#on lover it just feels... bizarre

[fellhellion]

“Miguel cheats on Xina and is so callous in his explanation of said act because it comes from a place of self sabotage” is one of those readings where I really like it’s implications and agree it’s plausible for Miguel to do that, but also think it’s harder to textually support.

The difference in Miguel’s reaction between Xina vs how he handles Gabriel is. Incredibly stark.

I think reading self sabotage here with Xina only really works with the cruelty of mocking Xina as she leaves or making a face at her that doesn’t seem to hint at remorse if you read that self sabotage as being either unconscious, or a deeply suppressed. Which are plausible for the character as I’ve said; but I’d argue aren’t supported within the textual presentation we are offered here into Miguel’s supposed emotional state.

Compare and contrast to the confrontation with Gabriel. Miguel is still being a dick, but it’s not the active aggravation like towards Xina, more a sense of condescending pity.

Most critically, you have the time to taken to offer small insight into Miguel feeling guilt at Gabriel trying to forgive him and retreating from that. It’s a reaction no one other than Miguel is privy to and hints at that feeling being aggravated and then suppressed. Most notably, it’s just. Not something we see replicated in his interaction with Xina.

I don’t think any of this particular reading I’m offering here negates the obvious regrets Miguel holds regarding Xina into the future of 2099 though.

Like regardless of whether you choose to read it as active disregard or an unconscious self sabotage (or both), it’s very obvious Miguel holds a lot of regret regarding tarnishing that friendship (and the unspoken love that was present there) and this manifests in one of the most notable ways through the ambiguity to his reaction to Lyla’s confession.

Like. You can essentially read quite a plurality into Miguel’s deflection/bemusement here. From his deeply complicated relationship to love and self hatred, to the fact that Xina becomes retroactively intrinsic to Lyla and that aspect offering the scene a completely new dimension, tinged with palpable regret.

I think it’s entirely plausible, given the ambiguity where Miguel’s reaction comes from to argue for that being present within this scene given not only its presentation, but that guilt over Xina is something we see present in Miguel.

[taylorsabrina]

i've been feeling so "🧍" about what to post on here lately.... like... idk... idk what to say.

[thedensworld]

Now We're Swapping | j.ww

Pairing: Rich Kid Wonwoo x reader

Genre: College au!, Enemy to Lovers au!, Body Swapped au!

Type: fluff, hint angst, smut (mdni!)

Word Count: 18k

Summary: Wonwoo was waking up as his high school rival in one sudden morning. There were two things he could do, help you or turn your life into a miserable one.

Wonwoo experienced three bizarre things the moment he woke up:

1. He wasn’t in his soft, warm, and luxurious bed. In fact, he wasn’t even in his room. The second he opened his eyes, confusion struck him like a bolt of lightning. Instead of his familiar surroundings, he found himself lying on a rock-hard mattress in a room he had never seen before. His back ached from the uncomfortable bed, and the musty smell of old wood filled the air.

2. Before he could even process where he was, the door suddenly burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud bang. A woman, looking frantic and completely unbothered by the fact that he had just woken up, barged in and yelled at him. “Come on! Help me get the kids ready!” she snapped, her voice grating against his ears. Wonwoo flinched. The kids? Since when did he have kids to take care of? Even back at home, not a single staff member dared to wake him up so rudely, let alone order him around. But this woman? She had the audacity to yell at him as if she had been doing it for years.

3. It wasn’t until he was practically dragged out of bed, his body moving sluggishly with sleep still clinging to him, that the real shock hit him. Stumbling towards a mirror hanging on the wall, his bleary eyes landed on his own reflection—except it wasn’t his reflection. It was you. His heart plummeted into his stomach. He blinked. Once. Twice. He even rubbed his eyes, but nothing changed. It was your face staring back at him. No, wait! It wasn’t just your face—it was you. Or was it him? No! It was him, but in your body! No— Whatever! The details didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had somehow woken up as you!

Now, Wonwoo stood in the backyard of a place called Pristine Foster Home, feeling utterly lost. Wet blankets and bedsheets hung from the clothesline, swaying in the breeze, but he was too consumed by his own crisis to care. He tapped his foot anxiously against the ground, his fingers instinctively biting at his nails—a nervous habit he never realized you had. This can’t be happening. This is a nightmare.

Not only had he woken up as a girl, but to make things worse, he had woken up as you—his biggest rival for the upcoming university student presidential election next week. Before Wonwoo could fully process the madness of waking up as you, the woman—who everyone around here called Mrs. Kim—grabbed his wrist and dragged him away without a hint of hesitation.

“You! Front yard. Now. The donor is coming in two hours, and this place needs to be spotless!” she barked, barely giving him time to keep up with her fast-paced steps.

Wonwoo stumbled along, still disoriented, but before he could even protest, a broom was shoved into his hands, and Mrs. Kim disappeared just as quickly as she had appeared. He blinked down at the worn-out broom in his grasp.

What the hell was happening?

He huffed in frustration and, without a second thought, threw the broom aside the moment she was out of sight. His arms crossed over his chest, lips curling in irritation as his gaze swept across the yard. The place wasn’t even that messy. And more importantly—

“Why am I the only one working here?” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the empty yard. There were kids. Lots of them. Small, loud, and chaotic little kids running around, playing, laughing—doing everything except helping. Meanwhile, he—no, you—was here, being ordered around like some unpaid laborer.

A long sigh escaped his lips, carrying the weight of his rapidly declining mental state. He was exhausted, and he had barely even done anything yet. He pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to piece together the last thing he remembered.

He had gone home last night. That much was clear. After an intense strategic meeting at Mingyu’s place about how to crush you in the upcoming university election, he had ridden his bike home. He did have a beer—maybe two. But he wasn’t drunk. He swore he was completely sober when he got home.

And yet, here he was. Stuck in your body, in a place he had never been, surrounded by a bunch of kids and an overbearing woman yelling at him about cleaning. His head was starting to spin from the sheer absurdity of it all.

What kind of twisted nightmare was this?

Hours later, the children lined up neatly in the front yard, their chatter filling the air with restless energy. Wonwoo, on the other hand, was slumped on the front porch, exhausted and utterly out of place. He had barely caught his breath when, once again, Mrs. Kim grabbed him and dragged him forward, forcing him to join the group.

She clicked her tongue in disapproval, eyeing him—you—from head to toe. “You’re a mess,” she muttered. “You look filthy. You probably stink too, but there’s no time for a bath.”

Wonwoo barely had the energy to argue. His body—your body—was covered in sweat and dirt after hours of cleaning. His arms ached, his back was sore, and he was convinced he had never worked this hard in his life. And for what? To stand in a lineup like some kind of orphan?

“Now—Oh! They’re here! Let’s go.”

Mrs. Kim barely gave him a second to react before shoving him to the front of the group. Wonwoo stumbled forward, blinking in confusion as an expensive black car slowly rolled to a stop in front of them. His brows furrowed as he focused on the vehicle, a bad feeling creeping into his chest.

The driver stepped out first, closing the door behind him. Wonwoo’s blood ran cold.

“Oh no…” he muttered under his breath, his stomach twisting into knots. He knew this man. The driver stood tall, his expression neutral yet familiar, dressed in the usual black suit that Wonwoo had seen countless times before.

Don’t tell me the donor is…

Before he could finish his thought, the back doors of the car opened, and a well-dressed couple stepped out.

“Mr. Jeon! Mrs. Jeon! How are you? It’s very nice to meet you. It’s been a long time, right?” Mrs. Kim greeted them enthusiastically, her voice laced with respect.

Wonwoo’s entire body stiffened.

What in the actual universe was this?!

Standing before him were his parents.

Wonwoo froze as his mother approached him with a warm smile, her arms immediately wrapping around him in a tight embrace.

“Y/n… you’re beautiful,” she murmured, pulling back slightly to cup his—your—cheek. “How are you, honey? I heard you joined the election for university student president. I wish you the best of luck!”

His entire body went rigid.

It wasn’t just the hug that caught him off guard—it was the way she spoke. So soft, so affectionate, her voice practically dripping with warmth. His mother had never spoken to him like that before. And now, she was looking at him—at you—with so much fondness that it made his stomach churn with unease.

Before he could even process her words, his father stepped up beside them. Unlike his mother’s overwhelming affection, his father’s greeting was simple yet firm as he gave Wonwoo a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Good job, Y/n. I heard you’re ranked second in your school.”

Wonwoo nearly scoffed. Of course, you’re second. Living in a foster home, faking a high-maintenance life while studying at an Ivy League university—you’d have to be at the top to keep up. But there was something about the way his father said it that irked him.

Second place. And who was first? Wasn’t it him? The top student? Before he could dwell on it any further, he felt Mrs. Kim’s sharp gaze on him. Her eyes flickered between him and his parents, silently sending him glances—no, warnings. Her expression screamed at him to stay in line, to play along.

Play along with what?!

Before he could figure it out, his mother suddenly took his arm, her fingers latching onto his wrist as she led him forward, her voice full of excitement. “Come, let’s take a look around!” The entire group started moving for a home tour, but Wonwoo was barely keeping up. His mind was still spinning, drowning in confusion, when a voice snapped him out of his daze.

Mr. Jung, the driver, leaned in and whispered something to his father.

His father’s expression darkened instantly.

“We need to go,” his father said abruptly, turning to his mother.

She blinked in surprise. “Why? What happened?”

“Our son is in the hospital. Bike accident.”

Wonwoo’s breath caught in his throat.

What?!

*

Now, thanks to the lie he had impulsively made earlier—saying he wanted to come with them to the hospital—everyone, or rather just his parents, would start thinking that you and he were close.

His mother’s fingers gently wrapped around his hand, her eyes filled with warmth as she asked, “You’re close with our Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo almost blurted out No way in hell! because, really, what kind of sick joke was this? He and you had been enemies since high school. Ever since you transferred in and started creeping up the academic ranks, toppling one student after another—except him. He had been the only one who managed to keep you from taking first place.

And now? Now, here he was. Sitting in front of a hospital room.

As his parents went inside to see their real son, Wonwoo sat stiffly in the hallway, his fingers absentmindedly tugging at the hem of the dress he was still wearing. Your dress. He hadn't even had the chance to change out of it—an old, faded yellow sleeping gown that was wrinkled from all the chaos he had been thrown into. His hair— your hair was probably a mess, sticking out in all directions, and worst of all… he reeked. The hours of chores he had done at the foster home had left him sweaty and grimy.

He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands.

What the hell is going on?

Before he could spiral any further, the door to the hospital room creaked open.

“Honey.”

He looked up to see his mother stepping out, his father following close behind.

“He wants to see you.” Wonwoo’s heart stilled.

Shit. Who the hell was he?

“Wonwoo… is that you?”

The voice sent a shiver down his spine. It was his voice—his own deep, familiar tone—but coming from the hospital bed in front of him.

Wonwoo hesitated before stepping closer, eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of his own body lying there. His forehead was bandaged, a clear sign of the accident, but everything else was exactly as he remembered.

His own face looked back at him with furrowed brows, filled with confusion. “Who are you?” Wonwoo asked, his voice laced with suspicion. He didn’t know what to expect—hell, nothing about this entire day made sense—but seeing himself awake and talking to him? This was beyond anything he could’ve ever imagined.

The person in his body blinked, hesitant before answering.

“I’m Y/n…” Your voice—his voice—sounded unsure, shaken. “Why am I here?”

Wonwoo let out a slow breath, crossing his arms over his chest. “Surprised you didn’t panic the moment you saw yourself talking to you,” he muttered, shaking his head. He honestly expected more screaming. Maybe some fainting. But here you were, surprisingly composed despite everything.

Your—his—eyes widened slightly, scanning the room before looking back at him. “What happened? Why… why am I you?”

Wonwoo scoffed, letting out a dry chuckle. “You think I know?” He met your gaze with an exasperated look. “I’m just as confused as you are, Ji Y/n. But whatever happened… we’ve switched.”

Silence filled the room as you stared at him, disbelief evident in your expression. And for the first time in his life, Wonwoo experienced the incredibly uncomfortable feeling of being stared at by himself.

It was unsettling. He shifted on his feet, looking away as he took a small step back.

You swallowed hard before finally speaking again, voice quieter this time. “How did this happen?”

Wonwoo sighed, running a hand through his—your—messy hair. “Same, Y/n… I’m asking too.”

A heavy silence settled between them. Wonwoo—stuck in your body—felt an itch in his brain, an urge to pace around the room in frustration, but he held himself still. Meanwhile, you, trapped in his body, were staring at your—his—hands, clenching and unclenching your fists as if trying to confirm this wasn’t just some fever dream.

“This has to be a nightmare,” you muttered, gripping the blanket draped over your lap. “A really weird, messed-up nightmare.”

Wonwoo sighed sharply, rubbing his temple. “I thought the same thing when I woke up in that damn foster home.”

At his words, you blinked, finally snapping your gaze up to meet his.

“The foster home… Pristine Foster Home?”

“Yeah.” Wonwoo let out a tired huff. “Woke up on some hard-ass mattress in a tiny room, got screamed at by a woman who made me do chores all morning, and then got dragged here because your—” He paused, correcting himself. “—my parents showed up as donors.”

Your expression darkened as you digested his words. “Mrs. Kim must’ve made you clean, didn’t she?”

“Front yard.”

You cringed. “Damn. That’s the worst one.”

Wonwoo scoffed. “Yeah, I figured.” He studied you carefully, watching as you pulled at the hospital blanket, your jaw tightening. “So? What happened to you? How the hell did you end up here?”

You let out a deep breath, shaking your head. “I don’t know. I remember going to bed last night like usual, and then… I woke up here. But obviously, it wasn’t me who got into that accident.”

Wonwoo frowned, trying to recall the events of last night. He had been at Mingyu’s house, strategizing ways to defeat you in the student election. He’d had a couple of beers, but he hadn’t been drunk. He clearly remembered riding home on his bike, arriving at his house, getting into bed…

And then waking up as you.

His fingers twitched as he crossed his arms again. “Nothing weird happened,” he muttered. “At least, nothing that explains this.”

You let out a tired groan, running a hand down your face. “This is insane.”

“No shit.”

Just then, the door to the hospital room creaked open, and both of you snapped your heads toward the entrance.

Wonwoo’s—your—parents stepped back in.

“Honey,” his mother—your mother now—spoke gently, a worried look on her face. “You must be tired. Why don’t you go home and rest?”

Wonwoo felt his pulse quicken. Home? As in your home? The foster home?

His father nodded in agreement. “Yes, dear. We can handle things here. You’ve done enough already.”

Done enough?! What had he done besides get thrown into this mess?

Before he could protest, his mother stepped forward, her hands reaching out to pat his cheek fondly. Wonwoo stiffened instantly. “You’ve always been such a hardworking girl,” she said softly. “It makes me so happy to see you and Wonwoo getting along.”

Wonwoo barely resisted the urge to grimace. He threw you a look, silently screaming, What the hell do I do?! You—trapped in his body—were no help. You simply stared at him, eyes wide, just as lost as he was. And just like that, Wonwoo realized something horrifying. Until they figured out how to switch back…

He was going to have to live as you.

*

Wonwoo stood frozen in front of the bathroom door, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The old wooden door creaked slightly, the dim light from the hallway casting a shadow over the tiled floor inside. The thought of stepping in—of actually taking a bath—made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

Because that would mean undressing. Undressing your body. Absolutely not. There was no way in hell he was going to do that. He had morals. Standards. There were just some lines he refused to cross, and this was one of them.

But damn… his body—your body—felt disgusting. The grime from hours of chores clung to his skin. Sweat dried in uncomfortable places, making the oversized sleeping gown stick to him. His hair was an absolute mess, still tangled from the wind earlier, and he could smell the faint scent of dirt and soap from when he’d scrubbed the front yard clean.

Wonwoo groaned, running a hand through his—your—hair in frustration.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” he muttered under his breath.

If he didn’t shower, he’d feel like this all night, and the thought of sleeping in this state made him want to scream. But if he did shower…

He shut his eyes tightly, cursing under his breath.This was hell. Just then, a loud knock on the door startled him.

“Hurry up in there! Other people need the bathroom too, you know!” Mrs. Kim’s sharp voice rang through the hallway, making Wonwoo jolt. He turned his head, glaring at the door.

“Alright, alright!” he snapped back, annoyed.

He exhaled slowly, trying to collect himself.

Fine. He wouldn’t do anything weird. He’d make this as quick and moral as possible. No unnecessary looking, no thinking too hard about it. Just in, out, and done.

Steeling himself, Wonwoo reached for the doorknob, swallowing hard before stepping inside. This was going to be the most uncomfortable bath of his life.

Wonwoo tried his best not to look. He focused on the feeling of the water against his skin, rubbing the soap over your—his—body as quickly as possible. The sooner this was over, the better. His movements were stiff, awkward, and mechanical. He kept his eyes trained on the tiles, avoiding even a glance downward. Just soap, rinse, and get out. That was the plan.

But then—

His hand ran over his back, and a sharp sting shot through him. Wonwoo froze.

What the hell?

His stomach churned at the thought.

Wonwoo quickly rinsed off and turned off the water. He grabbed a towel, drying off haphazardly before stepping out of the bathroom. The moment he found a small, cracked mirror in the hallway, he twisted his body, angling himself to get a look at his back.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched as he finally caught a glimpse of his—your—back in the cracked mirror. His brows furrowed, and his fingers twitched at his sides.

His chest tightened.

His mind raced as he tried to recall everything that had happened since he woke up in your body. Wonwoo gritted his teeth.

What the hell happened to you, Ji Y/n? And why did he have a bad feeling that this was just the beginning of something bigger?

*

Wonwoo stormed through the front doors of his house, shoulders tense as he stomped up the grand staircase. His whole body—your body—felt sore and exhausted from the insane day he'd just had. The security at the gate had nearly dragged him out, refusing to believe that the Ji Y/n in front of them was actually their young master, Jeon Wonwoo.

"You have no idea how much I had to beg the security to let me in," he grumbled as he yanked open the bedroom door, stepping inside with an annoyed scowl.

Inside, you—in his body—stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. It was jarring, watching his own body move with hesitation, looking completely out of place in the very room he had lived in for years. The moment your eyes landed on him, your shoulders sagged in relief. "Finally—I thought you were never coming back."

Wonwoo scoffed, shutting the door behind him. "I thought I was never coming back. You think it’s easy walking into my mansion looking like you? The guards almost threw me out!"

"You live here," you shot back, exasperated. "You could’ve just walked in—why did you make this harder?"

Wonwoo gave you a deadpan look. "Oh, sure, let me just casually waltz in while looking like someone who doesn’t belong here. I looked like a lost delivery worker!" He threw his hands up, pacing the room. "Do you know how humiliating that was?"

Your frown deepened. "At least you weren’t forced to do laundry and yard work for an entire foster home full of children. Mrs. Kim practically used me as free labor."

Wonwoo turned to you, unimpressed. "Yeah? Well, I woke up in a hospital bed, covered in injuries, and had to sit through my own parents looking at me like I was their long-lost daughter."

Your mouth opened slightly, then shut. "…Touché."

Silence fell between you two, the weight of the situation settling in.

After a moment, Wonwoo groaned, rubbing his temples. "Alright. We need to figure out what the hell happened and how to fix it."

You nodded, though your expression was still tense. "Agreed. But where do we even start?"

Wonwoo exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "Let’s think. What’s the last thing you remember before we… switched?"

Wonwoo leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed as his brows furrowed in frustration. No matter how much you both racked your brains, there was no logical explanation for why you'd switched bodies. There was no accident, no weird mystical event—just a normal night before waking up in each other’s skin.

"This is ridiculous," Wonwoo muttered, shaking his head. "It’s like some cheap fantasy movie plot, except it’s actually happening to us."

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "I know. And I hate to admit it, but I don’t think we’re going to figure this out tonight."

Wonwoo scoffed. "Yeah? Well, in the meantime, I’m not going back to that foster home and working my ass off like some unpaid worker." He turned to you with a pointed look. "You call my parents. Tell them to let you stay here until we switch back."

Your eyebrows shot up. "What? Why me? That’s your job!"

"I can’t exactly call them in your voice and say, ‘Hey, I’m actually Wonwoo, let me stay at my mansion until further notice.’ They’ll think I’ve lost my mind."

You groaned, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. "Fine. But if they say no, you’re on your own."

Wonwoo smirked. "Trust me. My mom loves you. She won’t say no."

You stared at Wonwoo’s phone in your hands, your thumb hesitating over the contact labeled Mom. The plan was simple: call his parents, pretend to be him, and ask if you—which meant him in your body—could stay over until this mess was sorted out.

Easy, right?

Wrong.

You cleared your throat and pressed call. The phone barely rang twice before his mother answered, her voice warm yet slightly distracted. "Wonwoo? It’s late. What is it?"

You shot Wonwoo a look, and he gestured impatiently for you to just talk.

"Uh—yeah. Mom. I, uh, wanted to ask if Y/n could stay over for a few days?"

There was a beat of silence. Then she hummed, as if turning the idea over in her head. "Y/n?" she repeated, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity now. "Why?"

Your mouth opened, but no excuse came to mind. You hadn’t thought that far. You shot Wonwoo a desperate look, but he just folded his arms, watching in amusement.

The silence stretched, and then, to your horror, his mother let out a knowing sigh. "I see… So it’s like that."

Your brows furrowed. "Like what?"

"You finally brought a girl home."

Wonwoo choked.

You nearly dropped the phone. "Wait, what?"

"It’s fine, Wonwoo. You’re an adult. If you’re serious about this girl, I won’t say anything. Just make sure you’re being responsible."

Wonwoo was now aggressively shaking his head at you, mouthing fix it!, but you were too stunned to respond properly.

"Uh—yeah," you stammered, scrambling to end the conversation. "So… she can stay?"

His mother chuckled softly. "Of course. Have the staff set up a room for her. Your father and I will be out of town, but tell her she’s welcome."

And with that, the call ended.

You lowered the phone slowly, turning to Wonwoo with wide eyes.

"You finally brought a girl home?" you repeated in disbelief.

Wonwoo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "This is a nightmare."

You stared at the phone in disbelief. "That’s it?"

Wonwoo let out a humorless chuckle. "What did you expect? A heartfelt conversation?" He snatched the phone from your hand and stuffed it in his pocket. "They’re barely home as it is. They probably don’t even care who stays over."

The bitterness in his voice didn’t go unnoticed.

You decided not to comment on it. Instead, you sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well, at least that worked. Now get out of here before Mrs. Kim drags me—I mean, you—back inside for more chores."

Wonwoo groaned but grabbed his things and left.

As you settled into his massive, empty house, you couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t much of a home at all.

*

The next morning, you both stood in front of Wonwoo’s sleek black car, staring at it like it was the final boss of this entire ridiculous situation. "You drive," you said, tossing him the keys. Wonwoo caught them but immediately scowled at you. "You drive. It’s my car."

You folded your arms. "I don’t even have a license, genius." His jaw clenched. He looked at the keys, then at the car, then at you—his own body. "You mean to tell me that after all the times you acted like you’re better than me, you can’t even drive?"

"Driving doesn’t determine intelligence, Jeon." You rolled your eyes. "Are we going to school or not?"

Grumbling, he unlocked the car and got into the driver’s seat. You slid into the passenger seat, watching with barely contained amusement as he adjusted everything—pushing the seat forward, adjusting the rearview mirror, lowering the steering wheel.

"This is so uncomfortable," he muttered, shifting in the seat. His knees were practically up to his chest. You smirked. "What? Is my body too small for your big manly car?"

Wonwoo shot you a glare before turning the ignition. The car rumbled to life, and he carefully pressed the gas pedal—only for the car to jerk forward suddenly, causing both of you to lurch.

"YAH!" you yelped, clutching the dashboard. "Are you trying to kill me—yourself—whatever?"

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "Your legs are too damn short! I can’t feel the pedal properly!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Now you know my struggles."

After a few more rough starts, Wonwoo finally managed to get the car moving smoothly. The drive to school was tense at first, but as he adjusted, his usual confidence returned. You, on the other hand, were dreading what was to come.

As soon as you arrived, all eyes would be on him—or rather, you. And there was nothing either of you could do about it. The night before, you and Wonwoo had spent hours sitting in his room, going over the rules of survival until you switched back.

1. Don’t tell anyone about the situation.

"Not even Mingyu?" you had asked.

"Especially not Mingyu," Wonwoo had deadpanned. "He’ll make this a circus."

2. Act normal, even to each other.

"You mean I have to be cold and unbothered like you?" you had teased.

"And I have to act like you?" Wonwoo had shot back. "All smiles and fake pleasantries? Great."

3. Avoid attention.

This one was the most important. The last thing either of you needed was people noticing something was off.

Now, standing at the entrance of the university, those rules felt like an impossible mission. You watched as Wonwoo—you—stepped out of the car, adjusting the oversized hoodie he had thrown on. It was strange seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes, and even weirder seeing how awkward he looked in your body.

"Stop slouching," you hissed under your breath. "I don’t walk like that." Wonwoo shot you a glare but straightened his posture. "And stop staring at your feet. It’s weird." With that, the two of you walked through campus, forcing yourselves to act normal. It was fine. Until the first person called your name.

"Y/n!"

You froze before realizing it wasn’t actually you they were calling—it was Wonwoo, in your body. Wonwoo sighed, forcing a smile that was so stiff it looked painful. "Uh… morning?"

