It makes him think about why you both started out the way you had.

Perhaps, your minds hadn’t been able to process what your souls were feeling, and somewhere, confused it. Maybe that’s why all you both had done was step on each other’s toes.

You hum softly, “It would explain a few things.”

Yoongi gets the feeling that you’re not actually talking to him, but he nods anyway.

“Where does that leave us then?”

“We can see where it takes us?” Yoongi says after a moment, hand moving from the back of your neck to cup your cheek, “Only if that’s okay...”

“Mhm, that’s okay.” He feels you smile and then you’re whispering, “Yoongi?”

“Why are you whispering?” Yoongi whispers back, smiling too. “What is it?”

“Is it okay if I kiss you?”

When he swallows then it’s audible even to him, “twenty minutes into cuddling and you want to kiss me? What am I gonna do with you?”

You whine his name softly, Yoongi finds it endearing and he relents, “Yes, that’s okay.”

When your lips meet his, it feels as though the earth stopped spinning for a second, and something inside Yoongi had finally returned to the place it was supposed to be.

When Yoongi falls asleep not five minutes afterwards, his sleep was dreamless.

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