Your friend frowned. "Are you okay? You sound weird."

You nearly facepalmed. Rule number two, idiot!

Wonwoo quickly cleared his throat and attempted to sound more like you. "I mean—uh, I’m fine! Just, um, tired!" He gave a thumbs-up that looked completely unnatural.

Your friend tilted their head but didn’t press further. You exhaled in relief, but it was short-lived. Because at that moment, the worst possible person appeared.

Mingyu.

And he was heading straight for you.

Mingyu approached with a wide grin, his usual energy radiating off him like a beacon. "Wonwoo! Y/n! What’s up?"

You barely had time to react before Mingyu threw an arm around your shoulders—except it wasn’t you, it was Wonwoo trapped in your body. Wonwoo went stiff immediately.

You saw it, the way his entire body tensed, the way his hands twitched like he wanted to shove Mingyu off but was holding back. You couldn’t blame him. You wouldn’t like Mingyu suddenly draping himself over you either. But—

"Are you okay?" Mingyu suddenly leaned down, squinting at Wonwoo’s face. "You look kinda… different today."

You nearly choked. Crap.

You forced a tight-lipped smile. "Haha. No, I’m good. Totally fine." You flinched at how unnatural that sounded.

Mingyu narrowed his eyes. "You sure? You don’t usually stand this stiff. And your voice sounds weird. And you—"

"He said he's fine," Wonwoo cut in, voice strained.

You quickly jumped in before Mingyu could keep interrogating. "Just tired. We were studying late last night."

Mingyu looked between the two of you, lips pursed. Then suddenly, his eyes widened. "Wait a second."

You both froze.

He pointed at the two of you. "Did something happen between you two?"

Wonwoo stiffened. "What?"

Mingyu gasped dramatically. "Are you two dating now?"

"WHAT?!" you both yelled in unison.

Mingyu took a step back, hands up in defense. "Geez! Sorry, it’s just—lately, you guys seem different. Studying together? Walking into campus together? Y/n’s acting weird, Wonwoo’s looking more tired than usual—it’s suspicious!"

Wonwoo turned to you with a glare, mouthing, Fix this.

You gritted your teeth before turning to Mingyu with a forced laugh. "No, no! We’re not dating. We just—uh—had to work on something together, that’s all!" Mingyu squinted at you—well, at Wonwoo’s body. “Work on what?”

“None of your business,” you snapped, crossing your arms. Mingyu blinked at your sharp tone but shrugged. “Okay, whatever. Anyway, why are you heading that way? Our class is upstairs.”

You froze for a split second. Right. You were supposed to have class with Mingyu—as Wonwoo. But out of habit, you had started walking toward your usual class instead.

Wonwoo, standing beside you in your body, subtly elbowed you. “Uh—he’s just, uh, walking me to class first,” he quickly interjected.

Mingyu’s brows furrowed as he looked between the two of you. “Since when do you do that?” You cleared your throat, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Since today. Got a problem?”

Mingyu narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, actually. That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

Wonwoo shot you a look, silently pleading with you to play it cool. Taking a deep breath, you forced a casual shrug. “I just felt like it. Can we go now?” Mingyu crossed his arms, clearly unconvinced. “Weird. Really weird.”

You resisted the urge to sigh. If Mingyu was already suspicious, keeping this switch a secret was going to be harder than you thought.

*

After surviving the day without slipping up—at least, not too badly—you and Wonwoo finally made it back home. The moment you stepped inside, you groaned, throwing yourself onto the couch while Wonwoo shut the door behind him.

"That was exhausting," you muttered, rubbing your temples. "Do you know how hard it is pretending to be you? You barely talk to anyone, but somehow people still pay attention to you."

Wonwoo scoffed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. "And do you know how annoying it is to be you? Everyone just randomly talks to me, and I have to pretend I actually care about their gossip. Even your professors are so chatty. One of them asked me if I was doing okay in business class. Do you struggle that much?"

You glared at him. "Excuse me, but business studies is not my major. You expect me to be a genius at it?" Wonwoo shook his head before his gaze sharpened. "Speaking of weird conversations, what's up with Mingyu?"

You blinked. "What about him?"

"He’s too friendly with you. I didn’t know you were close," he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. You shrugged. "He's just been kind to me since senior high school."

Wonwoo frowned at that. "Why? You two don’t seem like the type to be friends."

You hesitated for a moment before sighing. "It’s... a long story. Back then, Mingyu was the first person to find out that I wasn't actually the child of some entertainment industry mogul like the rumors said. He was the only one who knew I was orphaned and living in a foster home."

Wonwoo stiffened slightly. He had never heard that before. He had always thought you were just naturally secretive and didn’t like discussing your personal life. But this—this was different.

He didn’t know why, but the thought of Mingyu knowing something so personal about you before him left a strange feeling in his chest.

Wonwoo sat down across from you, his expression unreadable. "So… you grew up in a foster home. How did that happen?"

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. "I was placed there when I was a kid. I don’t remember much about my parents—just bits and pieces. They passed away when I was young, and after that, I ended up in Pristine Foster Home."

He nodded slowly, absorbing the information. "And school? Our school isn’t exactly easy to get into. How did you afford it?" A small, almost ironic smile tugged at your lips. "Your mother."

Wonwoo blinked. "What?"

"Your mother," you repeated. "Mrs. Jeon. She’s one of the biggest donors for Pristine Foster Home. Every year, she funds scholarships for students with high academic potential. I was one of the kids who got lucky."

For the first time, Wonwoo was at a loss for words. His mother? The same woman who barely had time for her own son had been funding your education all this time?

"You… never told anyone?" he asked after a moment. You shrugged. "Why would I? People already made enough assumptions about me. If they found out the truth, I’d just become a pity case. Besides, it’s not like your mom personally chose me. I was just another name on the scholarship list."

Wonwoo was still trying to process this new information. He had spent years seeing you as a rival, someone always on his heels, challenging his top position. But now, for the first time, he saw you in a different light.

"So all this time," he muttered, "you were working twice as hard just to stay in school."

You huffed a quiet laugh. "More than twice, actually."

He didn't know why, but something about that unsettled him.

*

The days went by with both of you struggling to adapt to each other’s lives while keeping up the act. The campaign phase for the student president selection had officially started, and since you were both candidates, you agreed to stay professional about it.

"Don't play dirty," you both promised.

That meant being responsible for each other's campaigns. If someone asked you about Wonwoo’s stance on school policies, he had to answer correctly. If someone questioned him about your plans for student well-being, you had to handle it.

There were three candidates in total. Wonwoo—the top student, known for his intelligence and efficiency. You—the representative of female students, admired for both brains and beauty. And Seungcheol—the rich, well-connected candidate who could probably win just by flashing his wealth.

“You’re acting weird,” Mingyu said, narrowing his eyes at you—or rather, at Wonwoo’s body, which meant he was technically squinting at him. You, stuck in his body, stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Mingyu tilted his head, studying him. “You’re being… polite. Too polite. Wonwoo, you usually glare at everyone, but today? You literally smiled at Soonyoung when he called you ‘princess.’” You, sitting in Wonwoo’s body, internally cringed. Right. You had forgotten about that.

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was struggling just as much to keep up with your usual attitude.

“Y/n, are you okay?” one of your classmates asked, frowning as they observed Wonwoo’s body. “You’ve been acting so… serious today.”

Wonwoo barely looked up from the book in front of him. “I’m fine.”

She stared at him, unconvinced. “Uh… you didn’t even whine about how boring today’s lesson is.”

He cursed internally. Right. You always complained about morning classes.

“I’m… trying to be a better student,” he muttered.

She gave a slow nod, still eyeing him suspiciously.

It wasn’t just your friends who were growing suspicious. Professors had started noticing the odd behavior, too. You had always been confident in subjects like marketing and communication, but the moment you sat in Wonwoo’s business economics class, you knew you were doomed.

“Mr. Jeon,” the professor called out, peering at you over his glasses. “Could you summarize the concept of supply and demand in market equilibrium?”

Your mind went blank. Market equilibrium?

You hesitated, scanning the board for hints, but nothing made sense. Silence stretched across the room. The professor raised an eyebrow.

“Uh… equilibrium… is when things are equal…?” you blurted out.

The entire class turned to stare at you in horror. Even Mingyu, sitting beside you, looked concerned. The professor let out a long sigh. “Mr. Jeon, I expected better from you.”

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was having an equally hard time in your marketing class.

“Miss Ji,” the professor called. “Could you give an example of a successful emotional branding strategy?”

Wonwoo froze. Emotional branding? He knew numbers. He knew statistics. But marketing?

“Uh…” He cleared his throat. “Emotional branding is… when a brand… makes people emotional?”

The professor’s expression remained unreadable. Wonwoo held his breath. “…Technically not wrong,” the professor finally said. “But please elaborate next time.”

Wonwoo exhaled in relief, but he could still feel the judgmental stares of your classmates. Keeping up appearances was exhausting.

You had to remember to act cold, distant, and borderline unapproachable. Every time someone approached you—well, Wonwoo’s body—you had to force yourself not to smile too much.

When you accidentally giggled at a joke Seungkwan made during lunch, he nearly choked on his drink.

“Whoa. Wonwoo, you laughed?”

You immediately straightened your face. “No, I didn’t.”

Seungkwan’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, you did. That was a full-on giggle.”

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was struggling with the opposite problem.

He had to force himself to be approachable. Smile more. Nod during small talk. When someone complimented you on your campaign, he barely responded before remembering that you were supposed to be charismatic.

“Ah… yeah. Thank you,” he muttered awkwardly.

The girl who had complimented you blinked. “Uh… you’re welcome?”

It was painfully obvious something was off.

But despite the challenges, Wonwoo started thinking.

There was an opportunity here.

If he was in your body… and people naturally liked you… then why not use that to his advantage?

You had a way with people. Students admired you. If he played this correctly, he could subtly steer people toward supporting his campaign—without outright sabotaging yours.

It wasn’t cheating.

It was just… strategic use of circumstances.

Sitting in the cafeteria, he overheard a group of students discussing the election. Some were loyal to Seungcheol because of his family’s wealth. Some admired your leadership. But a few were still undecided, considering Wonwoo’s intelligence but unsure about his approachability.

“If only Wonwoo was a little more… open,” one student mused.

“Yeah, he’s brilliant, but he’s kinda cold,” another agreed.

Wonwoo’s lips curled slightly. An opportunity.

The next time he (in your body) spoke to people, he made subtle shifts in conversation.

“Wonwoo’s been under so much pressure lately,” he said casually.

“You know, he doesn’t show it, but he really cares about the school.”

“He’s just not the type to express it openly, but he’s been working hard behind the scenes.”

He didn’t need to lie. He just needed to frame the truth in a way that made people sympathetic.

If students thought he (as himself) was struggling under pressure, they might rally behind him. They might see him as someone deserving of their votes.

And the best part?

No one would suspect manipulation.

Wonwoo adjusted the strap of your bag on his shoulder, casually strolling through the hallway while eavesdropping on conversations. He was getting better at this. Being in your body had its advantages—people naturally gravitated toward you. They trusted you. They listened to you.

So why not use that to his advantage?

As the election campaign heated up, students began discussing the candidates more openly. Seungcheol was securing votes through his endless connections, practically drowning the school in expensive flyers and promotional videos. Meanwhile, your campaign was gaining momentum thanks to your charisma, intelligence, and undeniable appeal.

But Wonwoo?

People respected him but hesitated to support him because of his reserved nature. He needed to change that perception—without breaking his promise to you about playing fair.

So, he started subtly influencing opinions.

During lunch, he sat with a group of students he knew were undecided. He (in your body) let out a sigh, tilting his head thoughtfully.

"You know, Wonwoo doesn’t really show it, but he’s been so dedicated to this campaign," he mused.

A girl across the table looked up. "Really?"

Wonwoo (as you) nodded. "Yeah. I think people misunderstand him. He’s just not the type to brag about his efforts. But I know for a fact that he’s been working late nights planning policies for the school. He doesn’t just want the title—he actually wants to make changes."

Another student leaned in, interested. "I always thought he was a bit distant. Like, he doesn’t really care about people."

Wonwoo let out a small, knowing smile. "That’s not true at all. He’s just not good at expressing it. But if you really talk to him, you’ll see how much he genuinely wants what’s best for the school."

Hook. Line. Sinker.

The students exchanged glances, suddenly reconsidering their stance.

Wonwoo wasn’t lying. He had been working hard, and he did care. But he knew that if he had tried to say all of this in his own body, people would just assume he was defending himself.

But coming from you? Someone they trusted and admired?

It felt genuine.

He kept this strategy up, slipping subtle remarks into conversations, framing his strengths in a way that didn’t sound forced.

At the library, when a group of students discussed who they should vote for, he (as you) casually said,

"Honestly, Wonwoo is the only one who’s actually proposing policies based on data instead of just saying what people want to hear."

At a student council meeting, when people debated about which candidate had the best leadership skills, he (as you) shrugged, "Wonwoo may not talk much, but he’s the most capable. He’s been top of his class for years. If anyone can handle responsibilities, it’s him."

And it worked.

Slowly but surely, more students began considering Wonwoo as a serious contender.

Of course, he had to be careful not to overdo it. If you suddenly became too much of a Wonwoo supporter, people might get suspicious.

So, every now and then, he would slip in a neutral or positive remark about you as well, just to balance things out.

"Y/n is amazing, though. She’s got that natural leadership aura."

"I think between Y/n and Wonwoo, we’d be in good hands either way."

Seungcheol was still dominating with his flashy campaign, but now?

Wonwoo had momentum.

*

Meanwhile, you were starting to notice something was off. At the end of the day, you crossed your arms, watching Wonwoo—well, your body—scribbling something in your campaign notes.

"Why do I feel like you’ve been too invested in my popularity?" you mused, raising an eyebrow.

Wonwoo barely looked up. "I have no idea what you’re talking about." You narrowed your eyes. "Wonwoo."

He sighed, closing the notebook. "Look, I’m just… taking advantage of an opportunity. It’s not cheating—I’m just rebranding myself a little."

"Rebranding?" you repeated, appalled. "You’re using my face to market yourself!"

He leaned back against the chair. "Technically, I’m not lying about anything. I am working hard. I do have solid policies. People just… needed a little push to see that."

You groaned, running a hand through your hair—well, his hair. "I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you."

Wonwoo smirked. "Oh, please. You promised we’d be fair to each other. I never said I wouldn’t be smart about it."

You scoffed, muttering under your breath. "I hate you."

"That’s unfortunate," he said, flipping open your campaign notes again, "because I think I really like being you."

A week.

It had been a week of waking up in Wonwoo’s body, wearing his oversized clothes, walking around with his permanently unimpressed face, and trying to keep up with his ridiculous level of intelligence in class.

You were exhausted.

If this continued any longer, you were going to need therapy.

Wonwoo, sitting on his bed (in your body), smirked. "Oh? Having a hard time living as me?"

You shot him a glare. "You live like this every day? No offense, but it sucks."

"None taken," he said easily. "I’m used to it."

You groaned again, burying your face in your arms. "At this point, I’m just praying we switch back before I completely lose my mind."

Wonwoo hummed, flipping through his phone. "Well, at least you don’t have to deal with your own expenses anymore."

You lifted your head. "Huh?"

He smirked. "I checked your bank balance, Y/n. You’re broke. You can’t even afford new panties."

Your face burned in embarrassment. "Excuse me?!"

Wonwoo laughed, shaking his head. "Relax, I didn’t actually look. But seriously, where does all your money go? I heard my mom has been funding you for years, so what are you spending it on?"

Your expression darkened, but you didn’t answer.

Wonwoo noticed the shift in your demeanor and frowned slightly. "Hey—"

The two of you froze the moment you heard sounds.

Wonwoo’s parents were home.

His mother was sitting in the living room, casually sipping tea, while his father was reading the newspaper. They looked up simultaneously, eyes landing on you first.

"Oh, Y/n," his mother greeted warmly, setting her cup down. "You’re two home already."

Wonwoo—inside your body—stiffened beside you.

You, standing in his body, forced a polite nod. "Uh… yeah. Classes ended a little early today."

His mother smiled. "That’s good. Come, sit down. I was just about to ask chef to prepare some snacks."

Your heart pounded. You had interacted with Wonwoo’s mother plenty of times before, but never while pretending to be her son. One wrong move, and she would know something was off.

You shot a quick glance at Wonwoo, silently screaming, What do I do?!

He only shrugged. Figure it out.

You resisted the urge to strangle him.

His father, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. "Wonwoo, I heard you’ve been doing well in the election campaign."

You tensed. "Uh… yeah. I guess so."

He nodded approvingly. "Good. If you want to take over the family business one day, this is a good step toward leadership."

You nearly choked. Take over the family business?!

You hadn’t even considered that part of being in Wonwoo’s body.

Meanwhile, Wonwoo, still in your body, sat stiffly on the couch, looking incredibly awkward. You could tell he was doing his best not to react too much.

His mother turned to him. "Y/n, dear, how has Wonwoo been treating you?"

Wonwoo snapped out of his daze. "Huh?"

She smiled gently. "You know, since you’ve been staying here. Has he been a good host?"

Wonwoo blinked. Then, ever so slowly, he smirked.

"Oh, he’s been great," he said smoothly. "Super considerate. Always making sure I’m comfortable. Really making my stay… interesting."

Your eye twitched.

His mother beamed. "That’s wonderful! I always tell him to be more thoughtful toward others."

You clenched your fists. I am going to kill him.

His father, however, was more focused on you. "Wonwoo, I heard you had an important presentation in class today. How did it go?"

Your soul left your body.

Presentation?!

You turned slightly to Wonwoo, panic written all over your face.

He smirked again, clearly enjoying your suffering.

You were so screwed.

*

Dinner with the Jeons was awkward.

You had eaten with his family before, but this time, it felt different. Because this time, you were him. Wonwoo—trapped in your body—sat stiffly across from you, barely touching his food. He was oddly silent, his usual sharp remarks absent. It was almost as if he wasn’t the son of this house at all.

Meanwhile, you tried your best to act like a son. You engaged in small talk with his mother, attempting to mirror the way a child might converse with a parent.

His mother, elegant and poised as ever, seemed pleased by your effort. You knew her well—after all, she had been funding you since junior high school. Yet, you had never had the chance to sit this close, to talk to her as though you belonged at this table.

It felt foreign.

The clinking of silverware against porcelain filled the silence between occasional remarks. Then, just as you were starting to relax, a phone rang.

His mother glanced at the caller ID. "Oh… why is Mrs. Kim calling?"

You froze.

Wonwoo saw the way your shoulders tensed, how your grip on the chopsticks tightened.

Mrs. Kim.

Why was she calling?

Wonwoo felt his own chest tighten with something uncomfortable. It was strange—seeing his own body react so visibly to that name.

He swallowed.

No.

Not in a quadrillion years would he go back to that place. That stinky foster home. That cramped space filled with too many kids, too little food, and too much responsibility.

He refused.

He stared at his mother as she stood up and stepped away from the dining table to take the call, her voice soft yet unreadable.

The seconds dragged on.

Neither of you spoke, but the air in the room had shifted.

When his mother finally returned to her seat, something was different. Her expression wasn’t as lighthearted as before.

She placed her napkin down carefully, looking directly at Wonwoo—who was still in your body.

"Y/n," she said gently, her tone firm yet concerned. "Tell me the truth."

Your stomach twisted.

She folded her hands together. "Why have you been staying here for a week?" A pause. "Be honest."

Wonwoo turned to look at you, his throat tightening.

You looked back at him, equally frozen.

The two of you, sitting in each other’s bodies, mirrored each other’s nervousness so perfectly that if anyone had been watching closely, they might have noticed something was wrong.

You could feel your pulse in your ears. His mother’s eyes were sharp, expectant, waiting for an answer you weren’t sure how to give.

Wonwoo—trapped in your body—swallowed hard. His mind raced for an explanation, something that would make sense. But every possible response felt weak under the weight of his mother’s gaze.

You, meanwhile, could feel your palms sweating.

His mother’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Mrs. Kim said you ran away from the foster home after stealing her money.”

"No, she didn't steal anything."

His mother’s gaze snapped toward Wonwoo—toward you. “Do you know something, Wonwoo?”

You hesitated, words catching in the throat. You wanted to say something, but how much could you actually say? His mother didn’t know the truth about the switch, and if you weren't careful, things could get worse.

"I mean..." You started, choosing your words carefully. "Mrs. Kim never really liked her. She's probably just trying to make her look bad so she can take her back."

His mother frowned. "Is that true, Y/n? Mrs. Kim is lying?"

Wonwoo—you—tensed.

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves. You couldn’t say it outright. You couldn’t risk making things worse. But at the same time, you didn’t want to go back.

"Mrs. Kim..." You shifted in your seat. "She’s never been very fond of her. She always saw her as a burden. And, well..." You forced a weak chuckle. "Let’s just say she has her own way of handling things."

His mother’s expression darkened slightly. "What do you mean?"

You glanced at Wonwoo, at your own face, searching for some kind of lifeline. Wonwoo was watching you closely, his lips pressed in a tight line.

"I—" You exhaled. "There was something more complex and Y/n couldn't just explain it to you."

Silence hung in the air for a beat too long. His mother’s gaze was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—concern? Realization?

Wonwoo—inside your body—shifted uncomfortably, gripping the hem of his sweater. He had never thought about what your life was like before. But now, watching you struggle to speak about it, he felt something churn in his gut.

"Mrs. Kim said she wants you to come back," his mother said, her tone quieter now. "If what you're saying is true, then tell me—do you want to go back?"

You inhaled sharply.

And for the first time since the switch, Wonwoo saw something in your eyes that he wasn’t sure he had ever seen before.

Fear.

*

Wonwoo, still trapped in your body, stepped into his own bedroom. It felt strange, standing there as someone else—seeing his familiar space from a different perspective. Normally, this was where he slept, but since his parents were home, he had to take the guest room. The one you usually stayed in.

Leaning against the doorframe, he folded his arms and watched you—watched himself—working on a marketing project. He hated marketing. He hated everything about it. But he knew you were doing it for him, for the presentation he had to give in front of your class tomorrow.

"About earlier…" he started, his voice quieter than before.

You didn't look up, fingers continuing to type away on the laptop.

"Is it true Mrs. Kim doesn’t like you?"

The sound of your typing stuttered for a second. Wonwoo caught the slight pause before you resumed.

"You can be honest with me, you know," he pressed, stepping further into the room. "I mean… I deserve to know. Since I’m you at the moment."

Still, you didn't answer. Your expression remained focused, determinedly avoiding his gaze.

Wonwoo exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice dropped slightly.

"Is she the one who gave you that wound on your back?"

This time, you finally looked at him.

Your eyes were unreadable.

Wonwoo felt something uneasy settle in his chest. He had never thought about where the scar had come from. He had seen it, felt the sting of it when he moved, but he hadn’t questioned it. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to.

"Is it true?" he asked again, voice firmer now. "She hit you?"

You lowered your gaze.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, you nodded.

"I’m sorry that you had to bear that."

Wonwoo swallowed. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he forced himself to stay composed.

He shrugged, as if trying to make light of the weight in his chest, and walked toward the bed. "The staff helped me with ointment. She asked if you had been hit by someone. Like… physically abused."

You didn’t respond right away, but your silence spoke louder than words.

Wonwoo sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his own reflection in the mirror across the room.

He thought about Mrs. Kim. About what kind of person she really was.

And for the first time since this whole body-swapping nightmare began…

He realized that maybe, just maybe, there were worse things than waking up in someone else’s life.

Like living in a life you never chose… and having no way out.

"Let me see… How bad is it?"

You stood from your seat and turned to him. Wonwoo, still in your body, looked up from the bed, brows raised in alarm.

"What?"

You blinked. "Let me see."

A heat crept up his face. "No!" His hands shot up defensively, arms crossed over his chest as if shielding himself.

You rolled your eyes—his eyes. "That’s my body, technically."

"And you’ll be looking at it with my eyes," Wonwoo argued, scooting a little further away from where you stood, hands still up in defense.

"As if you’ve never touched my boobs during a shower," you shot back, unimpressed.

Wonwoo gasped, scandalized. "I’ve been very careful and respectful, for your information," he retorted, voice full of righteous indignation. He narrowed his eyes at you. "And I’d appreciate it if you did the same for mine."

You snorted. "No, seriously, let me see. I don’t remember getting one on my back."

Before Wonwoo could protest again, you turned him around—your own body—and lifted the hem of his shirt.

He let out a sharp squeal, but you ignored it, your attention now focused on the sight before you.

The bruises were in various stages of healing—some faded, others still dark and angry-looking. A deep blue one spread across the lower part of your back, as if someone had struck you with full force. You hadn’t even realized how bad it was. Seeing it now, so clearly, made something inside you twist.

"That’s… brutal," you muttered. It was the first time you had seen the extent of the damage, the history of pain that had accumulated over the years in that foster home.

Wonwoo quickly yanked the shirt back down and turned to face you, his expression serious. "Is Mrs. Kim the one behind all of them?" His voice had lost its teasing edge, replaced by something far heavier—concern, maybe even anger.

You hesitated.

"It’s… a punishment. Everyone got that. I just got a lot more than the others." You took a deep breath.

"Why?"

You shrugged. "I lived there the longest. No one adopted me, so I stayed there for years."

Wonwoo blinked, trying to process that. You had endured this for years? His mind reeled.

"But my mom…"

You shook your head, gaze dropping to the floor. "She just funded me."

It was true—Wonwoo’s mother had funded your education, sending you to an elite private high school and later helping you get into an Ivy League university. But no one ever knew where you came from. Your background had been carefully concealed, your identity kept a secret.

And yet, despite all those privileges, Mrs. Kim had never let you leave the foster home. It was only later that you realized why. The money meant for you had never truly been yours—it had gone straight into her personal bank account. She had given you just enough to cover small personal expenses, but nothing close to what a college student actually needed.

In return, she had assigned you to endless chores, justifying it by saying she had raised you. The truth, however, was much simpler. No one had adopted you, not because they didn’t want to, but because she had made sure of it. You had been nothing more than a source of steady income to her.

Wonwoo exhaled, rubbing his temples. "I don’t want to go back," he muttered. His voice was quieter now, but the weight of his words was undeniable. "It was only a day. But it felt like a day in hell."

You looked at him for a long moment before stepping closer, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I’ll talk to your parents," you promised. "I’ll make sure you can stay here until we swap back. Don’t worry."

Wonwoo stared at you, still in his body, before nodding. For once, he didn’t argue.

*

You knocked on Wonwoo’s bedroom door Monday morning, already irritated. Both of you had class in an hour, and since he had to drive, he needed to wake up. Now.

"Wonwoo, get up!" you called, knocking harder. Silence.

With a sigh, you pushed the door open—only to find him curled up in a tight fetal position, clutching his stomach like he’d just been mortally wounded.

You blinked. "What are you doing?"

He barely lifted his head. "Dying."

It took you exactly three seconds to realize what was happening.

Your period was coming.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. "Ohhh. So, how’s it feel?"

"How’s it feel?!" Wonwoo wheezed, shifting slightly—only to immediately wince and curl up tighter. "I feel like someone’s wringing out my insides like a soaked rag while kicking my spine. This is inhumane. You live like this?!"

You shrugged. "Every month."

"Every month?! This happens every month?! For how long?!"

"About five days."

"Five—" He buried his face into the pillow and groaned loudly. "I can’t do this. I can’t live like this. How do women even function? How do you go to school, work, BREATHE?"

"You get used to it." You rolled your eyes before getting a small heating pad packet you’d picked up from the convenience store few days ago, tossing it onto the bed. "Here. Stick this on your stomach."

He eyed it suspiciously. "What is this?"

"A heat patch. It’ll help with the cramps."

He struggled to sit up, tearing open the packet with shaking hands before slapping the patch onto his lower stomach. A few seconds later, he exhaled in relief, sinking back onto the bed. "Oh. Oh, that’s—" He let out a soft, almost embarrassing noise. "Nice."

You raised an eyebrow. "Did you just moan?"

"Shut up."

You snickered before heading for the door. "I’ll get you some painkillers. You have ten minutes before I drag you out of bed."

"I’m not gonna make it," he groaned, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. "Just leave me here to die."

You smirked. "Get up, or I’ll make your body buy pads in broad daylight."

His eyes snapped open in pure terror.

You had never seen him sit up so fast.

As the day went on, the pain dulled to a manageable ache, but Wonwoo was still visibly uncomfortable. He kept shifting in his seat, frowning every few minutes, and muttering curses under his breath. At one point, he glared at you as if this was somehow your fault.

By the evening, his parents were preparing to leave the city again. The two of you stood at the entrance, watching as his father loaded their luggage into the car. His mother straightened Wonwoo’s—your—collar before stepping back with a warm smile.

"Take care of yourself, Y/n. And you too, Wonwoo. Don’t forget to review those documents I sent over for your internship."

His father adjusted his watch and turned to you—well, to Wonwoo. "We’ll talk more when I’m back, but I trust you’ll take this internship seriously. It’s time for you to step up."

You blinked. What internship?

Your head snapped toward Wonwoo—who was standing beside you in your body—only to see him freeze like a deer caught in headlights. His wide eyes screamed I forgot to tell you about this.

"Uh..." You cleared your throat, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Right. Of course."

Wonwoo's father nodded approvingly. "Good. This is an important step. You’ll be working directly with the executive team to prepare for your role in the company."

Your role? What role?

You stole another glance at Wonwoo, your face silently asking What the hell is he talking about?

Wonwoo, in your body, gave you a strained smile and the tiniest shake of his head, as if saying, Later. Just nod and agree.

So you did. Hesitantly. "Yeah. Got it."

His father clapped a hand on your shoulder, almost knocking the air out of you. "That’s what I like to hear. Make me proud."

You forced a smile, though internally, you were screaming.

After a few more goodbyes, his parents got into the car and drove away. The moment they were out of sight, you turned to Wonwoo, arms crossed.

"What. Internship."

Wonwoo groaned, rubbing his temples. "God, I was hoping you wouldn’t hear that."

"Well, I did. And now you’re gonna explain."

"It’s just some stupid business internship," he muttered, looking anywhere but at you.

"Business internship? You mean, for your family business?"

He shot you an unimpressed look. "No, for the bakery down the street. Yes, for my family business."

Your jaw nearly dropped. "You’re supposed to be the heir?"

He rolled his eyes. "Apparently."

"Since when?"

"Since I was born," he said bitterly. "They never pushed too hard before, but now that I’m getting older, they think it’s time I 'step up' and 'fulfill my role.'" He made exaggerated air quotes. "It’s stupid."

You frowned, watching him closely. He wasn’t just annoyed—he looked exhausted.

"You don’t want to do it," you said quietly.

"No, I don’t. But they don’t care what I want." He scoffed. "It doesn’t matter that I hate it. That I want to do something else. All that matters is that I have their last name and was born first."

For the first time since the swap, you saw something vulnerable beneath his usual sarcasm. It made your chest tighten a little.

You hesitated before saying, "Then why don’t you just... refuse?"

He let out a dry laugh. "You think it’s that easy?"

"I think you should at least try to talk to them."

He sighed, shaking his head. "It’s not that simple, Y/n."

Maybe it wasn’t. But the way his shoulders slumped made you think that, for a long time, he had felt trapped. And no matter how much he acted like it didn’t bother him, deep down, it did.

"What do you want to do then?" you asked, settling onto his bed.

The two of you had just finished gathering your things—his things, technically—since his parents were gone and it was time to return to your designated rooms.

Wonwoo leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed. "Journalism."

Your brow lifted in surprise. "I remember you were in the journalism club back in high school."

"Yeah."

A memory resurfaced, making you smirk. "You wrote an entire article about me beating you in chemistry and taking first place. Called me a 'lucky fluke.'"

Wonwoo let out a small chuckle. "I was very bitter about that."

"You were such a sore loser."

He scoffed. "I had a reputation to uphold!"

You laughed. "Right, right. And now, look at you. So mature."

He sighed dramatically. "Yeah... I’ve grown a lot."

You gave him a skeptical look.

"I mean," he continued, "I’m literally experiencing a period right now. That has to count for something."

Your lips twitched. "Oh, of course. Nothing says personal growth like surviving cramps."

He nodded solemnly. "I have transcended. I'm practically enlightened."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't stop yourself from laughing. "Idiot."

You leaned back on your elbows, tilting your head as you looked at him. "By the way, why did you even run for student president?"

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "I needed influence."

You blinked. "What?"

He shrugged. "Connections. A reputation. If I ever wanted to pursue journalism seriously, I needed to build a name for myself early on."

You stared at him for a second before bursting into laughter. "Oh my God, you sound like a villain setting up a master plan."

Wonwoo rolled his eyes. "It’s called thinking ahead. You wouldn’t understand."

"Oh, I wouldn’t understand?" You scoffed, sitting up straighter. "Alright, then why do you think I ran for student president?"

He tilted his head, thinking for a moment before shrugging. "For the experience?"

You shook your head.

"To put on your resume?"

Another shake.

He frowned. "To prove you’re better than me?"

You smirked but shook your head again. "Nope. I needed a place to stay."

Wonwoo’s frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

You inhaled before answering. "The student president gets a free dorm on campus. I needed a way out of the foster home, and that was my best shot."

Wonwoo went quiet, his gaze searching yours as if piecing together things he hadn't realized before. "You… ran because you needed housing?"

You nodded. "Yeah. Mrs. Kim never planned on letting me move out. The only way I could leave was if I had a legitimate reason that even she couldn't argue against. A free dorm with full coverage? She couldn’t say no to that."

He was silent for a long moment before muttering, "Damn."

You chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Not all of us can afford to run for power moves, Mr. Influence."

Wonwoo sighed, rubbing his face. "I really had no idea…"

"It’s fine," you said, waving it off. "I made it out, didn’t I?"

He looked at you, expression unreadable. Then, with a small huff, he muttered, "I still think my reason was cooler."

You threw a pillow at him.

*

The presidential election had finally concluded, and to your surprise, your votes ranked in the top two alongside Seungcheol. The final results hadn’t been announced yet, but sitting in the driver’s seat, Wonwoo was already sulking like a kid who dropped his ice cream.

"Seungcheol has a lot of influence, you know," you said, trying to lift his mood as you buckled your seatbelt.

Wonwoo huffed, arms crossed. "Yeah, yeah. He’s charismatic, well-connected, and has professors wrapped around his finger. We get it."

You smirked. "Sounds like you’re a big fan."

He shot you a glare. "I'm not. I just don't like losing."

"You made it to the top two. That’s not losing."

"It’s not winning either," he grumbled, resting his chin on the steering wheel. "I had a plan. I worked hard. I even made small talk with people, and you know how much I hate that."

You chuckled. "Oh no, not small talk. The ultimate sacrifice."

Wonwoo groaned, tilting his head back against the headrest. "You don’t get it. I needed this. Influence is important."

You grinned. "Yeah, tell me. I was just trying to get a dorm."

Wonwoo let out a long sigh, starting the car. "Well, at least if you win, I'll be stuck in power with someone who won’t make my life hell."

You laughed. "Aww, is that your way of saying you trust me?"

He clicked his tongue, pretending to focus on the road. "No. It’s my way of saying I don’t trust Seungcheol."

"Right, right," you teased. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mr. Almost-President."

Wonwoo’s phone—well, technically, your phone—buzzed on the dashboard. He glanced at the screen, then at you, hesitating.

"It's my mom."

Wonwoo's grip on the phone lingered even after the call ended, his mind racing. His mother had sounded calm, but he knew her well enough to recognize when she was holding something back.

"She knows," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blinked, lifting your gaze to meet his. "What?"

"My mom—she knows what Mrs. Kim has been doing to you."

Your breath hitched. "How?"

Wonwoo hesitated. He hadn’t told you yet, but when he had been in your body, experiencing firsthand the bruises, the way your muscles flinched at sudden movements, the way Mrs. Kim had spoken to him—he hadn’t been able to keep it to himself. He had confided in his mother, unable to hold back his anger.

"I told her," he admitted, watching your reaction carefully. "When I was in your body, I couldn’t just ignore it. She knew something was wrong, and I… I told her everything."

You stared at him, emotions flickering across your face—shock, confusion, and something else, something raw.

"She’s getting the police involved," Wonwoo continued. "She already contacted them, and they’re starting an investigation."

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing down on you. "An investigation?"

He nodded. "We’re not letting her get away with this."

For the first time, real hope flickered in your eyes, but there was also hesitation. "But… she’s always covered her tracks. She’ll deny everything."

"She can try," Wonwoo said firmly. "But I already went for a visum et repertum."

Your eyes widened. "You what?"

"A forensic medical exam," he explained. "To document the bruises, the scars—everything she did to you." His jaw clenched. "I needed proof. And now we have it."

You sat there in stunned silence, struggling to process it all.

"Wonwoo, you—"

"She’s not laying another hand on you," he said, his voice low but unwavering. "Not now, not ever."

Your fingers curled into your lap, emotions overwhelming you. You had spent so many years believing no one would ever step in, that no one would ever truly see what was happening behind closed doors.

But Wonwoo had. And he wasn’t backing down.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away, forcing out a small, shaky laugh. "You really went and did all that?"

He gave a half-smile, shrugging. "Yeah, well… I might have a soft spot for you."

That startled a genuine laugh out of you, light and breathless.

For the first time in a long time, you felt something unfamiliar creeping into your chest—something warm. Something safe.

Maybe, just maybe, this nightmare was finally coming to an end.

*

Wonwoo stood beside his mother, his heart pounding in his chest as the police officer laid out the results of the investigation. He glanced at you—his own body—sitting stiffly beside him, hands clenched into fists. He could see the tension in your posture, the way your shoulders barely moved with your breathing. He understood why. Every word the officer spoke only made the weight in his stomach sink deeper.

"Tonight, we will take Mrs. Kim into custody," the officer stated firmly. "We've gathered substantial evidence, including records showing she registered life insurance policies for over ten children under her care. One of them was a boy who died from hypothermia."

Wonwoo felt a sharp chill crawl up his spine. "Hypothermia?" he repeated, his voice coming out in your tone.

The officer nodded grimly. "She drowned him," he clarified, sliding a file onto the coffee table. "The forensic reports prove it. The original findings were covered up, but we managed to recover them."

A nauseating feeling twisted in his gut. He had suspected Mrs. Kim was cruel, but this… this was beyond anything he had imagined. He turned his gaze toward you—you were staring at the photos in the file, your expression blank, but he knew you well enough to see the terror hiding beneath it.

His mother, who had been listening quietly until now, suddenly stiffened. Her sharp eyes locked onto one of the documents in the officer’s hand. She reached for it, flipping through the pages before pausing.

Then she froze.

"There's your name," she murmured, glancing at him.

Wonwoo leaned forward, eyes scanning the document. It was an insurance registration. The name on it was yours.

"She took out a policy on you six months ago," the officer confirmed.

His breath caught in his throat. He turned to look at you again, and for the first time since this nightmare began, he saw pure fear in your eyes.

His jaw clenched as his mother exhaled sharply, gripping the paper tightly. "She was planning to..," he said, his voice dark with anger.

His mother closed her eyes briefly before fixing the officer with a hardened gaze. "She won’t get away with this, will she?"

The officer shook his head. "No. We have enough evidence now to ensure she faces the full weight of the law."

Silence settled over the room like a suffocating fog. Wonwoo’s mother slowly reached for your hand—his hand—and squeezed it gently.

"You're safe now," she whispered.

*

The news came late at night. Mrs. Kim had been arrested. The police had raided the foster home, taking her into custody without incident. The children had been removed from the house, placed under temporary care while they underwent medical check-ups and psychological evaluations.

You sat in Wonwoo’s room—his real room, not the shared space in the foster home—legs tucked under you as you stared blankly at the floor. It still didn’t feel real. After years of suffering, years of thinking no one would ever come to help, it was over. Mrs. Kim was gone.

Wonwoo—still in your body—watched you carefully from across the room. He could see the exhaustion in your posture, the way your fingers trembled slightly as you held onto the blanket draped over your lap. You had barely spoken since the police update.

"You should sleep," he said softly.

You exhaled a small laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t think I can."

Silence settled between you. Then, after a moment, you looked up at him, your expression unreadable.

"Thank you," you said, voice quiet but steady.

Wonwoo blinked. "For what?"

You let out a breath, searching for the right words. "If it weren’t for you… none of this would’ve happened. Mrs. Kim would still be out there. The kids would still be suffering. I—" You paused, looking down at your hands. "I might not even be alive."

The weight of your words hit him hard. He didn’t know what to say. Instead, he just stared at you, watching as the tension in your shoulders slowly unraveled.

"You didn’t have to help me," you continued. "But you did. You fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself."

Wonwoo swallowed, something heavy settling in his chest. "You deserved it," he said simply.

You met his eyes, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you felt something close to relief.

"Yeah," you murmured. "I think… I’m finally starting to believe that."

Wonwoo, still in your body, moved to your side, his expression unreadable. Before you could say anything, he pulled you into his arms. The embrace was firm, grounding, and for a moment, you forgot about the weight of everything that had happened.

You stiffened slightly at first—it was strange, feeling your own body hold you—but the warmth of his touch, the steady rhythm of his breathing, made it easier to let go. Slowly, you relaxed against him.

"You’re safe now," he murmured. "It’s over."

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his—your—shirt. "It doesn’t feel real."

"I know," Wonwoo said, his grip tightening just a little. "But it is."

Silence settled between you, thick with everything unspoken. The weight of the past few days, of the fear, the uncertainty, the fight—it all hung in the air. But underneath it, there was relief.

Wonwoo pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. Even though he was in your body, the concern in his gaze was entirely his. "If I hadn’t gotten there in time—" He shook his head, exhaling sharply. "I don’t even want to think about it."

"But you did," you reminded him, offering a small, tired smile. "You saved me. And not just me—all the kids in that house. If it weren’t for you, they’d still be suffering."

Wonwoo’s grip on you tightened for a moment before he finally nodded. "Yeah. I guess we saved them together."

He watched your eyes and hesitated, his grip on you loosening just slightly, but he didn’t pull away completely. His eyes flickered to your lips for just a second before he caught himself, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts.

You noticed.

Before you could overthink it, you leaned in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss against his lips—a mere brush, a hesitation wrapped in warmth. It was barely anything, just a peck, but the way Wonwoo froze made your heart race.

When you pulled back, his eyes widened, lips parted as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. You stepped back slightly, giving him space, but the air between you had changed.

"What was that?" he finally asked, voice quiet.

You swallowed, suddenly unsure. "I… don’t know."

A beat of silence.

"We were enemies, right?" Wonwoo said, his brows furrowing in thought. "Back in high school, we couldn’t stand each other."

You let out a small, breathless laugh. "Yeah, I guess we were."

"But then… somehow, we became friends," he continued, his voice softer now. "I don’t even know when that happened."

You met his gaze, something unspoken lingering between you. "And now?"

Wonwoo didn’t answer right away. He lifted a hand as if he wanted to reach for you but hesitated at the last second. Instead, he exhaled, shaking his head with a small, almost amused smile.

"I have no idea," he admitted. "What are we now?"

You didn’t have an answer either. But as you looked at him—at the way he was watching you, searching for something—maybe that was okay. Maybe you’d figure it out together.

*

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You shifted slightly, feeling warmth against you—an arm draped loosely around your waist, a steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.

For a moment, you didn’t think much of it. It felt natural, comfortable. The exhaustion from the past few days had melted into this quiet moment of peace.

Then it hit you.

You shot up, your eyes widening as you took in the sight in front of you. Wonwoo was still half-asleep, his hair a mess, eyes barely open as he blinked up at you in confusion. But that wasn’t what made your breath catch.

It was him. His face. His body.

And then you looked down at yourself.

Your hands—your hands—small, familiar. You touched your face, feeling the features you had grown up with.

Panic and realization hit at the same time.

"Wonwoo," you gasped.

At the sound of his name, he frowned, groggy, his voice rough from sleep. "What?"

You grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly. "We—"

Then his eyes widened, fully waking up as he sat up abruptly. His hands darted to his own face, his own chest. He looked at you, then at himself, then back at you again.

"We’re back," he breathed.

You both stared at each other, the weight of everything crashing down. The confusion, the fear, the chaos of switching lives—it was over.

A mix of emotions swirled inside you. Relief. Disbelief. Maybe even… a little sadness?

Somehow, in all of this, you and Wonwoo had gone from being enemies, to reluctant allies, to something more. And now, back in your own bodies, you weren’t sure what came next.

"You were cuddling me," Wonwoo suddenly pointed out, a smirk creeping onto his lips.

Your face heated instantly. "You were cuddling me!"

He hummed, stretching lazily. "I don’t remember pushing you away."

"Ugh, you’re insufferable."

But there was no real bite behind your words. You were too relieved, too overwhelmed, and maybe even… a little happy.

Because somehow, through all of this, you had found him.

*

You moved out as soon as Seungcheol, the newly elected student president, handed you a key after pulling some strings to secure you a free room in the student dorm. It was a relief—a chance to finally breathe on your own, away from the chaos of the past few months.

"Don't forget, you owe me," he said, a smirk playing on his lips as he twirled the keyring around his finger like some grand prize. He was clearly enjoying this.

You rolled your eyes but snatched the key from his hand anyway. "Aye aye, captain," you muttered, stuffing it into your pocket.

Seungcheol chuckled, leaning lazily against the doorframe. "Oh, and your boyfriend—think he’d be interested in filling the media and advocacy position?"

You froze mid-step, your fingers tightening around the key. "He's not my boyfriend," you shot back, a little sharper than intended. Heat crept up your neck, and you hated how easily he could fluster you with just a few words.

Seungcheol’s brow arched, clearly unimpressed by your denial. "Don't lie to me. You think I didn’t notice how often you talked him up during the campaign?"

You scoffed, turning the key in the lock just for something to do. "I wasn’t talking him up."

"Really?" His smirk widened. "So saying he's ‘sharp, capable, and annoyingly good at everything’ was criticism?"

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat as realization dawned on you. It wasn’t you who had said those things about Wonwoo. It was him, using your body.

That little—

Your jaw tightened, a wave of embarrassment washing over you. The thought of Wonwoo casually praising himself while pretending to be you made you want to throw something. Of course, he had made you sound like his biggest fan.

You exhaled sharply, deciding this was a battle for another day. "I’ll ask him," you muttered, pushing open the door to your new dorm.

"Good," Seungcheol said, straightening up. "And let me know when you two finally admit you’re together."

"Seungcheol—"

"See you at the next meeting, Madam Secretary," he called over his shoulder, throwing you a knowing wink before strolling off down the hallway.

You groaned, running a hand down your face as you glared at the empty space where he had just stood. Annoying.

With a sigh, you stepped inside your new dorm room, shutting the door behind you. The silence was almost deafening compared to the whirlwind of everything that had happened recently. You glanced down at the key in your palm, feeling the weight of it.

A new beginning. A fresh start.

But somehow, you had the feeling that no matter what, Wonwoo was going to be right in the middle of it all.

Just like now, the tall boy was sitting on the floor, unboxing your books and carefully placing them on the shelves. The only sound in the room was the occasional hum from your lips—a rare moment of quiet between the two of you. It struck you as odd.

Wonwoo was never this silent around you.

You turned, only to catch him flipping through one of your books. But from the worn-out cover and the way his brows slightly raised in interest, you knew exactly what it was.

Your high school diary.

Your stomach dropped.

In a flash, you slid across the floor to his side, reaching for the book, but he was faster. With a teasing smirk, he turned his body away, holding it just out of your reach as he continued reading like he wasn’t blatantly invading your privacy.

"That's my diary, Wonwoo," you hissed, stretching to snatch it from his grasp.

"As if I hadn’t literally lived in that body of yours," he quipped, his smirk widening.

You huffed, crossing your arms in frustration. You honestly didn’t even remember what you had written in that diary—probably a bunch of pointless high school drama and petty complaints about your elite private school.

That is, until he read one line aloud.

"Mingyu is annoyingly kind and smart for the rich kids."

You groaned, immediately burying your face in your hands. "Please stop."

Wonwoo chuckled, clearly enjoying himself as he leaned back against the bed. "And he's handsome too, I guess. You like Mingyu?!"

"Past tense," you muttered, peeking at him between your fingers. "And honestly, who didn’t back in high school?"

His amusement lingered as he continued flipping through the pages, but then, without warning, his smile faded.

He stilled.

His brows furrowed.

When he finally looked at you, there was something unreadable in his expression. "It was intentional?"

Your breath hitched at the shift in his tone. "What?"

Before you could grab the diary, he turned it around so you could see the passage.

And then, it hit you.

The memory resurfaced instantly—the day you had scribbled those frustrated words after an exam. The day you had deliberately answered one question wrong just to land in second place.

Wonwoo’s voice was quieter this time. "My father asked you to do that?"

His eyes scanned your face, searching for confirmation, as he tried to process what he had just read.

Your fingers curled tightly around the diary as you exhaled, leaning back against the bed. There was no point in hiding it now—not when he had already read the truth for himself.

"It was to secure my scholarship," you admitted, your voice quieter than before.

Wonwoo's brows remained furrowed, his hands tightening slightly around the book. "What?"

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Your father... he told Mrs. Kim that I was never to step into your level—meaning the highest I was allowed to place was second."

The words hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken resentment and long-buried frustration.

Wonwoo’s jaw tensed. "He told you that?"

"Not directly. Mrs. Kim did," you clarified, gripping the diary a little tighter. "She said it was a condition. That as long as I stayed beneath you, I could keep my scholarship. My tuition would stay covered, my future secured—as long as I didn’t outshine you."

Wonwoo stared at you, and for the first time since you met him, there was no teasing, no sarcasm, no sharp-witted remarks. Just silence.

He wasn’t even looking at the diary anymore. His gaze was locked onto you, his expression unreadable.

"You were forced to stay second place," he finally said, his voice almost detached, like he was still trying to wrap his head around it.

You shrugged, forcing a small, bitter smile. "It wasn't that hard. You were better than me, anyway."

"That's not the point," he snapped, the sudden edge in his voice making you blink. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. "That’s why you never challenged me, isn’t it? Why you never tried to win?"

You hesitated before nodding. "Would it have mattered?"

Wonwoo let out a humorless chuckle, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "And here I thought you just enjoyed losing to me."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, because that sounds like something I’d do."

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk.

Instead, he stared at you like he was seeing you in an entirely different light.

Like he was starting to understand something he never had before.

Wonwoo let out a deep breath, his gaze dropping to the diary still clutched in your hands. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for it again—but instead, he just sat there, staring at nothing in particular.

Then, to your surprise, he laughed. A quiet, almost disbelieving sound.

"Wow," he murmured, shaking his head. "So all this time... you were holding back for me."

You frowned. "Not for you—"

"Still," he cut in, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. "You let me win. Over and over. You fed my ego for years."

You didn’t know what to say to that. Was he mad? Annoyed?

But then he exhaled, running a hand through his hair, and you saw something unexpected in his expression.

"Thank you."

You blinked. "What?"

"Thank you," he repeated, his voice softer this time. "For letting me think I was the best. For... making me feel like I was good at something."

There was no sarcasm. No teasing. Just a raw honesty that made your chest tighten.

"I didn’t do it for you," you muttered, looking away.

"I know." He tilted his head slightly, watching you. "But you still did."

You let out a breath, shaking your head. "Why are you even thanking me? It’s not like I had a choice."

Wonwoo leaned back against the bed, his expression unreadable. "Because if you hadn't, I probably would've lost my mind."

You frowned.

"My dad—he always expected me to be the best. Not just in school, but in everything." He let out a small, humorless laugh. "And I wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t. But the scores? The rankings? That was the only thing that made me feel like I was good enough. Like I actually deserved something."

You stared at him, the weight of his words settling in.

"You have no idea how badly I needed that validation," he admitted. "How badly I needed to believe I was the best at something. Even if it was fake."

You swallowed. You had never thought of it that way before. You had always seen Wonwoo as someone untouchable—smart, capable, and always one step ahead of you. But now, sitting here, hearing him admit that he needed to win...

He wasn’t as untouchable as you thought.

"You weren’t bad, you know," you said after a moment. "Even without me holding back, you probably still would’ve beaten me."

He let out a breathy chuckle, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Maybe. But at least now I know the truth."

Silence settled between you, heavy and unspoken.

You sighed, shifting so you were fully facing him. Wonwoo had always carried himself like he had everything under control, like he never wavered. But now, sitting here, you could see the cracks in that image—the weight of expectations, the pressure he had put on himself for years.

"You don’t have to be the best at everything, you know," you said quietly.

Wonwoo looked at you, surprised by your words.

"You’re already smart," you continued. "Responsible. Honest to a fault." You hesitated before adding, "You even helped me with Mrs. Kim when you didn’t have to."

His brows furrowed slightly. "That doesn’t mean—"

"You could’ve caused trouble while you were in my body," you cut him off. "You could’ve made my life a mess, done things just to spite me. But you didn’t. You helped me. You took care of things. That says more about you than any stupid ranking ever could."

Wonwoo didn’t respond right away, his expression unreadable. You weren’t sure if he was actually listening or if he was just waiting for you to stop talking. But then, after a long pause, he let out a quiet chuckle.

"So you’re saying I’m a good person?"

You rolled your eyes. "I’m saying you don’t have to prove that you are. You already are. And that’s enough."

Wonwoo blinked, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your words. Then, slowly, a small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me."

You scoffed, nudging his arm. "Don’t get used to it."

But the warmth in his gaze lingered, and for the first time, you saw him believe it.

Wonwoo let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "You know, if this were some kind of cliché moment in a movie, you’d kiss me right now. Like last time."

You snorted, crossing your arms. "Oh, please."

But his words triggered a memory—the last time your lips met.

"Besides," you added, tilting your head at him, "I technically didn’t kiss you last time. It was more like a peck. And even then, it wasn’t me kissing you—it was me in your body, so it was your lips touching mine."

Wonwoo smirked, leaning in slightly. "Sounds like a lot of excuses."

Before you could roll your eyes again, he reached for your wrist, pulling you just close enough that your breath hitched. His gaze flickered to your lips for just a second before he murmured,

"Let’s fix that, then."

And before you could even think of a response, he closed the distance, pressing his lips against yours.

This time, it wasn’t just a peck.

*

Wonwoo sat stiffly across from his father, unsure why he had been called to this unexpected meeting. His father, always composed and stern, sipped his tea before finally setting the cup down with a decisive clink.

"I’ve been thinking," his father began, his deep voice carrying an unusual softness, "about your future."

Wonwoo’s shoulders tensed. He was ready for another lecture, another reminder of his predetermined path. But then—

"I’ve decided," his father continued, "that if you truly want to pursue journalism, you have my support."

Wonwoo blinked. He must have misheard. His father? Supporting his dream?

His father adjusted his glasses, tapping a finger against the table. "I read your work—the articles, the essays, the investigative pieces you’ve written over the years. There’s potential, Wonwoo. Real potential. I wasn’t convinced before, but now…" He exhaled, looking directly at his son. "I see it."

Wonwoo’s mind raced. How did his father—?

Then his eyes flicked to his laptop sitting on the desk nearby. A strange feeling gnawed at him. Slowly, he reached for it, opening his email.

His inbox showed a long thread between him and his father—except… he didn’t remember sending these.

Clicking through, his breath caught. Attached were all the articles, drafts, and opinion pieces he had ever written, even the ones he had abandoned, perfectly formatted and sent with a professional, persuasive message:

"Father, I know journalism wasn’t the future you envisioned for me, but writing has always been my passion. I hope you can see the effort I’ve put into it. All I ask is for you to read and reconsider. If there’s any part of you that believes in me, please support this dream."

The email was formal, respectful—something Wonwoo would never have dared to send himself.

Because he didn’t send it.

Realization struck.

You.

While you were in his body, you had gathered every piece of writing he had ever done and sent it to his father, pushing for the approval he had been too afraid to ask for himself.

A lump formed in his throat.

"You…" Wonwoo murmured under his breath, still staring at the screen. His heart pounded, caught between disbelief and something else—something warm, something deep.

His father took another sip of tea. "I’m ready to support you, son. If this is what you want, you don’t have to fight for it alone."

Wonwoo swallowed, his grip tightening around the laptop. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Because for the first time in his life, he realized—

Someone had fought for him first.

*

Years later, Wonwoo came home to find you curled up on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through TV channels. The familiar sight of you—your hair messy, your legs tucked under a blanket—made something in his chest unclench. Without a word, he let his tired body collapse onto you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he buried his face in your stomach.

You huffed at the sudden weight but didn’t push him away. Instead, your fingers instinctively found their way into his hair, gently brushing through the strands.

"I'm so tired," he mumbled, his voice muffled against your shirt.

You chuckled, feeling the vibration of his words against you. "Journalism finally hit you?"

Wonwoo groaned dramatically before shifting, propping himself up just enough to look at you. "My senior is evil. How could he make us stay in the police station for two days?"

Your brows raised. "Got any news?"

He sighed, shaking his head before letting his head fall onto your lap, his face turned toward you. His dark eyes studied your features, the corners of his lips tugging into something softer, something unspoken.

"And I missed you," he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, though your fingers never stopped their soothing motions through his hair. "You're so dramatic."

"Am I?" He smirked lazily. "You should've seen how miserable I was without you."

You scoffed, pretending to ignore the way your heart fluttered at his words. It had taken months—months of stolen kisses, secret touches, and endless bickering—before the two of you had finally admitted what everyone else had seen from the start.

Mingyu, fed up with your ridiculous denial, had finally intervened. And by "intervened," it meant shoving you and Wonwoo into a closet during a party and refusing to let you out until you confessed your feelings. It was a long, messy story—one that involved a lot of yelling, some threats, and a victorious Mingyu grinning like a proud matchmaker.

And yet, it had worked.

Now, here you were, years later, with Wonwoo sprawled across you like he belonged there. Because, in a way, he did.

"You’re such a baby," you teased, lightly flicking his forehead.

He caught your hand before you could pull away, intertwining his fingers with yours. "Only for you."

You felt it before you saw it—the subtle shift in the way Wonwoo’s fingers curled around yours, the slow, deliberate drag of his thumb against your palm. His other hand, which had been resting idly on your waist, started to move, fingertips tracing light, teasing patterns over the fabric of your shirt.

Your breath hitched when he pressed a little firmer, his touch no longer innocent, no longer just an affectionate gesture.

"Wonwoo," you murmured, though it came out softer than intended, barely a warning.

His lips twitched, eyes flicking up to yours, dark and knowing. "What?" he asked, voice low, lazy, but there was something else there too—something heavier, something that made your stomach flip.

"You’re tired," you pointed out, though even to your own ears, it sounded like a weak excuse.

Wonwoo hummed, shifting slightly until he was lying on his side, one arm draped around your waist, the other still tangled with your fingers. "Yeah," he agreed, nuzzling into your stomach. "But I still missed you."

You swallowed when his nose brushed against the hem of your shirt, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin. His fingers slipped under the fabric, skimming your hip before sliding up, slow and unhurried.

Your skin prickled under his touch, and he must've felt your reaction because his smirk deepened.

"Wonwoo," you tried again, but this time, your voice betrayed you, dipping into something breathier, something more wanting.

"Hmm?" He looked up at you, feigning innocence, but the way his fingers flexed against your waist, the way his lips barely brushed against your stomach before pulling back—it was anything but innocent.

Your fingers twitched in his hair, torn between pulling him away and pulling him closer.

And from the way his smirk widened, you had a feeling he already knew which one you were leaning toward.

You sucked in a breath when Wonwoo’s fingers trailed lower, his touch lazy, teasing, like he had all the time in the world. His palm skimmed over your thigh, fingertips pressing just enough to make you shiver. His head remained on your lap, but his eyes were locked on yours, watching every little reaction.

"You're really not going to stop me, huh?" he murmured, amusement lacing his tone.

Your fingers curled in his hair, torn between pulling him away and keeping him right where he was. "Wonwoo," you whispered, though you weren’t sure if it was meant to stop him or encourage him.

He chuckled, the deep sound vibrating through you, before his fingers slipped just a little further, skimming over the waistband of your shorts. Your breath stuttered, body tensing in anticipation.

"You’re so easy to tease," he mused, his lips curving as he pressed a kiss to your stomach.

You swatted at his shoulder, though there was no real strength behind it. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, you still let me touch you."

His fingers flexed again, just a whisper of movement against your skin, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. The heat in his gaze was unmistakable, and the air between you felt thick, charged.

Your lips parted to say something—maybe to challenge him, maybe to tell him to keep going—but before you could, his fingers dipped lower, making you gasp.

Wonwoo smirked, leaning in closer. "Yeah," he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. "I thought so."

Wonwoo's fingers danced across your heated flesh, tracing the sensitive inner thighs, his touch both teasing and tantalizing. You parted your legs slightly, inviting him deeper into the haven of your intimacy. His calloused palm grazed the damp lace of your panties, the delicate material offering little barrier against the scorching heat of your core.

With a knowing smirk, Wonwoo hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, slowly peeling them down your hips to reveal your glistening, needy center. He dipped a finger into the slick folds, gathering your essence and rubbing it along your throbbing clit in a deliberate rhythm.

"You're so wet for me already," he purred, his voice low and husky with desire. "Tell me, do you miss me as much as I miss you?"

The overwhelming ache within you demanded release, begging for Wonwoo's touch to quench the thirst that had built throughout the day apart. You nodded frantically, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you surrendered to the intensity of your longing.

"Yes, I miss you so much," You whimpered, arching into his skilled caresses. "Please, Wonwoo... I need you inside me."

At your plea, Wonwoo stood abruptly, scooping you effortlessly into his arms.

He carried you swiftly towards the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind you with a resolute click. Once there, he set you down on the edge of the bed, his dark eyes smoldering with unrestrained hunger as he shed the remainder of his clothes with swift, practiced movements.

"Nowhere else I'd rather be than right here, buried deep within your sweet heat," he declared, his rigid length jutting out prominently, aching to claim its rightful place inside you once again.

"I'm dying to taste you, sweetheart, but I can barely control myself." Wonwoo spat onto your dripping slit, the warm droplets mingling with your arousal. "Gotta get inside you, now."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the swollen head of his member nudging against your slick heat.

With a steady, controlled thrust, Wonwoo sheathed himself fully within you, his thickness stretching and filling you to the brim. He paused for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size, before withdrawing until just the tip remained inside.

"Are you ready, baby?" he asked, his voice rough with restrained passion.

You nodded, your hips lifting eagerly to meet his next push forward.

Wonwoo's grip tightened on your hips as he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each stroke dragging out the pleasure until it bordered on agony. He leaned down, capturing your thing between his teeth, nibbling and suckling in time with his measured pace.

With agonizing slowness, Wonwoo continued to drive into you, each inch a tantalizing exploration of your innermost depths. His teeth grazed your thing, sending electric shocks straight to your core as his fingers found your sensitive clit, circling the tender bud with maddening gentleness.

"Wonwoo...Yes..." You whimpered, lost in the haze of pleasure, your nails digging into his back as you clung to him desperately.

Wonwoo's rhythmic strokes intensified, his hips undulating sensually against yours. Each deep, languid thrust seemed designed to unravel you from the inside out, his teasing touches driving you closer to the brink. Youwrithed beneath him, craving more of that exquisite friction, your cries escalating into urgent whimpers.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groaned, his voice strained with effort as he fought to maintain the torturously slow pace.

With a subtle shift in his tempo, Wonwoo picked up speed, the previously languid thrusts now becoming harder and faster. Your back arched off the bed as he pistoned into you with renewed vigor, the room echoing with the lewd sound of flesh meeting flesh.

"That's it, take it deeper," he encouraged, his hand tightening on your hip, urging you to meet his increasing fervor. "Let go, my love. I've got you."

With a sudden yank, Wonwoo hoisted you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he maintained eye contact. The new angle allowed him to sink even deeper inside, and you cried out at the delicious stretch.

"I want to look at you while I fill you up," he growled, his thumbs rubbing circles over yout hyper-sensitive clit as he pumped into you.

With each relentless thrust, Wonwoo could feel the telltale flutter of you impending orgasm building within me. Your walls clenched tighter around his throbbing length, drawing him impossibly deeper, and he knew you was teetering on the precipice.

"Don't hold back," he commanded gruffly, his own climax fast approaching. "Let go for me, my beautiful girl. I want to feel you shake apart.."

With increased urgency, Wonwoo slammed into you, the force of his thrusts nearly knocking the wind from you ungs. You inner muscles spasmed wildly as you reached the crest, wave after wave of intense pleasure crashing over me.

"Yes, yes, yes!" You screamed, your nails raking down his back as the most potent orgasm of yout life ripped through you.

...and then Wonwoo buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsating violently as he reached his peak. With a guttural roar, he poured himself into you, flooding your spasming channel with his hot seed.

"P-pretty... fuck," he stuttered, his face contorting in blissful agony as he emptied himself inside you. His rhythmic spurts triggered aftershocks, each twitch of his still-hard member coaxing out lingering echoes of yout earlier climax.

With a contented sigh, Wonwoo collapsed onto you, your bodies still intimately entwined. Though he'd just delivered a mind-blowing orgasm, his exhaustion was palpable, making it clear he had no intention of withdrawing anytime soon.

"Mmm, too tired," he mumbled, his face nuzzling into the crook of my neck as he struggled to catch his breath.

*

A soft groan escaped your lips as you stirred from sleep, the lingering sensations of last night’s intimacy still fresh in your mind. Your body felt relaxed in the most satisfying way, every inch of you still attuned to Wonwoo’s touch. A small, pleased smile curved your lips as you felt the comforting warmth of him pressed against you, his solid form still nestled close, as if he had no intention of letting go.

"Morning, sunshine," you murmured sleepily, your voice laced with warmth and amusement. "Seems like you didn’t intend to let me go after all, did you?"

But the moment the words left your mouth, something felt off. The timbre of your voice—deeper, rougher—sent a jolt of confusion through you.

Your eyes snapped open.

Your breath hitched as you took in the unfamiliar sight of broad shoulders, long limbs, and the distinct weight of a body that wasn’t yours.

Panic set in.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, you looked down to the other side—only to find yourself staring at… yourself.

Wonwoo—trapped in your body—blinked at you sleepily, his own eyes widening in delayed realization.

Not again.

"Don't move…" Wonwoo groaned, his voice—your voice—strained as he let out a soft moan from the way your body tensed inside him.

His grip on your arm tightened as he exhaled sharply, frustration evident in the way his brows furrowed. "Shit… Does your body always ache this much after sex? Don’t move!" he snapped, his complaint sounding oddly amusing in your own voice.

You bit back a laugh, despite the absurdity of the situation. "I’m not doing anything," you said defensively, then motioned toward your member—his member—where the evidence of his current predicament was painfully obvious. "It’s working itself."

Wonwoo sighed in exasperation, dragging a hand down his—your—face. "Welcome to manhood," you added with a smirk.

His glare could’ve burned holes through you, but at that moment, all you could do was marvel at the sheer irony of it all.

The end:)

[brujamala-aka-gigi]

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ mini pac ｡⋆｡ ﾟ

˖ ݁random things about your next lover ౨ৎ ˚

this is a small light hearted pick a pile reading, made for fun. there's a good mix of random, quirky, and deep stuff in each pile. so yeah, pick one and take what resonates or take it as a sign if it makes sense to you. {this reading is written in a non-hetero centric way}

dividers by @cafekitsune & @jimzittos images found in @saizun 's blog.

pile one pile two pile three

pile four pile five pile six

.‧͙˚ *༓ scroll down for the readings ⋆ִ ‧͙⁺˚

.

masterpost ✶ pac readings ✶ ko-fi page

⋆bookings for personal readings are open ཐིཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

˚˖𓍢ִ✧˚𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒏𝒆.⋆༘˚⋆

They have way too many hobbies, and they’re all kinda niche but related to creativity.

Very playful with almost everything, quirky or bizarre sense of humor. 

Always looking for new things to do, seeks enjoyment and/or entertainment.

Humble, they don’t like bragging or being too loud about whatever they achieve. 

They are open minded because being judgemental goes against their logic. 

Amazing at teamwork. 

Deep down they are actually quite structured and disciplined, despite giving off the opposite impression. 

Unexpectedly responsible in their own way. 

Very curious, wants to know everything about you. 

Is quick to smell bullshit. Impossible for them to be lied to.

˚˖𓍢ִ✧˚𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒘𝒐.⋆༘˚⋆

They love anything that has a darker, spooky, mysterious tone. But they are quite chill about it actually, they love scary things but they are not annoying about it. 

Easily misunderstood and badly judged by others tho.

They try really hard to be good at communicating with others despite being kinda shy and almost awkward. 

Always overthinking and over analyzing. 

They are nerdy, but in a history or philosophy way. Probably unable to do math. 

Amazing emotional intelligence, especially when it comes to dealing with difficult moments from their past. 

Worried about the future: they are not too concerned about traditional success, but they are concerned about leaving some sort of impact in the world, no matter how small. 

˚˖𓍢ִ✧˚𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆.⋆༘˚⋆

Hardworking, dedicated, passionate… maybe a workaholic. 

Actually quite handy and always willing to help or solve anything.

They love their routines, they swear by them.

If they love you, after you ask them “what's going on?” they won’t reply “nothing”, they will go on about an overly specific topic that they were reminded of by something random. 

Charismatic, but in a pretty eccentric way. 

Black cat looks, yellow cat personality. 

They are attractive because they are truly confident in themselves, and maybe quite uninterested in looking exactly like the conventional beauty ideals.

Detail oriented, borderline obsessive. 

They are always doing something, always on the go, always close to burn out… because the moment they chill they accidentally begin feeling unmotivated.

. ˚˖𓍢ִ✧˚𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒓.⋆༘˚⋆

Party animal but in a golden retriever way. 

So friendly and nice it's almost scary. But in reality they really enjoy meeting people, hanging out, and chatting. 

Also, quite altruistic and willing to help out anyone with anything, they don’t care who or why. 

They have a lot of friends, and acquaintances, but they have a very small inner circle who they are extremely loyal to. 

Very strong sense of hope for the future. They never lose the conviction that everything will eventually turn out just fine. 

Their will is sometimes too strong, they don’t let anything go easily. 

Either on the spotlight or in a leadership position most times. They don’t look for it, it just happens. 

Sometimes overly protective, but they have quirky ways of showing that.

Not good at flirting, they're quite dorky about it, but somehow it works for them

˚˖𓍢ִ✧˚𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒗𝒆.⋆༘˚⋆

HOT as fuck. As in sensual and captivating.

Highly perceptive about the people around them, they like to wonder how the mind works.

They might look off standish, cold or uninterested, and yes, they might be most times but that doesn't make them bad people.

In reality they are trying to look cool while being shy and afraid of intimacy.

Highly intuitive.

Many times their expectations for themselves are insane, but their expectations for others are low.

Probably super into classic literature. Dante's Inferno specifically.

Quite romantic, but also kinda pretentious about it. Don't expect average gifs, expect something that is a reference to an obscure experimental new wave french film or something.

They don't joke about their spotify playlists.

. ˚˖𓍢ִ✧˚𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒙.⋆༘˚⋆

Highly sensitive and creative but in a Lana del Rey kind of way.

They really have a sort of "old soul" vibe.

Too empathetic for their own good, but they are always working on it.

Staying at home is their favourite thing to do, specially if there's sweets involved.

Incredibly patient. They actually prefer slow-paced everything. Books, movies, shows, hobbies, everything.

Probably into crafty hobbies and podcasts.

They have a very low social battery, but they are always willing to put the effort if it is because of someone they appreciate.

Very proud of their roots and overall life journey.

Not very talkative, unless they have something they deem important and necessary to share.

masterpost ✶ pac readings ✶ personal readings

✶ ko-fi page ✶

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆ available for personal readings ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

[megwritesriddles]

Sweetest Nectar ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Neville Longbottom x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Being at Hogwarts at university-level had it's perks, such as unsupervised days in the greenhouse with Neville. Reader finds herself in an unfortunate position thanks to a flower in the greenhouse and Neville has to figure out how to help while being a gentleman and preserving their friendship.

Tags: Sex pollen, Mildly dubious consent, Fingering, P in V, Unprotected sex, Begging, Friends to lovers, Minor yearning, HogwartsUniversity!AU, Post-war/Eighth year, Virgin!Neville (he just is, I don't make the rules), Too much backstory, Sentient Hogwarts, Silly fluffy ending.

Word count: 11.1k

all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: Can you see why I've been gone so long??? This had zero business being 11k words but I'm a chronic overexplainer so here we are!! Skip the first 9 paragraphs if you don't care about any worldbuilding. Continuing my 'Neville gets muscular as he gets older' agenda as per. The last line is so dumb... Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

P.S. this is technically day 23 of my kinktober but it's january so lets not talk about that

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Hogwarts worked in mysterious ways, with its own indecipherable motives. This much had always been true but was especially recognised lately. Once rebuild efforts had concluded after the war, Professor McGonagall, like every headmaster before her, bar Severus Snape, had sent out invitations to recent graduates to join the Higher Education program, a two-year program that would prepare its students to become a professor in any chosen field, subject to meeting entry requirements of the course. Demand for this program was higher than it ever had been, so many recent Hogwarts graduates felt like they had missed so much time at Hogwarts, that they were willing to come back on the program just to make up for lost time. At first, McGonnagal thought of shutting the whole thing down or at least raising entry requirements for joiners; there wasn’t exactly enough room in the designated Higher Education quarters for all the applicants. And though the regular student population had dwindled significantly over the course of the war (best not thought about too hard), it seemed wrong to try and room adults with 15-year-olds just to fit everyone in. The night before she intended to send out the letters of amendment to the required marks, McGonagall felt bizarrely compelled to go on a stroll around the castle, feeling drawn down a route she didn't often find herself going. There, she found a brand new door, behind which were brand new living quarters, just big enough for all the applicants. Although she should have been relieved, McGonagall was initially rather frustrated by this. Why now did the blasted old castle decide it could build, when nearly all summer long volunteers had been slaving away to restore the castle? The windows glittered as if to wink at her, she decided that the daft old thing must have liked the attention. McGonagall found herself relieved, she too felt that the recent graduates were not ready for the career world quite yet, having had not only their final year of study lost to the war, but the years before that tarnished by looming threats and incompetent bumblers. Also, there was an urgent need for qualified teachers of magic, so the more the merrier, even if most of them would only use it as a springboard into something else. 

You had always been a shoo-in either way, although you never got to sit your NEWTs, the honourary grades you were given were stellar, supported by fantastic results in your OWLs and overall fantastic conduct in class. The blemishes on your record from the Carrow's note-taking were wiped, leaving your record squeaky clean. You received your acceptance letter and list of supplies and felt like you were eleven again. Everyone was required to specialise in a subject, and while you'd had a couple in which you had adequate grades which you might have chosen, you went for Herbology in the end, as it was something you loved.  In all honesty, you liked Professor Sprout the best and were eager to train under her. 

As soon as you received your letter, you wrote to Neville. There was no doubt in your mind that he would be studying under Professor Sprout alongside you, despite not even knowing if he had applied to the program initially. He quickly confirmed this suspicion when he wrote back to you, saying he had a sneaky feeling about you as well. The two of you had become fast friends in the sixth year, both being in Advanced Herbology. You'd known each other a little here and there before that, but in this class, your friendship truly formed. The class was very small, as the interest in Advanced Herbology was low, most careers only required a decent grade in standard Herbology, so even those with interest had to prioritise other things for the sake of their future, such as Potions or Charms. There were only the two of you and a pair of Slytherin girls who, despite seeming genuinely very passionate about the subject, refused to converse with the two of you and whispered amongst themselves all the time. This was fine with both of you, as you had each other, taking time to study together, walking to and from class, and working efficiently during any pair work. The two of you had been ripped apart during the war, you had to steer clear of Hogwarts for your safety, and Neville, being intensely monitored by the Carrows at the time, refused to write to you and risk revealing your location to them, so you had been out of contact for quite a while. You wrote to him again on his birthday and had been corresponding a little since, but things felt slightly stunted. You hadn't seen each other in so long and Neville was never the best when it came to socialising. 

Arriving at Hogwarts once again had been intensely bittersweet. So many good and bad memories to try and process all at once, it felt overwhelming. You'd had to step outside during the sorting but found yourself far from alone out there. So many people were broken. You apprehensively made your way over to Hermione and said hello. She pulled you into a tight hug, as you hadn't seen her for a long time either. You listened as she explained about Harry and Ron, that they didn't want to go into teaching, and though she'd explained over and over that most people that do the program don't end up teaching, they'd still refused to come. Trying to make the most of it, she tells you it'll be nice to spend time with other friends for once and you nod along. She is somehow specialising in three subjects, she'd wanted to do more of course, but it hadn't been allowed. Trust Hermione to work herself to the bone happily. You'd made it to your room later that night, a private room with an en-suite, which felt awfully fancy for Hogwarts, and settled in. Being back was an odd feeling, you could see the cracks in the stone everywhere you looked, there was pain everywhere, yet so much good to try and find.

To your complete relief, when you started your first day in the Greenhouses, things fell back into place with Neville instantly. At first, you'd greeted him with a hug, which had been awkward as he hadn't been expecting it, but very pleasant once he figured out what was going on. Soon after this though, as Professor Sprout set you her first task (to prepare some plants for her third years), things were back to as they were, perfect. You worked together well, talking and laughing easily, and though occasionally the chat went sour and the mood fell, this was happening with everyone lately, a byproduct of the war, there was so little to talk about that wasn't tarnished that it was a wonder the two of you were able to laugh as much as you were. Neither of the two girls from advanced Herbology were there, and although this initially saddened you both, you conceded that there could be many reasons for it. There weren’t many Slytherin returners, there never had been, but after the war especially, the turnout was pathetic. Most Slytherins avoided their peers after the war for fear of ostracism, which was fair as people had some pretty bad opinions on them but sad because there were several Slytherins who hadn’t been on the wrong side of history who were still facing hostility. 

The course was a lot of independent study of assigned texts and essay-writing, but all day on a Tuesday and half a day on a Thursday, the two of you were in the smaller greenhouse behind the ones for teaching, working on various projects, which also sometimes required your attention out of teaching hours. This greenhouse was set aside initially for research purposes at Sprout’s predecessor's request, but now was being used to train those in the higher education program. Despite this greenhouse being smaller than the two nearer the grounds, it was still fairly large and complex. Upon entering, you came into a little cloakroom, where you would have to don your aprons and gloves before entering, with a sink in the corner for washing up when leaving and entering. The next room was the main growing area, growing various plants that weren’t dangerous but were still perhaps best kept out of the reach of the younger students. There was a long wooden workbench in the middle of the room for potting and taking notes and whatever else you might need to do. Off of the opposite end of this room, there were three doors, one that led to a small room which was always kept humid and at tropical temperatures, one which was always kept cool and dry and one lockable room in which more dangerous plants were kept, such as venomous tentacula or fanged geraniums, only to be accessed with Professor Sprout supervising. 

Professor Sprout would only tutor the two of you on Thursday, so with the exception of the first few weeks, the two of you were entirely alone from 9 am to 4 pm on a Tuesday. Although it sounded a little salacious when you told friends, the truth was that most Tuesdays you were both too busy for anything to happen. Not that anything would of course, but certain assumptions were made when people heard you were alone together for hours with what they assumed was an easy subject. Mostly your days were full of tending to the plants, having to frequently refer to your notes for how each should be cared for (how much water? what temperature should the water be? do they require singing to?), observing any plants that were the subjects of your essays and preparing plants so they would be safe for lessons with younger year groups. 

It’s a Tuesday like any other. Neville is carefully planting some seeds across the workbench from where you’re delicately pruning a particularly active flitterbloom bush, setting the clippings aside to send to the potions department later. One of Neville’s research subjects is observing what methods of growth acceleration work the best and cause the least damage to the plants they’re applied to. He has been planting, growing and replanting dittany over and over for weeks now, but was still gathering more data as he came across more and more methods to test, and each had to be tested several times over to rule out external factors. 

Your research was on the merits and drawbacks of pruning, and which plants took best and worst to the practice. Pruning was useful as it allowed more ingredients to be obtained from individual plants for potioneering purposes, but generally was thought to be harmful to the overall health of the plant. You were attempting to write a definitive list of which of the 25 most common plants used in potions could be pruned and which couldn’t, which to your surprise had hardly been researched before as the belief of its harmfulness had permeated the field since 1870 and most Herbologists had steered clear of it since. Your research seemed to be proving it wasn’t nearly as harmful as thought.

The two of you chat idly as Neville uses a pipette to apply various growth potions to the soil of his newly planted seeds and you carefully measure the regrowth of a stem of the flitterbloom bush that you pruned a few weeks ago, struggling as the stem swayed about. 

“I can’t believe Hermione talked Ron and Harry into actually joining the course next term,” Neville hums, extracting exactly 5 millilitres of potion from a bottle with his pipette. You scoff. 

“For real this time? They keep saying that yet nothing ever comes of it,” you shake your head, scribbling down your measurement on the parchment beside you.

“Yes, really, two new rooms have appeared in the boys' dorms with their names on them, if Hogwarts knows, it must really be happening,” his tongue sticks out slightly between his teeth as he concentrates on dropping the liquid right in the middle of the little pot. Not wanting to throw his research, you wait until he’s done to reply.

“Perhaps Harry and Ron don’t even know it themselves,” you joke, making Neville chuckle. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the castle decided it for them,” he carefully pushes the cork back into the top of the potion bottle. “The castle is quite odd lately, perhaps it has whatever its equivalent of brain damage is from the war, it’s acting much more blatantly,”

“How so?” you tilt your head in his direction, soothing your finger over the agitated stem that you just had to hold taut for measuring. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories of people getting stuck in rooms with the people they like, doors literally disappearing until they confess or otherwise!”  Neville laughs, carefully moving his pots back to their designated spot on the windowsill. With his back turned, you can’t help but glance at the door despite yourself, wondering if it’s still there. It is. You quickly avert your eyes from the door as he turns back toward you. “It’s why there’s suddenly all these couples popping up, sure the castle has always been a little cheeky, but never so obvious before, it all started with the higher education wing appearing overnight and it’s seemingly been madness since,” he shakes his head, picking up another batch of pots containing little sprouts at various heights that he has to measure. 

“It’s sweet how many people have liked each other and not even known… has it always been people who like each other stuck together?” you ask, stroking your quill, feeling the soft tufts beneath your fingers. 

“As far as I’ve heard, each time it’s happened it’s ended well,” Neville shrugs, rifling through his bag for his measuring tape. You glance at the door again, seeing it still there. Unrequited, you figure, that door will stay right where it is. 

“I wonder where the brain of the castle is if it even has such a thing… it is sentient in some ways, so there must be an equivalent right?” you ponder as he loudly removes his books from his bag and thuds them onto the workbench. 

“The room of requirement? For some reason that comes to mind… a fire in your brain can’t be good,” he chuckles, his voice slightly strained as he peers under the table for the offending measuring tape.

“You can borrow mine,” you suggest softly as he comes up with nothing. 

“No it’s fine, you need it,” he waves his hand dismissively, standing up from his stool. “I’ll fetch mine from my room, I’m fairly certain I know exactly where it is on my desk, can’t believe I forgot it again,” he grumbles the last part to himself. “Be back in 15, watch my plants,” he smiles, although you can tell from his sheepish look that he’s embarrassed to have forgotten something yet again. Luckily, you could head back to fetch things at any time at your level, no longer having to ask to go to the toilet or anything like that. There was no one here to ask. You smile back, watching as he enters the cloakroom. A few moments later, you see his heavily blurred figure heading up the hill through the heavily rippled glass of the greenhouse windows. In the newfound quiet, you return to your work, hearing only the spray of simulated rain in the tropical growing room. 

Finally finished with the flitterbloom, you stand to retrieve your next plant, a valerian bush, for pruning. As you move to stand and step forward, you feel an odd pressure at your ankle. Stepping forward anyway, you realise too late that your foot is hooked on a support between the legs of your stool, sending both you and the stool off balance and toppling over toward the room-length counter that holds all the various plants. Reflexively, your body twists and your arms come up to shield your head as you thud loudly into the solid wood surface, causing a choir of wobbling pots, luckily with no ensuing crash of broken terracotta, you had to count your blessings somewhere. A dull pain throbs through your body, starting from the side that crashed against the counter. Thud! A yelp rips from you as the stool, still twined with your leg, falls onto your thigh. Luckily, it is only light and will leave a small bruise at most, your side colliding with the counter on the other hand…. You shut your eyes tight, feeling utterly embarrassed about what just happened despite being alone. You weren’t normally this clumsy and you were sure you looked a mess, an undignified heap on the floor, too shocked to stand up or even open your eyes yet. In the permeating silence, you sit on the cold stone floor and try not to cry, from the shock more than the pain. 

A violent sneeze overtakes your body, the action of it hurting your side. You sniff and cough, dust seemingly surrounding you. You must have jostled some old dusty plants that hadn’t been touched in a while when you collided with the surface. Surrendering to the coughs and sniffs that wracked through your pained body, you wait it out until the dust subsides, grabbing your bruised side as you double over with violent sneezes and sputters. Finally, a deep breath of clean air, you sag against the counter and try to gather yourself now you can breathe properly once more.

“It was exactly where I thought it was…” The door from the cloakroom creaks open in the silence as Neville enters, clutching his measuring tape. “I can be so scatterbrained,” he huffs, his eyes sweeping the room at the height he expects you to be. In embarrassment your eyes squeeze tighter, not wanting him to see the mess you’d gotten yourself into. Upon not seeing you, he glances around for any evidence you might be in one of the back rooms, though not thinking of a reason you would be. 

“Down here,” you squeak, your voice hoarse from coughing. The words itch your throat and you splutter slightly once more as he rounds the workbench and spots you on the ground. You give a sheepish smile, finally having opened your eyes. It’s painfully obvious from your stool-adorned leg what happened, you just hope he doesn’t think any less of you. He shouldn’t, he has a reputation for being clumsy himself, but you can’t help but worry. “I fell,” you rasp pathetically. 

“Are you alright?” he surges toward you and kneels, immediately examining your head for any bumps, rubbing over your scalp gently. The action makes your cheeks heat up, but you try to ignore it. 

“I’m okay, I landed on my side,” you reply as he carefully removes the stool from around your leg and stands it back up beside the workbench. His arms wrap around you and he carefully lifts you to stand, you yelp as the movement stretches your side and he shushes you gently. 

“It’s alright, there we go… just—,” he holds you steady until you’re stable on your feet. When he lets go of you, it feels oddly painful deep in your stomach, but you brush that off. 

“Thank you,” you whisper shyly. 

“Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?” he asks, bringing his hand up to feel your skull once more, worrying over whether you might have been badly injured. You lean slightly into his hand without meaning to.

“No I promise, it was just my side and my thigh,” you insist, inwardly wishing he’d brush his hand against those spots to check them. For a moment his hand moves like he might, but he stops himself. 

“If you’re sure,” he inspects you once more, hovering behind you as you sit back down on the stool, trying to brush past this whole incident. “Can I grab your plant for you?” he offers. “Which were you going for?” you want to complain, but his eyes are wide and earnest and you know he wants to help.

“The valerian… and could you pop the flitterbloom back for me?” you request, hesitantly testing the tender skin where the stool collided with your thigh, wincing at the throb of pain that followed your touch. Neville dutifully returns the flitterbloom to the counter, then places the valerian bush before you. Behind you, you hear him gently pushing some of the pots that had moved when you smashed into the counter back into place. You flush and keep your head down, pretending to inspect the valerian bush but not being able to focus. Your brain feels a little fogged up, you assume from the shock of the fall. Not wanting to alarm Neville in any way, you grab your tape measure and pretend to measure the leaf regrowth. He quietly moves around the workbench, bringing his pots over to your side of the bench and sitting down beside you to resume his work, his brows furrowed in concern for you. “Really, I’m okay,” you chuckle, but the weakness of your voice does little to reassure him.

“It’s better if I sit here, just in case something happens,” he says, more firmly than he usually says anything. That side of him was new since the war, this ability to stick up for himself in smaller situations. He’d always known how to stick up for the greater good, but little things like this, he would allow himself to be walked all over, too scared of losing a friend. Now that he has more confidence, he’s not so afraid to dispute his nearest and dearest, knowing you’re unlikely to end your friendship with him over this. And if you did, it would be weird and not his fault anyway. The tone of voice is also on the newer side and it stirs something in your belly.

You sit side by side working on your respective projects. Well, Neville is working, you’re more just going through the motions while your mind hovers elsewhere, not allowing you to focus on what you’re meant to be doing. Maybe you were concussed… but you hadn’t hit your head during the fall, so what was wrong? You take a few deep breaths, trying to slow your heart which still seems to be beating slightly fast. Slowly but surely, your body starts to feel a little warm. You glance to make sure the door to the tropical room hasn't opened as your cardigan starts to feel a little stuffy. No matter where you look in the room, you can’t find any source of excess heat. A puff of breath breaches your lips, you’re growing uncomfortable now, the heat only seems to rise and rise. With great unnecessary difficulty, you wrestle yourself free of your cardigan, throwing the wretched thing on the ground beside you with a grunt. Neville gives you a confused look, but not yet seeing anything obviously wrong with you, returns to his measurements. There is relief from the warmth that was engulfing you, but only for ten minutes at most, as soon you are sweltering once more. An awful voice at the back of your head tries to convince you to throw off all of your clothes, but you keep it together, merely squirming in your seat, rubbing your thighs together to try and quell the growing ache in your belly that your mind isn’t quite registering yet. In a last-ditch effort, you sip some water from your lukewarm water bottle, the relief it provides is even shorter than before. Your head whips around now, searching fruitlessly once more for the source of this despicable heat, but finds nothing. Neville is unfazed beside you, still wearing his sweater and looking perfectly comfortable. The only thing you can think of is that Neville must be radiating the heat, as nothing else could explain your sudden discomfort. You reach your hand out toward him, trying to gauge if it gets warmer the closer it gets to his side. This finally catches his attention and when he looks up, he’s met with your flushed clammy face and dilated pupils.

“Whoa! Is everything alright?” he sputtered, leaning back slightly as if worried you’re contagious. This upsets you and you let out an unseemly whine.

“I’m hot,” you huff, pushing your hair back from your face to get more cool air on your skin. “Really hot,” Neville’s eyes brush over you for a moment as he considers just how hot you are, before promptly snapping himself out of it.

“You do look a little… feverish,” he agrees, reaching out and touching the back of his hand to your forehead. You lean forward into the touch, moaning softly. Your skin is burning and slightly tacky with sweat, which makes Neville frown deeply. How could you have suddenly developed such a terrible fever? He pulls his hand back, but you immediately whine and claw at his arm to pull his hand back. Too baffled to protest, he lets you pull his hand to your cheek and watches you lean against it happily. He gently runs his thumb over your cheekbone before catching himself. “Are you alright?” he enquires once more, keeping his voice soothing.

“Don’t stop touching me,” you pout, looking up at him through your lashes with a look that is wholly inappropriate for an academic premises. He swallows.

“Wha-what?” he stammers, watching as you nuzzle against his hand.

“It helps the heat… don’t stop,” you whimper, reaching out to try and pull him closer by his sweater, but not being strong or focused enough to do it. This failure pulls another whine from you. Neville’s mind reels completely and he has to look away from you to compose himself, though he keeps your cheek cradled in his palm. What was going on with you? Were you ill? His eyes find the spot where he’d found you on the floor just earlier in his attempts to avoid the sultry unexplainable look you were giving him. “I need you to touch me,” you mewl, making him shiver.

“I’m not sure that’s–” he cuts himself off when his eyes land on the plant on the counter above where you fell. Lamprocapnos libidinosus, also known as the dripping heart, a magical relative of the bleeding heart flower in the muggle world. A common ingredient in lust potions and aphrodisiacs, highly dangerous in the wrong hands due to the potent amorous effects of its spores. Neville vaguely remembers Professor Sprout's warnings that one of the PhD students was being allowed to grow it for research and to steer completely clear of it. A warning he’s sure you would have headed if you hadn’t been tumbling toward it. Even from afar, he notices a couple of burst spore pods. “Oh no…” he mumbles to himself, dropping his hand from your cheek. You immediately protest but he stops you short. “When you fell… you didn’t happen to breathe in any dust, did you?” his voice shakes slightly, this cannot be happening to you. He always thought they shouldn’t have the plant growing in this greenhouse, even if only experienced herbologists were allowed in. Accidents happened as he knew all too well, and now his vague fears had become a biting reality.

“Yeah, why?” your voice is soft and sweet as you paw at him, trying to get him to hug you, or presumably something more. Neville flushes brightly and shoots upright, making a mad dash for his textbooks, still on the workbench from when he’d been searching through his bag. You wail at his absence, feeling the heat that had reduced to a low simmer return to a full boil. “Please…” you sob at him, not even knowing why you want what you want. “Just hold me, comfort me,” The look in your eye has him breaking, and if he remembers what little he’s read about the plant, you must be rather uncomfortable right now. He returns to your side and allows you to cling to his arm, bumping your head into his shoulder like a loving cat, while he frantically searches for the information he needs to help you. After several panicked flick-throughs, he locates the page.

Lamprocapnos libidinosus; also known as the Dripping Heart or the Flower of Lust.

At the top of the page is information entirely useless to this cause, the best season to plant, how much light is needed, etcetera, but finally Neville finds what he’s looking for under the ‘uses’ section. It’s tough to focus on reading when you’re practically trying to get under his sweater with him, pushing the knit material slightly up his side, your fingertips brushing his abdomen and making him jolt. He pushes your hand away but pulls you into a hug to silence your outcries, which you’re more than happy to sink into. He’s hugged you plenty of times so he pretends this is perfectly normal as he wills his brain to digest what's in front of him on the page. It’s hard to keep this pretending up as he can hear you sniffing him and moaning deeply at the smell of his shower gel, mixed with just a hint of sweat, which in this state only fuels your arousal, acting as a pheromone, worsening your need.

He skims the section frantically. Inhalation of the spores will lead to overwhelming feelings of lust even in small doses, however, the dose may affect who this lust is directed toward. Smaller doses will only worsen lust toward people already lusted after by the infected person, while larger doses will cause these feelings of lust to latch onto whoever is around, no matter prior relationships. The infected person will pursue their object of affection at any cost, they will be unable to focus on anything but the lust that has overtaken them. These feelings of lust, if left untreated, can cause extreme discomfort in the infected person, high fevers, intense symptoms of arousal (such as fluid secretions), shivers, brain fog and other symptoms varying by person and dose. The only way to cure the infected person of these symptoms and return them to full faculties is to have them reach climax.

It seems that you have chosen him as the object of your affections. Neville looks down at you as you hug him tight, continuously trying to slip your hand beneath his jumper. Out of selfish curiosity, he heads for the plant to try and determine how large of a dose you got and whether you may have already experienced feelings of lust toward him before the effects of the plant. When he moves away, you practically sob.

“Please don’t!” you wail, diving for him and into his arms once more. For now, you seemed to be mostly content just being held in his arms, and it’s clear you find it painful when separated from him for even a moment, so Neville has to relent. He delicately lifts you, and although having you wrap your legs around his hips hadn’t been a part of his plan, he supposes it does help keep you steady. He blushes brightly as he walks over to inspect the flower. He’s never held anyone like this, so intimately. Your skirt rides up where your legs wrap around him and he has to tear his eyes away before his thoughts become too inappropriate. You like the sight as much as he does. “You’re so strong,” you purr in his ear, your voice much lower than normal. He shivers and you feel it, the knowledge you’re having some effect on him overtakes your lust-addled brain. 

“Th-thank you, I’ve been exercising a lot since the war,” he mumbles, counting all the burst pods on the plant. He counts five, but he’s not sure if that’s considered a large dose or not. Probably, but the pods do look rather small.

“Mmm, it’s so hot…” you purr, trying to wriggle against him. Neville’s face turns red and he practically drops you, but holds you steady so you don’t fall once more once your feet touch the ground.

“Don’t say stuff like that!” he yelps.

“It’s true,” you pout. “I need you,” you try to hop up into his arms again but he holds you firmly on the ground, practically shaking. Really, this should’ve been a dream come true for him, he’d had feelings for you practically since the day the two of you met, but he felt disgusted with himself for every wave of excitement that passed over him. You were burning up, your cheeks brightly flushed, a deep ache at the pit of your belly and an ever-growing wetness in your underwear. All you could think about was how it might feel to have Neville soothing the fire inside you with deep strong thrusts, you moan aloud, if you focus enough you can almost feel it. “I bet you’re big, I bet you’d fill me up so well,” you murmur, looking up at him seductively.

“I- Merlin…” Now Neville feels overheated, he tries to push you away a little but you aren’t letting him. The image of filling you up won’t leave his head no matter how much he commands it to. It doesn’t help that you’re now trying your best to reach his jaw to kiss it. 

“Please…” you beg once more. “I need it so badly…” his resistance crumbles for a moment and his hands drop from your sides, allowing you to rush forward and attach your lips to his jaw. His eyes slip shut and he whimpers as you hold him close and lavish his neck and jaw with attention. His arms wrap around you, hands gently skimming your back as you continue to pepper him with kisses. “Please,” you whisper against his skin, your hand dropping to the buckle of his belt. The feeling of you tugging at his belt makes his eyes shoot open. He realises in a sudden flood of shame what he’s allowed you to do. You’ll hate him for this once you’re back to normal. He grabs your shoulders harshly and pushes you away. You squeak as he sits you on one of the stools, your eyes filling with tears at the rejection. You’d been so close to what you needed, and now with this newfound distance from him, you were in pain once more, a horrible throb in your stomach. 

“Listen to me,” he breathes shakily. “We can’t do this, you’ll regret it as soon as it’s over,”

“No, I–”

“You’re not in your right mind, you don’t know what you actually want,” he asserts again, reminding himself more than anything. He takes a deep breath and thinks. The only way to cure you according to the textbook was for you to reach climax. In colloquial stories about the plant, he’d always heard that orgasm would have to be reached with the help of another person, but the book didn’t stipulate this, maybe this was the answer. You could do it alone. His cheeks were flushed bright red as he opened his mouth once more. “What you need to do is… er… I’m going to take you into the cloakroom, alright?” he swallows, cautiously pulling you up from the stool onto your feet. You would need to sit somewhere to do this presumably and sitting on the stool or the workbench in here could lead to falling and disaster all over again. The best place he could think of was the bench in the cloakroom where people could sit to remove their shoes. You would have the wall to lean against and wouldn’t be sitting on the cold stone floor. Beneath you, he lays out a towel and then helps you to sit down on top of it. The towel was intended to make you more comfortable, but he considers with a blush that it might be necessary for other reasons also. He clears his throat. “Now, you have to… er… get yourself… uhm…” he can’t seem to make himself say the words. With a soft tug at his sleeve, you pull him to kneel between your legs, your faces nearly level given how much height he has on you. 

Before he can stop you, you kiss him. His brain stops functioning for a moment, all he can do is wrap his arms around you and kiss back, so intoxicated by the way your lips move against his. He didn’t have much experience with kissing, but there was no doubt this was the best kiss of his life. You moan against his mouth and it sets all his nerve-endings alight, making him push even closer to you in desperation. For you, the kiss is a sweet relief, cool water washing over your overheated body, but even so, you need more. There’s an incessant throbbing between your legs, a horrible feeling of emptiness that you know only Neville could fill. Trying to urge him on, you brush your tongue against his lips, hoping for entry. You’re allowed in for one tantalising moment before he pulls away with a start when your tongues graze against each other. The whine that rips from your throat is downright pathetic, but you don’t have the faculties to care at that moment. You look at him through your lashes, watching as he fights to regain his composure, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Never in his life has he felt as weak as in this moment, rendered so malleable by his desire for you. The two of you are friends. How will you react when you come back to normal and discover he let you kiss him in this state? That he’s allowed his selfishness to get in the way of what’s right? He jumps to his feet, ignoring your cries and protests as much as it pains him to do so.

“Look, the textbook says that the only way to cure you of this is… a uh… a climax,” he blushes and chokes on the words slightly. “I’m going to keep watch outside that nobody comes in, all you have to do is… you know…”

“Get myself off?” you supply in a sultry voice. 

“Yes, exactly,” he clears his throat, turning to leave you alone.

“Nev, please… I need your help… I don’t want to do it alone,” you plead, your voice soft and needy.  

“No, you can do it alo– oh… wow,” he exhales heavily as his eyes reach you once more. In an effort to persuade him, you’d pulled up the hem of your skirt and spread your legs, revealing your thighs and your soaked panties to him. The cold air makes you shiver but doesn’t actually cool you down in the slightest. It takes a great deal of strength to keep Neville from lunging himself at you. You look positively delicious, the wetness of your panties allowing him an outline of your most intimate areas, the skin of your thighs soft and plump and enticing. If he was even a slightly feebler man, he’d already be on his knees, devouring you through the thin, damp fabric. Just imagining how you might taste has him weak in the knees. “Oh Merlin…” he breathes, feeling his erection, which has been slightly present for the last half-hour or so, straining painfully against the zip of his jeans. The needy seductive look on your face almost breaks him, he takes a step toward you, causing you to light up, before he stops himself and just stares. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, unable to help himself. He watches you squirm in response. 

“Please, I need you,” you beg, unbuttoning your shirt as he observes. The garment falls to the ground, leaving you in your plain bra. Neville doesn’t seem to mind how simple the garment is in the slightest, his breath hitching as you reveal yourself.

“I really shouldn’t” he tries again, but he cannot rip his eyes from your body.

“I can’t do it alone, I feel so empty,” you whimper, spreading your legs further. “Please, fill me, I need your cock,” Neville nearly faints at those words, at the pleading way you say them, at how desired you’re making him feel. His legs carry him forward before his brain can catch up and he sits beside you on the bench. His brain finally does catch up just in time to stop you from sitting in his lap.

“Maybe I can help a little, but we can’t… I can’t uh… I can’t ‘fill’ you,” he gives in, despite knowing he probably shouldn’t. He had heard many times that another person was needed to reverse the effects of the Dripping Heart, so it was likely he did have to help, given the fact you hardly seemed satisfied with the idea of getting off alone. He could still be as much of a gentleman about it as possible. He knew the both of you had limited sexual experience, he himself was a virgin and though he wasn’t sure about you, he would guess you were in the same boat or had only had one partner before. With both of you having so little experience, he didn’t want to go all the way, as for you it would likely be regrettable. You plead with him softly, trying to climb into his lap still, despite his strong arms holding you at bay. Each plea weakens his resolve and he knows you know it because you’re babbling now.

“Please, please Nev, I need you inside me, to fuck me, I’ve never needed anything so badly, please, I know you want me too,” he deserved a medal for being able to resist you for this long, most other boys would have given in the second the girl of their dreams said something even remotely flirty, but he was somehow just barely resisting your pleas to have sex with him.

“Sit down,” he implores you, and you quickly obey, batting your lashes at him. “I’m going to help you, okay? But you need to stay still and just… take what I give you, don’t ask for more, okay?” These words seem to excite you, you squirm and nod, eagerly allowing him to spread your legs. His shaking hand rests on your bare thigh for a moment as he takes a few composing breaths. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do, it was something he had dreamed of incessantly, but now it felt like it could ruin his life if he wasn’t careful. You tug softly at his arm, trying to get his hand where you want it, bucking against the air.

“Please…” you sob, clenching around nothing as you look at his large hand against your thigh. He shushes you gently.

“I’m about to, just give me a second,” he stammers, trying to sort through his brain for any information he has on how to do this. He averts his eyes, figuring you wouldn’t have wanted him to see you so intimately, even if the damp fabric of your panties had already given him a pretty good look. Slowly, he places his hand on the apex of your thigh, shivering at the damp warmth he can feel radiating from your core. You mewl. Despite the pain in his neck from the position, he keeps his eyes locked on the wall behind you, pointedly ignoring how arousing the sounds you made were. Gathering his courage, he carefully slips the tips of his fingers past the fabric of your underwear and groans aloud at how wet you are. Your nectar gathers on his fingers and for a moment he just gently swipes them up and down to gather as much as possible, hearing your desperate moans as you lean your head on his shoulder. He never knew a woman could be this wet, and sure perhaps the flower was exacerbating it, but the thought still had him unendingly aroused. The angle wasn���t quite right, so he removed his hand, whining in unison with you at the separation. Your essence dripping down his fingers was like a siren song, trying to lure him to lick his fingers clean and finally get a taste of you. How could he ever explain that to you later? To his infinite regret, he doesn’t bring them to his mouth, sliding his hand into your panties once more, now from the top. This angle works a lot better, your hips immediately buck as his fingers slide over your clit.

“There, please, right there,” you beg, and he’s glad for the advice. A little unsure but determined (no point backing out now, at least he might be able to cure you), he relocates the spot that makes you shiver and whine. Your reaction tells you exactly when he’s found the little bundle of nerves once more and he takes a deep breath, before gently beginning to circle his fingers around it. It’s something he remembers hearing in the common room, and it seems it was good advice as soon you’re panting in his ear like a dog in heat, mewling his name softly. He can’t believe the noises you’re making, the sinful way you’re saying his name, it’s like perfect torture, it takes a lot out of him not to look. “Yes, fuck… Nev…” you whine, feeling the syrupy pleasure coursing through your body. “Yes, yes! More!” 

“More?” he croaks, unsure what you mean by that. As a guess, he tries circling faster, and though you definitely seem to like it, your hips canting up into his touch, he can feel you shaking your head against his shoulder.

“Need you inside,” you cry, making his cock twitch in his jeans.

“We- we can’t do- that,” he stutters, although he’s never wanted to more in his life. He wholeheartedly agrees with your pained sob in response, but he knows it’s for the best. “How about… er… my fingers? Inside?” he gulps, flustered that he’s even in a situation where he can ask such a thing. 

“O-okay,” you whimper. Neville fumbles around for a moment, trying to figure out where to put his fingers. It would be much easier if he could see what he was doing, but he’s already decided he shouldn’t. The fact that he touched you will no doubt be mortifying enough once you’re back to normal. With a little guidance from you, he very slowly and cautiously presses two fingers into you, making you gasp in pleasure. You’re wet and warm and tight around his fingers and he practically drools imagining how you might feel around his cock, almost cumming on the spot just thinking about it. Merlin, he was such a pathetic virgin, maybe he should be taking the chance and losing his virginity now, but it just doesn’t feel right when he doesn’t know how you’ll feel about it afterwards. He presses his forehead to the cool wall to calm himself down and prevent him from looking at how you took his fingers in, withdrawing them just slightly and then pressing them back in. The sound that comes from you makes Neville’s heart skip, so lewd and sinful and full of ecstasy. He wants desperately to kiss you, but he knows he shouldn’t. 

At your renewed pleading, he starts up a steady pace, thrusting his fingers in and out the way he wished he could with his cock, feeling filthy for even thinking it. The wet sound that each thrust made, accompanied by your wanton moans makes him feel like he’s the one who has been infected by the flower, so crazed with desire. Could there have been some pollen on you that he inhaled when he helped you up? It didn’t seem impossible, but he was also a young man, they weren’t exactly notorious for being level-headed when it came to sex. You lean heavily against him, gasping against his shoulder at each press of his fingers, the coil in your belly twisting tighter than it ever had before. You mumble incoherent pleas and he simply shushes you, not trusting himself not to give in to you if you keep talking. 

“Thumb,” you breathe between vulgar moans and though it takes his sluggish brain a moment, he realises what you want. He presses his fingers deeper, fumbling a moment before his thumb grazes your sensitive bud, making you sob in pleasure. His large deft hand pleasures you like it was made for it, all you can think of is the bliss he’s giving you as he hits all the right spots over and over. Your hand flies up, nails digging into his arm as you realise you’re dangerously close to exploding, despite the bite of your nails, he doesn’t let up his pace, too addicted to the sound of your moans to slow down now. “Nev… I’m–” you cut yourself off with a shout, pleasure shooting through your body like you were struck by lighting. Your muscles tense and tremble, your eyes rolling back in your skull, walls contracting around his fingers hard. The pleasure goes through you in strong waves, drowning you in it, not allowing you respite from shivers and moans for even a second as it wracks through you. You’d never felt anything so intense and all-consuming before. Neville feels your essence gush onto his fingers and though he should be relieved it’s over, he finds himself disappointed that he has to stop doing this, hearing those bewitching sounds. Gently, he removes his hand from you and guides your skirt back down your thighs so he can finally look toward you again. His fingers are covered in your essence, creamy and mouth-watering, the only thing that’s able to stop him from having a taste is your hand still clinging to his arm. He waits for you to gather your breath, silently smug he was able to help, but also petrified of what happens next. 

“Are you alright?” he asks delicately, shifting his erection away from your back now that you might actually register it. You open your eyes and look up at him, which immediately makes him frown. Your pupils are still almost comically dilated, your cheeks still pink and clammy, and though it could just be from the aftermath of your orgasm, he immediately knows something is still wrong.

“I feel better… but not entirely,” you whisper and Neville bites his lip. Great. He stands to wash his hands in the sink, and during that brief period of absence, he watches you become consumed by the effects of the flower again, pleading for him to come back. He splashes water on his face and takes a deep breath. You had reached climax, he may not be an expert in female orgasms but he knew what he just saw and felt, so what was wrong? Was the plant in the greenhouse genetically modified in some way? Would he have to call Professor Sprout to ask for help? How exactly could he explain that he’d already given you an orgasm and it hadn’t worked? Looking back, he should have taken you to Madam Pomfrey the second he’d realised what had happened to you, but he thought you would have found it too embarrassing. Now things would be infinitely more embarrassing for the both of you if you sought out help. Lesson learned, just because he’d survived a war it didn’t mean he could deal with anything life threw at him alone. He feels you approaching from behind and turns around, allowing you to sink into his arms. “Stay with me,” you plead, holding him close.

“Okay,” he sighs, because what else can he do now? “I’m here,” He caresses your bare back and tries to forget what he just did to you, but he can’t. “I’m sorry,” he huffs, kissing your forehead without thinking. “I’ve made a mess of things, we did all that and you’re not even cured,”

“Why won’t you fuck me?” you whimper. Your boldness doesn’t even surprise him anymore.

“Because it’s not what you really want, you’d never forgive me once things got back to normal, I was just the only person around for the pollen to latch onto,”

“But that’s what the pollen wants, maybe that’s the only way to cure it, I don’t just want an orgasm, I want you inside me,” you suggest. He’s glad you’re slightly more lucid from the relief of your climax, but you’re still not entirely yourself, your voice slow and sluggish like wading through water when trying to formulate logical thoughts. He can’t deny the way his cock, which had softened slightly, was coming back to life at your words. “Please…” you nuzzle against his chest. “I promise you, I want this even when I’m not… whatever I am right now,” you chuckle. He sighs. He doesn’t quite believe you but he’s running out of ideas of what to do, and your friendship is presumably ruined anyway. Maybe he’s making excuses for himself, but it feels more and more like there’s only one thing for it. He prays you’ll remember how much you begged and how hard he tried to be a gentleman and not hate him, even if you avoid him for the rest of your life after this. “I need you,” you whisper and he gives in.

“Forgive me for this,” he pleads, before lifting you into his arms and moving back over to the bench, sitting down and letting you straddle his lap. You smile at him softly, fluttering your lashes. At least the orgasm before made you a little calmer and more agreeable. If nothing else, if he gets you to orgasm again, you might be even closer to normal. He pulls you to his chest taking a moment to embrace you for what he worries may be the last time. You nuzzle into him eagerly. “I’m a virgin, you know?” he mumbles into your shoulder, not knowing why he feels the need to say it. Those words seem to embolden you, you paw at his chest.

“I promise it’ll be good, please…” you purr. He wonders how you might have reacted if you were your regular self. Would you have found it sweet? Would you have pitied him? You probably knew, everyone knew, but you never mentioned it to him. He allows you to pull off his sweater, lifting his arms and watching you discard it across the room. When you lean in to kiss him, he doesn’t even pretend to put up a fight, holding the back of your neck and kissing you back, pouring all his unspoken feelings into it. He tries to keep it slow and gentle, but you’re far too eager, and the heat starts mounting fast. He pushes away all his doubts, telling himself he can enjoy this, or else it would be even more of a waste. The t-shirt that was under his sweater is next to go, as he pulls away to allow you to rid him of it, he studies your face, still flushed and feverish, but so beautiful, full of lust. His hands fall, one to your waist and the other to your cheek, pulling you back in, pressing his lips to yours and sliding his tongue between them. You moan against his mouth, whimpering a soft sound, a thank you or a plea for more, it’s unclear. He groans back in agreement with whatever it was you intended to say. Your tongues languidly swirl together, caressing one another affectionately. Feeling your warm hands on his bare chest makes him shiver, feeling as you explore the newfound definition of his abdomen, only light, but still a change. In turn, he presses a few kisses to your chest, shakily reaching up to rid you of your bra. It falls away and his cock twitches at the sight of your bare breasts, his breath hitching. He could have never hoped he could see you like this, could have never hoped for any of this, and yet here you were, whining and guiding his hands under your skirt. He runs his hands up and down your thighs as he kisses and sucks at the supple skin of your breasts, giving himself some time to enjoy this despite your hurry. Under different circumstances, he would have liked to have left a mark and asked you to give him one in return, but he knew this was crossing a line as if a million lines hadn’t already been crossed today. At this thought he changes his mind and sucks a tiny mark into the centre of your chest that he’s sure will fade in a few hours, staring at the light pink mark a little wistfully. “Need you inside…” you whine, despite enjoying his affection. There’d be time for that later, but right now it felt completely imperative for him to be inside of you, fearing you might explode if he didn’t give you what you wanted.

“Alright, I get it,” he sighs, placing a few more lingering kisses on the swell of your breasts. Your hands find his belt buckle and without him stopping you this time, they make quick work of it. There’s an awkward shuffle as he helps you lower his jeans around his ankles, but once you’ve settled back in his lap, you take in the sight before you. He looks big even through his boxers, just like you predicted, thick and slightly longer than average. Just the thought of him inside you makes you moan and claw off your skirt with no regard for whether it survives the encounter. Neville’s overheated back presses against the cool wall as he leans back to watch you. He doesn’t bother feeling insecure, as you look like you’ve struck gold as you drool over his length, he supposes in this state you would have been happy with anything. His hands slide up and down your sides, being gentle, taking in the sight of your body, so perfect. He wishes in the back of his mind that this won’t be the last time he sees it, but hope feels too dangerous given the circumstances. He helps you slide your panties down, groaning softly as he spots a string of arousal fluid connecting you and the fabric for a while. You want him so badly. His boxers soon follow and he hisses loudly as your hand wraps around his length. “Oh Merlin…” he whimpers, bucking his hips into your hand. “Fuck, I need you,” he parrots. The ghost of a smile crosses your face as you recognise the words as your own.

“You have me,” you whisper, shifting your hips so you’re above his cock, holding him steady as he twitches. Deep brown hooded eyes stare into yours, he can’t believe his luck. Unable to wait any longer, you sink down onto him. Neville’s eyes squeeze shut in pleasure and he grabs your hips to slow you. You feel perfect around him, warm and silky and inviting, engulfing his whole being in sickly-sweet pleasure. He pulls you close, embracing you as you moan in his ear. Slowly, he lowers you down the rest of the way until your hips are flush with his. For a moment, he simply hugs you and kisses your neck. 

“Feels so good,” he pants in your ear. “So good,”

“You fill me perfectly,” you whine, squirming in his lap for friction. “So big…”

“Yeah?” he coughs, trying to sound smooth but failing, causing him to chuckle nervously. “I won’t last, I’m sorry,” he rubs his hands up and down your spine. “I wish this could last forever,” He lets go of you and leans back against the wall, his hands settling on your hips, taking a moment to admire the sight of you on top of him, him inside you. You feel him twitch within you. “Take what you want, love,” he encourages you to move. There’s no point in him trying to remain in control, all he cares about is that you reach climax, he’s bound to anyway. The nickname makes you even needier somehow, the way his voice is deep with desire. Your hands find his shoulders for purchase, eyes meeting for a moment. You’re both flushed and blissful and the look in his dark eyes shoots a jolt through you. He’s always been attractive, but to see him like this, vulnerable, needy, chest-heaving, it was something else. On his advice, you begin lifting yourself up and lowering yourself down onto his cock, moaning unabashedly with each motion. He stretches you open in the most delicious way, exactly how you’d been picturing all day, or for several years really, perfectly endowed. He relaxes and closes his eyes, groaning and whimpering as you move. Every rock of your hips stokes the flames in the both of you, sending you both toward a common end faster than you regularly might. 

��Thank you,” you purr between moans. “I’ve needed this so bad,” 

“I know,” he chokes out with a tired smile. “I’ve needed it too,” he gently massages the fat of your rear as you ride him, watching in bliss as he disappears inside of you over and over. Your moans rise to a fever pitch, your pace faltering slightly as your climax approaches.

“Yes! Yes!” you practically scream, all your senses heightened as you slam your hips down against him. His face scrunches up in pleasure.

“I’m going to– Ahh!” he grunts, body trembling as he releases thick ropes inside of you, whining with the aftershocks as you continue using him to chase your high. It’s so close, you can’t give up now. Neville’s hands weave into your hair, pulling your face down to his to kiss you. Your tongues meet messily as you struggle to focus on the kiss, preoccupied with your orgasm that is on the tip of your tongue. Heat pools strongly in your abdomen, and you feel the familiar ecstasy of the coil snapping in your belly. Your movement immediately ceases, walls spasming around his length as you moan loudly into his mouth, grabbing him and holding him as close as possible. Your vision whites and your brain goes blank, your whole body twitching violently. He tries his best to soothe you through it, but the pleasure isn’t allowing a single thought to form in your mind for several moments. Finally, your muscles relax and you collapse against him heavily, chest heaving with effort, skin slick with sweat. You vaguely register him removing himself from you and wiping you with a towel, but the corners of your mind are fuzzy and you just cuddle closer to him. You sit in silence for a long while and you nearly fall asleep against his shoulder when he speaks up. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you hum. He tilts your chin up towards him.

“Open your eyes, love,” he implores softly, to which you flutter them open. He sighs a great sigh of relief, seeing your pupils shrink as they react to the light, dilated now a regular amount, and the flush on your cheeks is much less than before. “Do you still need me?” he asks.

“Don’t go,” you panic, holding him closer, but then you realise what he means. “Oh… no, all I want is to maybe have a nap,”

“Thank Merlin, I couldn’t have gone for another round,” he jokes stiltedly. You giggle, cuddling closer once more. “You don’t hate me then?” he mumbles, as if worried he will have reminded you to hate him, gently pushing some hair from your face. 

“No, you… saved me,” you shrug.

“Saved seems dramatic,”

“Well, who knows what would have happened to me if you’d just run away and left me alone? You didn’t have to do what you did, but you did it for me,” you lean up to kiss his cheek. “You gave yourself to me completely, just to save me from discomfort,”

“Trust me, it was my pleasure,” he laughs nervously and you gently swat his chest. “I’d do anything for you,” he whispers, kissing your forehead with a barely contained tenderness.

“Yeah, you’ve proved that,” you grin, kissing his cheek again. “And I for you,”

“You’d have had sex with me if I’d been the one to bump into the plant?” he prompts, sliding his hand up your bare side affectionately. 

“Of course, I’d have done it way sooner too, not wasted time being a ‘gentleman’,” you tease. “Thank you for that though, it was sweet of you, even if it was unnecessary because I don’t regret it one bit,” you promise him, kissing his lips tenderly. He embraces you tighter for a moment and then loosens his grip. 

“We should probably leave, I bet it's past teaching hours now,” he sighs before helping you up and to dress. Your panties are well and truly ruined, so you’re forced to go commando under your skirt. Neville wraps his sweater around your hips to help prevent it from flipping up as you walk through the grounds back to the dorms. He finds it difficult to dress himself as you keep eagerly kissing him, but finally get himself presentable, only to be pulled into another kiss. It’s not desperate or lustful like before, more playful and excited, and he’s happy to accept them. “I take it you like me,” he chuckles as you hug him tight, his arms around you in return.

“Loads,” you sigh into his t-shirt.

“I do too,”

“My room? I promise we can just cuddle and sleep,” you suggest, smiling up at him.

“Hey, give me a few hours, I might be raring to go again,” he jokes.

“Well then definitely my room so I can help you out, I owe you one, don’t I?” you giggle and wink. He blushes slightly and shakes his head. 

“That plant has made a monster, come on,” he takes your hand in his. “Let’s go before someone notices and starts asking questions,” he opens the door into the greenhouse, accio-ing both of your bags over, as well as the open textbook from the workbench. “Stupid inaccurate thing,” he grumbles, stuffing it in his bag. You merely giggle at his frustration. As you turn to leave, you’re met with a gleam of magic, the door to the outside of the greenhouse rematerialising. The two of you exchange a look, neither of you had realised the door was even missing amidst the whole debacle, but it must have been, or else it couldn’t have reappeared. Hogwarts had forced the two of you together, it was likely your fall hadn’t even been organic in the first place. You knew you weren’t usually so uncoordinated.

“Huh,” Neville blinks, checking that the door now works, wondering when exactly it disappeared and how he had missed it. You scoff and shake your head in disbelief before the both of you laugh earnestly.

“Hogwarts is a total perv,”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

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[justwonder113]

Han drunkenly confessing to you

Inspired by this ask

Summary: When Chan calls you at 2 am to pick up drunk han because he is asking for you the last thing you expect is for Han to confess his love for you. warnings: CHAOS! Idiots to lovers, (Both reader and Han(mostly Han) are idiots.) Reader is gender neutral. Cursing to no one's surprise. Kissing. Han being somewhat drunk. Teensy tiny amount of angst. Reader almost having a mental breakdown from all the chaos. Somewhat proofread. let me know if I missed anything A/N- Happy new year lovelies! I wish you all the best! Please take care of yourselves and drink lot's of water. Thank you all for all the love and support you have given me, it really means a lot to me. Word count- 2.4 k

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You know how people put most bizarre things in their resumes? Like stuff they only did once and they wrote it down like they had some kind of PhD in that field? Well next time you if you decided to change jobs or just apply to a new one you would write down that you had an experience and could deal with being friends with Han Fucking Jisung! That is if he survived this day. Because what do you mean you were heading out to get his drunk ass home because this grown ass man was actually crying and asking for you in the damn club at two fucking am! You were so beating his ass once he got sober.

You were seeing such a great dream too. You and Han were actually together and didn’t have this weird ass relationship you two had right now where there were no literal boundaries and you didn’t have to question every day If he was returning the feelings or if you were delusional and he was just extra friendly and overall simply comfortable with you. He was quite touchy and flirty with boys too after all. So you could imagine how much headache this could bring in.

 Anyway, to stop with your let’s just say unfortunate love life and get to the point you were pissed. You really were looking forward after a shitty week sleeping in and actually resting. That’s why you didn’t go to the club with the boys in the first place. How much did he actually drink to be actually crying and asking for you? What was he, a toddler asking for his mommy? Or better yet what was up with you being actually in love with this man?

The club was quite crowded for 2 am. The neon lights of reds blues and greens kept flashing rhythmically. The shouts of laughter and the hum of conversation mixed with the music creating a bit of chaos but well it was a normal atmosphere for a club. As soon as you walked in the smell of cocktails mixed with perfume and sweat of the crowd immediately hit you. It was a bit headache inducing but it was tolerable, as long as you left soon. You started searching for your friends with your eyes which was quite hard at first the crowd really kept shifting and mingling with each other. People really looked like they were having time of their life and you, with the, I just woke up and I’m mad as hell face, surely sticked out like a sore thumb.

Thankfully you found the boys quickly. It wasn’t hard giving they were loudest in the whole establishment as always. They were by the entrance and thankfully everyone looking ready to leave.

As for the man child who was the main reason you were here in the first place, he was clinging to Minho yapping about something. He wasn’t crying now but his eyes really looked puffy and red. Honestly how much did he drink? Others looked normal. Well tired like they were already hungover but still normal. Minho really looked like he was seconds away from smacking him. Yes smacking him, he even managed to rile Minho up. God, what a lightweight.

Han must have noticed you because one second you were looking at his face light up and him call you baby on top of his lungs and the next second he was basically on top of you. He literally hugged you witch such force it was a miracle you were standing on your feet and didn’t fall over.

“Han be careful!” You hear Chan warn him, he sounded tired.

“I’m fine.” You mustered to croak out once Han let go a bit to check if you were fine, he still returned to hugging you but at least you could breathe now. He really must have missed you. God you really wanted to kiss him. All your anger and grumpiness immediately flew out the window. Good for him he was so cute or else you would have smacked his head for bringing you here. “How are you Hannie? A little birdie told me you were asking for me.”

Han looked at you with his wide boba eyes, his lips jutted out in the cutest pout ever. “Better now that you’re here. They are literally so mean baby, I’m glad you’re here. You’re my favorite.”- Han whined out and hugged you again. You looked at others who looked so done, only Minho looked bemused, he held his phone up and recorded Han whine to you. You looked at him with raised eyebrow as you patted Han’s back to calm him down.

Minho only shrugged, “I’m showing this to him when he asks me for something. You’re in charge now since you’re his favorite.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “Babe we both know that your softie ass is immediately going to cave in and do what he wants anyway.”

Minho glared at you, unamused by your comment but you didn’t really pay any mind to it, you had your attention to Han who stopped hugging you and went to Felix instead. He looked like he was about to start crying again any second now.

“Hannie baby what’s wrong?”

“You hate me!” His bold statement was followed by the most dramatic sob and collective sighs of being done from his friends.

“Why would you think that?” You were genuinely so confused. You had no idea what you did wrong.

Han glared at you for a second and returned to hugging Felix who was barely holding his laughter in. Not much to your surprise he quickly gave in. “You called Minho babe. You’re basically replacing me, you really must hate me.”

What now? You couldn’t help but blink in confusion because what the fuck was up with that logic. You really looked at him with a deadpan expression before the realization of what he said really dawned on you.

You tried, you really tried to hold your face together and not just burst out laughing, but you’re only just a human after all.

With the most teasing voice and biggest smile ever you used the chance to tease him, because let’s be real, pouty and sulky Han is the cutest Han. “Are you jealous baby?”

Han gasped and let go of Felix, he actually looked at you like he was mad now. Mad and maybe seconds away from crying which harshly puled on your heartstrings.

“I am! I’ve been in love with you for years and you’re calling Minho babe here!” He yelled and stormed off outside the club leaving you there shocked not knowing what to do. The boys also looked like they didn’t know what to do, only Minho was laughing his ass off and Hyunjin also looked like he was barely holding in his laughter in.

So he was jealous.

Oh.

Oh.

He said he loved you.

Han Jisung said he loved you.

The Han Jisung loved you.

He returned your feelings.

The boy you had been in love with for ages loved you back.

“HAN JISUNG GET YOUR ASS HERE!” You yelled as you chased after him. All seven of the boys cheering after you and encouraging you to get him. You would get to them later.

Thankfully he hadn’t gotten far, it might have taken you a second or two to let everything sink in. Han was closeby sitting on the sidewalk, pretty tears running down his rosy cheeks, what a silly boy, he even forgot to bring his jacket. You sat close to him thinking for a second of what to say to him, while also trying to warm him with your body head. He looked cold.

“If you want to tease me please go inside. I already feel like shit.” His voice was so raw and he looked so pained. It really hurt to see him like this. He sighed. “I need a minute okay? I will be fine I’m not that drunk anymore.” He took a pause. “I mean how can I be after the shit I said, God I am stupid!” You watched a tear run down his face. Before you could even realize what you were doing you reached and gently brushed away the tear. Han looked at you with tearful eyes.

“Maybe but who am I to judge? I mean, I didn’t even realize that my best friend, the man I had been in love with for god knows how long actually returns my feelings.”

God you said it. You actually admitted your feelings.

A pause.

Oh no, was he regretting it?

Was it something he just said because he was drunk?

You were startled out of your thoughts when Han literally slapped both of his cheeks. His skin immediately flushed angry red.

“What the fuck are they putting in these drinks? Actually making me hallucinate and shit.” Was he for real? You couldn’t hold yourself back so you smacked his arm.

Ignoring his whining you quickly got up and started to yell. “Han Jisung I did not just say I’m in love with you for you to think this is some kind of fucking hallucination! Do you know how much courage it takes to actually admit your feelings?” Han looked at you with wide eyes for a second then quickly got up too almost losing his balance for a second.

“Wait are you for real? You love me? You mean it?” - He asked with trembling voice.

You couldn’t believe your ears. “Of course I mean it? How can I joke about something like that?”

A second passed then two.

“Dude are you kidding me? How are you in love with me. Do you have no standards? You’re like a fucking deity, someone people should fucking worship the fuck you mean you love me? Raise your standards!”

God you needed to be paid for this shit but no amount would be enough. This whole situation made you want to pull your hair out one by one, or maybe scream on top of your lungs, or maybe actually hit him because what the fuck was this?

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” You actually couldn’t help but yell, you didn’t give a crap that you were in the middle of street and it was 2 am and maybe some people were actually asleep.

“NO?”

“I WILL ACTUALLY BEAT YOUR ASS!” You took a deep breath. You reminded yourself that he was somewhat drunk. You needed to stay calm for your own sanity at least. “Han when people tell you that they love you back you at least should be grateful that they return your feelings. The last thing you want to do is to tell them to raise their standards. Because frankly all I wanted to kiss you but now all I’m thinking about is how to hold back and not to beat your ass! You’re literally perfect what the fuck are you on about?”

You watched as the biggest grin appeared on his face. It was like his whole mood shifted. “You want to kiss me?” Okay you really wanted to hit your head against a wall now.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of this whole situation. “Do you only hear what you want to hear?”

Jisung, still grinning got closer to you and wrapped his arms around your waist. “Maybe.” -he mused. “All I heard is that you want to kiss me. And I have wanted to know what it is like to kiss you since I met you. You don’t know how irresistible you are.” His voice was so sweet and tender your heart was going crazy. And it didn’t help when he leaned in and put his forehead against yours.

“I could say the same to you dumbass.” You sighed against his lips. When did he even get so close?

“Can I kiss you?” Han asked as his gaze kept shifting from your lips to your eyes.

Feeling impatient to actually answer you grabbed him by his cheeks and finally connected your lips.

Kissing him was so much better than you could have thought. His lips were cold and chapped but they felt so nice as they moved against yours. You couldn’t help but sigh in pleasure. You didn’t know who deepened the kiss but soon your tongue met his and you almost melted. He tasted so sweet. You could even taste fruity cocktails he must have had earlier on his lips. But there was something more, something purely just Han, which made you fall in love with him even deeper if it was possible. You could already feel yourself getting addicted to kissing him.

Soon you had to lean back for some air, seeing Han whine and actually chase after your lips made you smile, your heart feeling whole. You didn’t even remember why you were mad earlier. You just gazed at him lovingly his arms tight around you as your hands were still on his cheeks. His cheeks felt so warm against your cold hands, it must’ve still stung from his slap. You tried to soothe it as you gently caressed his skin. Loving how he leaned into the touch. Shaking your head a bit. Not in a million years could you imagine something like this could happen to you. Life sure is full of mysteries.

You two were brought back to reality by cheers and hollers of your forgotten friends. Oops? You immediately covered your face leaning into the hug more to hide, unable to look any of them in the eyes, feeling beyond embarrassed. Han chuckled and hugged you closer.

“This had to be one of the most painful confessions I have ever seen.” Seungmin deadpanned as others kept clapping and cheering for you.

“Like you had seen a lot of them.” Minho quipped back quickly.

“At least they finally got it over with.” Hyunjin chipped in.

“Tell me about it, it was painful to watch them.” Now it was Innie’s time to say something. Did they all have to say something?

“Oh by the way I recorded all of this, I’m playing this at your wedding.” Felix waved his phone.

Chan grinned. “Or we can show it to their children in the future.” He teased as Changbin cackled like a possessed witch.

God you were so done with these clowns.

Reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated^^

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Taglist: @velvetmoonlght @notastraykid (If you want to be added to my taglist feel free to tell me^^)

[undiscovered-horizon]

[To be loved is to be changed. And while being married to you has changed Mihawk, it's not entirely for the better. He's a possessive and protective lover to the marrow of his bones.]

(TW for unwanted sexual comments)

Mihawk knew the name 'Shantaro' quite well. Any time you told him a story from your adolescence that revolved around borderline illegal, unethical or simply reckless adventures, Shantaro was there. The little devil on your shoulder but as reliable as a true angel.

He, however, never expected you to run into Shantaro on the odd night when the two of you can go out. Comfortably basking in your presence, Mihawk is thoroughly enjoying your undivided attention.

Until.

You're suddenly rendered speechless as you notice something - someone - over his shoulder. A wide smile spreads across your face. Mihawk is unsure whether he should rejoice with how beautiful you look or seethe, knowing that another person dared to distract you from him.

"It's Shantaro!" you squeal excitedly. "I'm sorry, love, I'll be just a moment. I haven't seen her in ages!"

Mihawk doesn't even try to stop you as you make your way through the crowd at the lounge. His watchful gaze follows your steps as you approach a stringy woman in a silver dress. A hurricane of black curls sits on top of her head. Her piercing, grey eyes notice you, suddenly widening with both surprise and happiness. The two of you engulf each other in a bone-crushing hug, silently exchanging feelings of longing towards the closest friend from younger years.

The swordsman's night, however, is about to get even worse as he hears someone behind him whisper:

"She's a minx, that foxy wife of yours."

He turns around with his jaw and fists clenched. Mihawk's enraged gaze meets the face of an amused man who is casually sipping on his drink. There's a glint in the stranger's eyes that makes the swordsman's skin crawl - he wanted to get under Dracule's skin.

"Don't look so surprised," the stranger reprimands him. The man must have mistaken Mihawk's baffled expression at the bold words for genuine surprise that someone put two and two together. Truthfully, he couldn't care less whether people know that he's married. "Many pirates get hard fantasising about having their way with the Warlord's wife." Judging by the way the man licks his lips and hides a certain hunger behind his eyes, it's clear he's part of the aforementioned group. "But the Warlord himself? Unfortunately for him, she turns him soft," he drones the word as though it's a serious insult.

"Yes, she does," Mihawk answers slowly.

The events that followed happened exceptionally fast: Mihawk reached for the stranger's neck and slammed the man's head against the bar counter. Curiously, people happening to be in their vicinity carry on as though nothing bizarre is happening - they are smart enough not to get in Dracule Mihawk's way, especially when he is visibly upset.

Blood is gushing from the strange man's forehead, his eye already beginning to swell and change colour. The swordsman tilted his victim's head back just enough to lean down and growl. "Which is why I'm going to kill you much faster than you deserve for your offence."

Mihawk glances in your direction. You're still occupied, excitedly telling Shantaro about the years after you've last met her.

He'll be done before you notice him gone.

[ceeaann]

— No more Running ✦

Paring- Popstar!Caitlyn x Rockstar!Reader Summary - When a PR scandal forces pop superstar Caitlyn Kiramman into a fake relationship with the industry's most unpredictable star, neither expects the lines between pretend and reality to blur. But with the world watching, what happens when fake love starts to feel real? Content - 14.6k words, a valentines special collab with @kkoga Fake Dating, Enemies to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Angst → to → Fluff, Social Media Chaos, Celebrity!AU, Emotional Walls, Self-Discovery

The pop princess. The sweetheart of the industry. The untouchable, impeccable, perfect A-lister with an empire of adoring fans.

Caitlyn Kiramman had spent years building her name, curating her image until it gleamed like polished gold. Every performance was flawless, every red carpet appearance pristine. She was elegance and talent wrapped into one, the kind of star who made the world swoon.

And right now, the world was turning against her.

She barely had time to sit down before Elena, her manager, pressed play on a remote, and the giant flatscreen in front of her came to life.

“Caitlyn Kiramman’s Drunken Rant—Diva Behavior or Justified Callout?” “Former Employees Speak Out: ‘She’s Cold, Distant, Hard to Work With’" “Has the Pop Princess Fallen from Grace?”

Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. She already knew the headlines—she’d spent the last week watching them multiply like wildfire. She ran a hand down her face. “Just tell me what we’re doing about it.”

Elena didn’t miss a beat. “You’re getting a relationship.”

Caitlyn blinked. “…What?”

“A fake one. Something to soften your image. Make you look more fun, more human.” Caitlyn groaned. “Not this again—” “Caitlyn,” Elena cut in, serious now. “This is bigger than just you. Your label is worried. The PR is getting out of control. We need to change the narrative now.”

Caitlyn knew what that meant. It meant the story had reached higher-ups, and they were breathing down Elena’s neck.

Still, she wasn’t convinced. “And how is dating someone supposed to fix all that?” Elena clicked another button, and the screen changed. Caitlyn frowned as a face she recognized but had never met stared back at her.

Oh.

You.

You weren’t some random industry plant. You were a force. A genre-bending, award-winning artist with a reputation for being unpredictable. You weren’t reckless, but you were untamed, the kind of person who said what they wanted and made no apologies.

And now, apparently, you were supposed to be her girlfriend.

Caitlyn exhaled sharply. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Elena smirked. “You two are perfect opposites. The media’s going to eat it up.” Caitlyn crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. “And they agreed to this?” Elena didn’t hesitate. “Their team is already discussing logistics.”

Caitlyn wanted to argue. She wanted to say this was a terrible idea, that there had to be another way. But she knew the truth: her team had already made up their minds.

And, whether she liked it or not, she was going to be fake-dating you.

_

The wild card. The genre-bending sensation. The artist that no one could predict, yet everyone wanted a piece of.

You weren’t just a musician—you were an event. Every song you dropped trended worldwide. Every appearance, every unfiltered interview, every bold move sent shockwaves through the industry. You weren’t reckless, but you were untamed—the kind of artist who set stages on fire (literally) and made headlines whether you meant to or not.

And right now, you were about to be part of the most bizarre headline of your career.

You almost choked on your drink when Riley, your manager, dropped the news.

“Come again?” you coughed, setting your glass down. “Fake dating,” Riley repeated, as if that was something normal people did. “With Caitlyn Kiramman.” You stared at her, waiting for the punchline. “You’re joking.”

She didn’t blink.

“…You’re not joking.” Riley leaned forward. “Listen, before you say no—” “Oh, I’m saying no.” You raised a hand. “No way. Not happening.” “You haven’t even heard the full pitch yet.” “I don’t need to hear it! I don’t do PR relationships.” You waved a hand vaguely. “I make music. I break things. I set things on fire—”

“—which is exactly why this will work.”

You frowned. “…What?” Riley sighed and pulled out her tablet, swiping through images until she landed on one of Caitlyn. “You’re chaos. She’s order. You’re unpredictable. She’s untouchable. It’s perfect.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And why does she need me?”Riley clicked to another screen—one filled with articles about Caitlyn’s supposed coldness, her lack of relatability. “She needs a humanizing angle. You need to clean up your image.” You scoffed, leaning back. “I don’t need to clean up anything.” Riley gave you a look. “You set a stage on fire last year.”

“…It was symbolic.”

“It was a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

You exhaled through your nose, drumming your fingers on your knee. You weren’t opposed to chaos, but this? This was something else.

But.

Caitlyn Kiramman was huge. A worldwide pop phenomenon. If this worked, it wouldn’t just fix your media issues—it would explode your career.

Still, you hated the idea of being someone’s PR tool.

“…She actually agreed to this?” you asked, raising a brow. “She didn’t say no.” You snorted. “So we’re both being forced into this, huh?” Riley grinned. “Exactly.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair.

Well.

This was going to be interesting.

_

The meeting was set in neutral territory—a private lounge in one of the most expensive hotels in the city. Exclusive. Isolated. The kind of place where celebrities made deals and signed contracts away from the prying eyes of the public.

Caitlyn arrived first.

She sat on one side of the sleek marble table, legs crossed, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the arm of her chair. She was used to high-stakes meetings, but this? This was a whole new level of ridiculous.

She checked her watch.

You were late.

Of course.

She let out a slow breath and reached for her phone, ignoring the quiet murmurs of her team seated nearby. Then, just as she was about to send a message—

The door swung open.

And there you were.

Dressed like you’d just thrown on whatever was closest—half effort, half effortless. Caitlyn had seen you in award shows and magazine covers before, but in person, you carried the same unpredictable energy as your music. A mix of confidence and recklessness, like you belonged in the room but could burn it down just as easily.

“Apologies for the wait,” you said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I had better things to do.”

Caitlyn arched a brow. “And yet, here you are.”

You smirked and dropped into the chair across from her, stretching your legs out like you had all the time in the world. “Guess we’re both stuck with this, huh?”

Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. She hated that you were right.

Elena cleared her throat. “Now that we’re all here, let’s get down to business.”

Your manager, Riley, was the first to speak. “This relationship needs to be believable. The media is already eating up the rumors—what we need is controlled exposure.”

Caitlyn barely suppressed an eye roll. She knew how this worked.

Public appearances. Paparazzi setups. Social media teases.

A performance.

She folded her hands in her lap. “Fine. What’s the plan?”

Riley pulled out her tablet. “We start with a casual ‘leak.’ Something subtle—like the two of you being spotted together at a low-key restaurant. Then we build it up. A few joint outings, a couple of social media posts, and eventually, something big.”

You let out a low whistle. “Wow. A whole script for our fake romance. Cute.”

Caitlyn narrowed her eyes. “I don’t see you coming up with a better idea.”

You tilted your head. “Because I wouldn’t have agreed to this in the first place.”

Caitlyn scoffed. “And yet, here you are.”

Your smirk faltered for half a second. Then, you leaned forward, resting your chin on your palm. “Tell me something, Kiramman.” Your voice was smooth, almost teasing. “Have you ever actually been in a real relationship? Or are you always this good at faking it?”

Caitlyn’s fingers twitched against her lap.

Her team stiffened, but she didn’t break eye contact.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

You hummed, tapping your fingers against the table. “Just curious how much practice you’ve had.”

Caitlyn refused to take the bait. “More than enough to make this work.”

Your lips curled into something unreadable. “Good to know.”

Elena, who had been watching the exchange with barely concealed exasperation, finally interjected. “Alright. Enough with the theatrics. The two of you need to at least pretend to get along if this is going to work.”

Caitlyn sighed, pushing down the irritation rising in her chest. She turned back to you. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

You grinned, propping your elbow on the table. “Lead the way, sweetheart.”

Caitlyn hated how much the nickname made her jaw clench.

Caitlyn exhaled sharply, clasping her hands on the table. “Alright. If we’re going to do this, we need rules.”

You smirked. “Rules? Cute. Didn’t peg you for a contractual obligations kind of girl.”

Her jaw tightened. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Never said it was.” You leaned back in your chair, draping one arm over the backrest. “So? What are your conditions, sweetheart?”

The muscle in her jaw twitched at the nickname, but she let it go. “First—no surprises.”

You raised a brow. “Define surprises.”

“I mean no unexpected interviews, no cryptic social media posts, and definitely no public incidents.” She shot you a pointed look. “I don’t need another scandal on my hands.”

You hummed, tapping your fingers against the table. “So basically, don’t be me.”

Her expression remained unreadable. “Just… keep things controlled.”

You sighed, resting your chin in your palm. “Fine. What else?”

She hesitated for half a second before continuing. “We need a timeline. A relationship that starts too fast will look suspicious.”

You tilted your head. “Oh? And what’s the official Kiramman guide to slow-burn romance?”

Caitlyn ignored the jab and pulled out her phone, scrolling through a set of notes. “First, a subtle leak—maybe a blurry paparazzi photo of us together.”

You snorted. “And what? Let the internet explode over one image? You must have a lot of faith in their delusions.”

“They are delusional,” Caitlyn admitted, tapping her screen. “Which works in our favor. We don’t have to confirm anything right away—just let the speculation build.”

You had to admit, it was a solid strategy. If people thought they had discovered something instead of being spoon-fed a PR stunt, they’d be ten times more invested.

Caitlyn continued, “After that, we move to casual sightings. A dinner here, an event there. Then, we start appearing together—smiling, interacting, making it look natural.”

You smirked. “And then what? Hand-holding? Gazing longingly into each other’s eyes?”

Caitlyn barely reacted. “If it comes to that.”

You blinked, caught slightly off guard. She was really taking this seriously. You studied her for a moment. The way she sat stiff and composed, the way her fingers tapped once—just once—against her phone before stilling.

You weren’t sure if she was trying to convince you or herself.

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head. “Alright. I’ll play along. But if I have to pretend to be madly in love with you, I need something in return.”

Caitlyn sighed, already exasperated. “What now?” You grinned. “You post at least one chaotic tweet about me.”

She deadpanned. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. One tweet. A little ‘thinking about my girlfriend 🖤✨’ moment.”

She shot you a glare. “Do I look like I use emojis?”

You snickered. “Okay, fine. No emojis. But I will be saying something unhinged.” Caitlyn exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “…One. And I get to approve it first.” You extended your hand across the table, grinning. “Deal.”

She eyed your hand like it was an inconvenience before finally shaking it. The warmth of her fingers against yours was brief, fleeting. But it was enough to make you realize something. You were really doing this.

And soon, the whole world would believe it.

And soon, the whole world would believe it.  If there was one thing the internet did best, it was losing its mind over blurry, low-quality photos. You knew this. Caitlyn knew this. Her team knew this.

Which is why the first leak was designed to be just that—grainy, unclear, and infuriatingly vague.

It was taken the night before, when you and Caitlyn had been strategically placed at an upscale restaurant with just enough of a view for prying eyes. The table was tucked into a semi-private corner, but not too private. You were both dressed well—Caitlyn in a sleek, expensive blazer and you in something that screamed I don’t care, but I still look good.

A perfect storm.

And now?

Now, Twitter was in shambles.

@ popculturetakedown

🚨BREAKING: CAITLYN KIRAMMAN SPOTTED ON A DATE WITH [Y/N] [L/N]???!?!?🚨

A fan captured these photos of Caitlyn & [Y/N] last night at a private dinner 👀 Sources say the two looked “very comfortable” with each other. Could this be our new fave couple?!

[Attached: Three blurry, zoomed-in photos of you and Caitlyn, one where she’s leaning in slightly, another where you’re smirking at her, and the last where her hand is almost brushing yours on the table.]

💬 18.7K comments 🔁 55K retweets ❤️ 210K likes

—

@ user83723

WHAT DO YOU MEAN CAITLYN AND [Y/N] WERE ON A DATE?????

@ caitlynsbabe

I CAN’T BREATHE I CAN’T BREATHE I CAN’T BREATHE

@ altgirldreamz

There’s no way. NO. WAY. Caitlyn Kiramman and [Y/N] [L/N] in the same room? Flirting?? This is the most cursed AND blessed timeline.

@ y/nslays

WHO LET THIS HAPPEN LMAOOOOO THIS IS SENDING ME

@ insiderupdates

This could be Caitlyn’s first public relationship in years 👀 and of all people… [Y/N]??? What do we think??

You scrolled through the chaos, half-amused, half-impressed. It had barely been twenty minutes since the pictures hit the internet, and people were already acting like it was the apocalypse.

Across from you, Caitlyn sat stiffly in the black SUV her team had sent to pick you up. She was scrolling too, her expression unreadable as she took in the responses.

“Looks like they took the bait,” you mused, locking your phone. “Was it everything you hoped for?”

Caitlyn exhaled, setting her own phone aside. “It’s… effective.”

You grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She shot you a side glance. “Try not to let it get to your head.”

You placed a hand over your chest, mock-offended. “Me? Never.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she adjusted the cuff of her sleeve, voice calm but firm. “The next step is to be seen together. Publicly.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? So we’re jumping straight to the first ‘accidental’ public date?”

Caitlyn nodded. “Something casual. Enough to be believable.”

You hummed, considering. “And by ‘casual’ you mean…?”

She didn’t hesitate. “An afternoon coffee run. Simple. Easy to stage.” You scoffed. “Wow, Caitlyn. A coffee run? Real riveting romance. Next thing you know, we’ll be holding hands at the farmer’s market.”

She ignored your sarcasm. “It needs to feel natural.” You sighed, stretching your legs out in the car. “Fine, coffee it is.” You glanced at her, smirking. “But we should probably start thinking about the bigger moments, don’t you think?” Caitlyn gave you a wary look. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know.” You tapped your chin. “Hand-holding, late-night walks, kissing…” Her shoulders tensed slightly—barely noticeable, but you caught it. You grinned. “Relax, princess. I’m just saying—we need to figure out when the first big ‘public’ kiss should happen.” Caitlyn exhaled slowly, collecting herself. “Not yet.” You tilted your head. “Scared?” Her gaze flickered to you, sharp. “No. I just prefer to plan things properly.” You smirked. “So you are thinking about it.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer right away. Instead, she glanced out the window, voice even. “If we do it too soon, it’ll seem forced. If we wait too long, it’ll feel like we’re avoiding it. We need the right moment.”

You watched her for a beat, intrigued. “And what does ‘the right moment’ look like to you?”

She turned back to you, meeting your gaze. “Something… impactful.”

For a second, the air between you felt different. Then Caitlyn looked away, checking her phone again. “For now, let’s focus on tomorrow’s outing.” You exhaled, amused. “Fine. But you better be ready, sweetheart.”Caitlyn didn’t look up. “For what?” You grinned. “For the world to start believing we’re madly in love.”

And with the way things were going, you almost started to wonder—

Would you be able to tell when the fake parts ended and the real ones began?

_

For a fake date, it felt insultingly real. The plan was simple: You and Caitlyn would “accidentally” be spotted getting coffee together, looking just friendly enough to spark more rumors but not confirm anything outright. It was textbook PR manipulation—organic in execution, manufactured in intent.

But what you hadn’t expected was how easy it was to fall into the role.

Caitlyn was already waiting when you arrived at the café, effortlessly poised in a navy trench coat, long legs crossed at the ankles. A pair of sunglasses sat perched on her nose, but they did nothing to hide who she was. People were already staring, phones not-so-subtly being raised. You sighed, rolling your shoulders before slipping into character.

Showtime.

“Hope you didn’t wait too long, sweetheart,” you greeted, trying to sound cool as you slid into the seat across from her. Unfortunately, the chair had wheels, so instead of sitting like a normal human, you rolled back a whole two feet.

Caitlyn blinked at you. Slowly. “You’re joking.”

“Nope. Just naturally gifted at ruining my own life.” You awkwardly scooted yourself back to the table.

Caitlyn exhaled like she was reconsidering every decision that led her to this moment. “You remember the plan?” “Oh, absolutely.” You nodded. “Step one: Look incredibly hot.”

Caitlyn gave you a blank stare.

You cleared your throat. “Step two: Act natural, do subtle things that make people wonder. Step three: Profit.”

“Not exactly how I’d phrase it,” Caitlyn muttered, lifting her coffee to her lips. “But… acceptable.”

You grinned, leaning forward on your elbows. “And what if I decide to go off script?”

"Absolutely not."

You grinned. “You’re no fun, Kiramman.”

She sipped her coffee, unaffected. “I’m efficient.”

Before you could respond, a movement from the sidewalk caught your eye. Two, maybe three people had stopped outside, their phones definitely angled toward your table.

Perfect.

You exhaled, stretching slightly before reaching for the extra cup Caitlyn had ordered for you. As you did, your fingers grazed hers—just barely, just long enough for the cameras to capture.

Caitlyn didn’t flinch. If anything, she played along, tilting her head in a way that made it look like she was watching you fondly.

You took a sip of your coffee, trying to look normal, and promptly burned your tongue so hard you almost screamed.

Caitlyn noticed.

Her lips twitched. Like she was fighting a smile.

You swallowed your pride (and the pain) before flashing a pained smirk. “Delicious.”

Caitlyn let out a short, amused exhale. “This is the most painful thing I’ve ever witnessed.” “Oh, just wait until you see me try to flirt properly.” Her gaze sharpened. “Please don’t.” You opened your mouth to respond, but then—flash. Flash. Flash.

Paparazzi had arrived.

You quickly shifted into “believable fake girlfriend” mode, resting your hand lightly on Caitlyn’s forearm. Just a touch. Just a hint of intimacy. Caitlyn barely reacted, but her gaze flicked down to your hand, then back up to meet your eyes. You cleared your throat. “For the cameras.”

Caitlyn arched a brow. “Right.”

Another flash.

You leaned in a fraction closer. “Okay, now maybe laugh at something I said.” “I haven’t laughed at anything you’ve said in the entire time I’ve known you.”

“Well, now’s a great time to start!”

Caitlyn sighed, looking off to the side like she was regretting everything. But after a moment, she let out a soft chuckle—one of those elegant, practiced laughs that sounded like it belonged in a goddamn perfume commercial. You stared at her, a little dazed. “Okay, not gonna lie… That was kind of hot.”

Caitlyn sipped her coffee, completely unbothered. “I know.” And just like that, the moment was over. Caitlyn set down her drink. “That’s enough for today.” You pouted. “Aw. And here I thought we were just getting started.” She shot you a look before gracefully rising from her seat. You scrambled to follow, nearly tripping over absolutely nothing in the process.

“Walk me to my car?” she murmured low enough for only you to hear.

You smirked. “Why, Kiramman… I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

Caitlyn ignored you, already moving.

And as you opened the door for her—because of course you did—you caught the way she hesitated for half a second before sliding inside.

You smirked, shutting the door behind her.

This game was getting very interesting.

TWITTER REACTIONS:

@ celebrityupdates

🚨 Caitlyn Kiramman & [Y/N] [L/N] were spotted on a coffee date today, and we have thoughts. 🚨

[Attached: HQ photos of Caitlyn & [Y/N] looking effortlessly stunning at an outdoor café, subtle touches & stolen glances included.]

💬 24K comments 🔁 78K retweets ❤️ 310K likes

@ user930482

THE WAY THEY’RE LOOKING AT EACH OTHER??? THIS IS REAL I KNOW IT IN MY SOUL

@ y/n’sfanclub

I can’t believe [Y/N] pulled Caitlyn Kiramman. Like HOW????

@ popculturetheories Hot take: This is too perfect. It’s giving staged.

@ caitlynsnation

IDK IDK IDK this is either PR or the slowest burn romance ever and I’m here for it either way

@ altgirlsupremacy

If this is PR I don’t care. They’re hot. Keep it going.

____

Caitlyn’s phone was blowing up by the time she got back to her hotel.

She sighed, tossing it onto the couch before rubbing her temples.

This was going to get out of hand fast.

And yet…

Her mind kept drifting back to the way your fingers had lingered just a second longer than necessary.

Caitlyn exhaled, shaking the thought away. It was nothing.

Strictly business.

Nothing more.

Right?

___

Caitlyn wasn’t sure why she invited you to her hotel suite.

It was just practical, really. The paparazzi had been relentless since the café stunt, and her PR team wanted you both to “strategize” before your next public appearance. 

So, here you were, sitting cross-legged on her expensive leather couch, scrolling through your phone while eating grapes from the fruit platter she hadn’t even touched.

“You know,” you mused, popping another grape into your mouth. “For a fake girlfriend, you don’t spoil me nearly enough.”

Caitlyn exhaled through her nose. “I bought your coffee.”

“And yet,” you sighed dramatically, draping yourself across the couch like a Victorian widow, “my heart longs for more.”

Caitlyn did not smile. She absolutely did not. “You are insufferable.”

“You love it.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response.

Instead, she shifted in her chair, folding one leg over the other, and picked up her tablet. “There's an event is in two days. We need to discuss logistics.”

“You mean rules?” You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “Go on, boss me around.”

Caitlyn gave you a long, unimpressed look before swiping to her notes. “We have to look comfortable together. That means no flinching when I touch you.”

“I flinched one time.”

“You flinched three times,” Caitlyn corrected. “Once when I put my hand on your back, once when I brushed your arm, and once when I—” She stopped.

You smirked. “When you what?”

Caitlyn clicked her tongue. “Never mind. Just… act natural.”

You bit your lip, like you were holding back another comment, but thankfully, you let it slide. “Got it. What else?”

Caitlyn swiped again. “We’ll have to pose for photos. A lot of them. Close proximity is expected. Hand on my waist, my hand on yours—”

“—tender gazes into your breathtakingly beautiful eyes—”

She shot you a look.

You grinned. “Sorry, continue.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes and ignored the sudden heat in her ears. “Lastly, and this is important, no kissing.”

That actually made you pause. “Wait—was that ever an option?”

Caitlyn’s expression didn’t waver. “It’s not.”

You studied her for a moment, like you were trying to gauge something. “Huh. Didn’t realize you’d be so strict about that.”

Strict.

Caitlyn schooled her features, but something about the way you said it bothered her.

She wasn’t strict. This was a professional arrangement. It had nothing to do with the way her pulse had stuttered for half a second when you casually touched her arm earlier. Or the way she’d caught herself staring at your mouth when you laughed at one of your own dumb jokes.

No.

That wasn’t part of this.

Caitlyn straightened her back. “It would complicate things.”

You hummed, leaning back against the couch. “Fair enough.”

A silence settled between you. Not awkward, just… lingering.

Caitlyn glanced at you, about to shift the conversation back to business, but then—

She caught it.

That tiny, sleepy smile you had as you looked at your phone, completely at ease in her space. The way your fingers absently played with the hem of your shirt. The soft glow of the lamp casting warm shadows along your cheekbones.

Something in her chest tightened.

It was nothing.

Except it wasn’t.

Because suddenly, the idea of pretending to be with you didn’t seem so hard.

And that realization?

That was dangerous.

___

The Next day, Caitlyn invited you to dinner.

It wasn’t technically a date. Just a controlled environment where you could practice “looking in love” without a million cameras flashing in your face. At least, that’s what Caitlyn told herself when she made the reservation at an upscale, very private restaurant.

You, of course, had other thoughts.

“So, what, are you wooing me now?” you teased, leaning back against the booth and glancing around at the dim lighting, the flickering candles, and the smooth, quiet jazz playing in the background. “Because I gotta say, this is a strong effort.”

Caitlyn didn’t even look up from the menu. “You like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?”

“Oh, constantly.” You rested your chin on your hand. “But seriously, this is very romantic for a business meeting.”

Caitlyn exhaled slowly. “I thought you’d appreciate the privacy.”

“Oh, I do.” You smirked. “It just makes me wonder… do you want to be alone with me, Caitlyn?”

She held your gaze, unimpressed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

Caitlyn shook her head and turned back to the menu, refusing to let you get under her skin. You had a habit of poking at cracks she didn’t even know she had.

A few minutes passed in silence—comfortable, surprisingly—before you leaned forward, mischief dancing in your eyes.

“You know,” you mused, plucking a piece of bread from the basket between you, “if we really want to sell this, we should probably know each other better.”

Caitlyn raised a brow. “We know enough.”

You snorted. “Do we? Because I can tell you right now, if some interviewer asks me what your favorite color is, I’m guessing.”

“…It’s navy blue.”

“See? I was gonna say beige.”

Caitlyn gave you a look. “Beige?”

“You just seem like the type.” You shrugged. “Anyway, let’s play a game.”

Caitlyn sighed. “I don’t play games.”

“You’re literally in one right now.”

She blinked. “…Fair point.” You grinned. “Okay, I’ll start. My biggest fear?” You paused for dramatic effect. “Public speaking.” Caitlyn tilted her head. “You perform in front of thousands of people for a living.” “Yeah, but that’s different. Singing, I can do. Standing on a stage and giving a speech?” You shuddered. “Horrifying.”

Caitlyn actually smiled at that. “Noted.” “Your turn.” You gestured at her with the bread. “What’s your biggest fear?” Caitlyn hesitated.

She could’ve said failure or disappointing people, but that felt too honest for a conversation over overpriced appetizers. Instead, she went with—

“Spiders.” Your eyes widened. “No way. Caitlyn Kiramman, the untouchable pop princess, is afraid of spiders?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s irrational, I know.” “No, no, this is amazing.” You grinned. “Imagine—your next scandal: Caitlyn Kiramman Screams at Tiny Spider in Five-Star Hotel, Security Called for Backup.” She gave you a deadpan look. “I regret sharing this already.”

“Oh, you love it.”

Caitlyn did not love it. Except, maybe, she kind of did. The conversation flowed effortlessly from there. You bounced from topic to topic, dragging her into small debates about whether pineapple belonged on pizza (it does, apparently, according to you), what the best movie genre was (you were shocked she liked horror), and whether dogs or cats were superior (you both landed on dogs, though you admitted cats were “cool little guys”).

At some point, Caitlyn found herself just… watching you.

You were effortlessly charismatic, expressive, and so unfiltered in a way that was utterly foreign to her. You didn’t calculate every word before speaking, didn’t hold yourself to an impossible standard of perfection. You just existed, and somehow, people—including Caitlyn—were drawn to you.

It was… frustrating.

And unfair.

And dangerous.

You caught her staring.

“What?”

Caitlyn blinked. “Nothing.”

But something had shifted. A line had been crossed, a moment slipped past without permission.

And the worst part?

Caitlyn didn’t hate it.

___

The ride back to Caitlyn’s hotel was quiet.

For once, you weren’t filling the silence.

Caitlyn glanced at you from the corner of her eye. Your head was tilted back against the seat, eyes half-lidded, hands resting loosely in your lap.

“You’re quiet,” Caitlyn noted.

You hummed. “That happens sometimes.”

She raised a brow. “Does it?”

You turned your head toward her, smiling lazily. “You wouldn’t know. We haven’t known each other that long.”

Something about that sentence made Caitlyn pause.

Because it was true.

She didn’t know you. Not really.

But in the span of just a few days, you’d already started lodging yourself into the space between professional and personal, and Caitlyn had no idea what to do about it.

You shifted, turning fully toward her. “Can I ask you something?”

Caitlyn hesitated, then nodded.

“What do you actually think of me?” Caitlyn’s lips parted slightly. The question caught her off guard—not because it was out of place, but because she didn’t have a quick answer. You weren’t what she expected. You weren’t quiet or obedient or easy to ignore. You challenged her. Pushed her. Got under her skin in ways no one else had dared to.

And now?

Now she was thinking about you too much. Caitlyn exhaled, schooling her expression. “I think you talk too much.” You smirked, unconvinced. “And?”

“…And you’re not as insufferable as I originally thought.”

Your smirk grew into a full grin. “See? Progress.” Caitlyn rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it.

You let out a satisfied sigh and leaned back against the seat again. “Well, for the record…” You turned your head slightly, your voice softer now. “You’re not as uptight as I thought, either.”

Caitlyn didn’t respond.

She didn’t know how to. Because for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure if she was playing a role or actually feeling something real.

And that?

That was a problem.

___

It was almost 1 AM when your phone buzzed. At first, you ignored it, assuming it was some random notification, but then it buzzed again. And again. Grumbling, you fumbled for your phone on the bedside table, barely cracking an eye open.

Caitlyn: Are you awake?

Caitlyn: Actually, that’s a stupid question. You don’t sleep at normal hours, do you?

Caitlyn: Never mind. Forget I said anything.

You squinted at the messages, brain still half-asleep, before quickly typing a response.

You: so u woke me up just to tell me to forget u said anything?

Caitlyn: You were NOT asleep.

You: what if i was

Caitlyn: Then I’d say that’s shocking because I swear you live off of pure chaos and caffeine.

You snorted, rolling onto your back and rubbing a hand over your face.

You: rude.

Caitlyn: Honest.

A beat passed. The messages stopped.

Normally, Caitlyn was the type to send exactly what she wanted to say and then put her phone down immediately. But something about the way she texted tonight—hesitant, indirect—felt off.

You frowned, your exhaustion fading slightly.

You: whats up?

Caitlyn: Nothing.

You: ur lying.

Caitlyn: I don’t lie.

You: now THAT is a lie.

There was a long pause.

Then—

Caitlyn: …Do you ever feel like you’re playing a role for so long that you don’t know who you actually are anymore?

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

That was not what you expected.

For a moment, you weren’t sure how to respond.

Caitlyn didn’t usually let anything slip. She was composed, calculated, always saying the right thing at the right time. But this? This felt unguarded.

You hesitated, then typed:

You: yeah. yeah, i do.

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Caitlyn: How do you deal with it?

You thought about it. Really thought about it. There was no easy answer. Being famous meant always being watched. Always being judged, always being expected to live up to an image that sometimes didn’t feel like you at all. You sighed, typing slowly.

You: i do dumb shit so i remember i’m a real person

Caitlyn: Dumb shit?

You: yeah like idk. dancing alone in my kitchen at 3 am. walking into a store and buying the ugliest shirt i can find just to own it. making stupid faces at myself in the mirror

Caitlyn: That sounds ridiculous.

You: thats the point.

Another pause.

Then—

Caitlyn: …What’s the ugliest shirt you own?

You grinned.

You: oh babe. ur not ready for this.

And with that, you sent her a truly awful photo of the neon green, rhinestone-studded, bedazzled genital on the T-shirt you bought on a dare.

For a second, Caitlyn didn’t respond. Then—

Caitlyn: I feel personally offended by this.

You: good.

Caitlyn: I suddenly regret texting you.

You: no u don’t.

A minute passed. Then two. You weren’t sure if the conversation was over, but something about the night felt different now. Softer. Warmer. Then, finally—

Caitlyn: Thank you.

And maybe it was just text. Maybe it was just a small moment in the grand scheme of things. But it felt real.

___

“Alright, listen up, you two,” Riley, your manager, said, clicking her pen against the clipboard in front of her. “This is your first joint interview since the announcement, which means we need to sell it.”

You were slouched in one of the sleek leather chairs of the green room, arms crossed, fighting the overwhelming urge to roll your eyes. Across from you, Caitlyn sat perfectly upright, looking like she was actually paying attention. Of course she was. “I assume by ‘sell it,’ you mean we just sit there and look pretty?” you quipped, stretching your legs out under the table.

Riley gave you a flat look. “No. I mean you act like a real couple.”

Caitlyn sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And what exactly does that entail?”

Riley turned her tablet around, showing an alarming number of social media posts. “Right now, the internet is obsessed with this relationship. They’re analyzing every glance, every touch, every word. Some think it’s fake, others are fully convinced you’re soulmates. Our job is to keep them guessing.”

You sat up slightly, peering at the screen. One of the tweets read:

@ y/n’sbiggestfan okay but the way [Y/N] looks at Caitlyn like she hung the stars in the sky???? that’s REAL. that’s LOVE. don’t talk to me.

You smirked. “See? I’m nailing this already.”

Riley ignored you. “This is The Tonight Show. Jimmy Fallon is going to ask you about your relationship. He’s going to joke about it. He’s going to show embarrassing photos, and you’re going to react like two people madly in love.” You grinned, turning to Caitlyn. “Did you hear that, babe? We need inside jokes.” Caitlyn’s expression remained blank. “I have none with you.” “Ouch.” You placed a hand over your heart. “That physically hurt me.”

Riley sighed. “Just… make it look natural. If he asks about how you got together, tell the usual story. And for the love of everything, please don’t do anything that will make my job harder.”

You leaned back in your chair, flashing a lazy grin. “No promises.”

_

The Tonight Show studio was packed, the crowd buzzing with excitement as Jimmy Fallon introduced you and Caitlyn.

“So, we have the hottest couple of the year with us tonight—please welcome, [Y/N] and Caitlyn Kiramman!”

The applause was deafening as you strutted onto the stage, throwing up a peace sign, while Caitlyn followed with her usual composed elegance. You both slid onto the couch beside Jimmy’s desk, the host already grinning like he was about to cause problems.

“Okay, first of all,” Jimmy started, barely containing his excitement, “I gotta ask—how’s it been since you guys went public? Because the internet lost its mind.” Caitlyn, ever the professional, answered smoothly. “It’s been… unexpected, but I think we just understand each other in a way neither of us anticipated.” You glanced at her, raising a brow. That was a surprisingly non-robotic answer from her.

Jimmy turned to you. “What about you? What drew you to Caitlyn?”

A slow, smug grin spread across your face. Oh, you could definitely have fun with this.

“Oh, she’s so charming,” you said dramatically, resting your chin on your hand. “It was impossible not to fall for her. She looks at you with those piercing blue eyes, and suddenly, you forget how to function.”

Beside you, Caitlyn stiffened almost imperceptibly.

You smirked and leaned in slightly. “And don’t even get me started on that voice of hers—low, refined, just the right amount of commanding.” You let your gaze drop to her lips for just a fraction of a second before looking back up. “Makes a person weak, you know?”

The audience erupted into laughter and whoops, eating up every second of your little performance.

Caitlyn, on the other hand, was gripping the armrest like it had personally offended her.

Jimmy grinned. “Caitlyn, your girl is quite the flirt. How do you keep up?” Caitlyn finally turned to you, her expression unreadable, though you swore you saw something flicker in her eyes. “I don’t,” she admitted, exhaling quietly. “I’ve learned that trying to match their energy is… a losing battle.”

You placed a hand over your heart, pretending to be touched. “She admits defeat. How romantic.”

Caitlyn shot you a warning look, but there was a telltale hint of pink dusting her cheeks.

Oh.

Oh, this was dangerous.

Jimmy laughed. “Okay, okay, last thing—every couple has fights. How do you two handle disagreements?” You barely had time to think before Caitlyn responded with a smooth, “We’re both very different people, but at the end of the day, we—”

“I flirt my way out of them,” you cut in, grinning.

The audience roared with laughter, and Caitlyn let out a slow, suffering sigh. The interview continued like that—questions, answers, and you throwing in just enough teasing to keep Caitlyn flustered but not enough to make her strangle you on live television.

By the time it ended, Caitlyn was still maintaining her calm, collected exterior, but you knew better.

As soon as you were off-stage, walking side by side down a quiet hallway, you leaned in slightly. “You were blushing back there.”

“I was not,” Caitlyn replied without looking at you.

You grinned. “You so were.”

Caitlyn sighed, rubbing her temple. “I despise you.”

“You adore me,” you corrected, flashing her a wink.

For once, Caitlyn didn’t have a response.

_

By the time the show wrapped up and you finally escaped the chaos, you were more than ready to go home and collapse onto your couch. Maybe drown yourself in takeout and ignore your phone for a few hours.

But, of course, that wasn’t in the cards.

Because Caitlyn, ever the picture of poise and restraint, had disappeared into a side hallway, and you had the distinct, nagging feeling that you should follow.

You found her standing by a window, arms crossed, staring out at the skyline like she was in some dramatic movie scene.

You leaned against the doorway. “You know, if you’re trying to look brooding and mysterious, you’re nailing it.”

Caitlyn didn’t turn to face you, but you saw the slight upward twitch of her lips. “Was I convincing?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“On the show,” she clarified. “Did I seem… believable?”

You scoffed, walking over to stand beside her. “Believable? Caitlyn, people online are already making wedding edits of us. I think we overshot ‘believable’ by a mile.”

She hummed, thoughtful. “That’s… good, then.”

You studied her profile—sharp jawline, calm expression, but something distant in her eyes.

“Why do you ask?” you said, tilting your head.

“Because sometimes, I think I forget.”

Your stomach did something weird. Something annoying.

“Forget what?” you asked, even though you weren’t sure you wanted to know the answer.

She hesitated. Just for a second. Then, she straightened, her expression smoothing back into the Caitlyn Kiramman that the world knew. “Never mind,” she said lightly, stepping past you. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You stood there, unmoving, as her words settled over you.

Forget what?

And why did it feel like you almost understood?

_

TWITTER REACTIONS:

@ pressjunkie Caitlyn and [Y/N] are literally couple goals. You can FEEL the love.

@ y/nupdates Did you see the way Caitlyn looked at [Y/N]?? That’s ROMANCE.

@ theoriesonline They’re so in love, I’m gonna lose my mind.

@ caitlynsupremacy If this is fake, then so is love.

_

You lay sprawled across your couch, limbs tangled in the blanket you had pulled over yourself hours ago, phone held above your face as you scrolled through Twitter. The soft glow of the screen illuminated your expression—somewhere between amusement and disbelief—as your notifications flooded in at an overwhelming speed.

The Tonight Show interview had aired barely an hour ago, and already, social media was in full meltdown mode.

Your timeline was a mess of screaming, gifs, and fan edits appearing at a rate too fast to keep up with. Every scroll brought new tweets, some of them dangerously close to making you question reality.

@ y/nnation THE WAY SHE LOOKED AT HER. THE WAY SHE LOOKED AT HER. I CAN’T BREATHE.

Attached was a screenshot of Caitlyn mid-interview, her piercing blue gaze locked onto you. There was something in her eyes—something unreadable, something dangerous.

You swallowed and kept scrolling.

@ caitlynsupremacy Y/N FLIRTING HER WAY THROUGH THE INTERVIEW AND CAITLYN LOSING IT SOMEONE HOLD ME.

A clip played underneath, catching one of your more shameless moments:

"Oh, she’s so charming. It was impossible not to fall for her. She looks at you with those piercing blue eyes, and suddenly, you forget how to function."

The audience’s laughter. Caitlyn’s stiffened posture. The way her fingers tightened around her water glass.

You smirked to yourself. That had been a great moment.

Another ping.

Your best friend had texted.

Bestie: DUDE. THEY’RE WRITING FANFICS ABOUT YOU TWO ALREADY.

You groaned, tossing your phone onto your stomach and rubbing your hands over your face. Of course they were. Fans were ravenous when it came to celebrity couples, and you and Caitlyn had just handed them the juiciest material imaginable.

Still, curiosity got the better of you.

You picked up your phone again, hesitated for half a second, then typed Caitlyn x Y/N into the search bar.

The results? Pure chaos.

@ theoriesonline The way Y/N kept glancing at Caitlyn’s lips??? Be so real right now.

@ gaysforcaitlyn "Y/N flirting their way out of arguments" I JUST KNOW CAITLYN SECRETLY LOVES IT.

@ deluluupdates TS CRAZYYY. WATCH THEM GET MARRIED TOMORROW.

You snorted. That wasn’t happening.

Probably.

Before you could stop yourself, you clicked on a fan edit.

Soft music. Slow-motion clips of you and Caitlyn throughout the interview. The way you leaned toward her. The way she looked at you when she thought no one was paying attention. The way your fingers almost brushed when you reached for your water at the same time.

The caption?

"Even if they don’t say it, you can see it in their eyes."

You blinked at the screen. A weird, unfamiliar feeling settled in your chest, but you shoved it down quickly.

Your phone buzzed again—another text. This time, from Caitlyn.

Caitlyn: Are you seeing all of this?

You hesitated before responding.

You: Oh, you mean our fans planning our wedding? Yeah, just a casual Tuesday night.

Caitlyn: …I was referring to the fact that some people think we’re too perfect. Like we rehearsed everything.

You: Are you suggesting we don’t have natural chemistry? I’m hurt, truly.

Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Caitlyn: That’s not what I meant. I just think we need to be more… spontaneous. If we’re too perfect, people might start questioning it.

You smirked, already typing back.

You: So, what? You want us to get caught in some scandal? Maybe we should “accidentally” leak some private texts. Something like “thinking about you ;)"—very spicy, very real.

Caitlyn: Absolutely not.

You: You’re no fun.

Caitlyn didn’t respond immediately, so you went back to scrolling. But before you could get too far, another message popped up.

Caitlyn: Are you free tomorrow? We should be seen together. Maybe somewhere casual, no cameras. Just in case people think we’re only affectionate in public.

Your stomach did something weird at that. You ignored it.

You: You’re asking me out on a date? Caitlyn: If that’s what you want to call it.

You sat up, grin tugging at your lips. This was going to be interesting.

The typing bubbles appeared. Stopped. Appeared again.

Then—

Caitlyn: You were ridiculous on the show, you know.

You grinned.

You: And yet, you blushed.

Read. No reply.

You had her. You so had her.

Just as you were about to put your phone down, it buzzed again.

Caitlyn: For the record, I did not blush.

You: Oh? So if I search "Caitlyn Kiramman Tonight Show blush" on Twitter, I won’t find anything?

She left you on read again.

You laughed to yourself, shaking your head, but then another thought hit you.

This was supposed to be just PR. Just an image to maintain.

So why did it feel like something more?

___

Later that night, you met Caitlyn at a quiet café downtown, one that wasn’t swarmed with paparazzi or overrun with fans. It was strange—this was the first time you were out together without an audience.

Caitlyn was already seated at a corner booth when you arrived, her usual composed self, though her fingers tapped idly against her cup.

“You’re nervous,” you teased, sliding into the seat across from her.

Caitlyn scoffed, lifting an eyebrow. “I don’t get nervous.”

“Right. And I’m a model of self-restraint.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she took a sip of her coffee, studying you over the rim.

“So,” you drawled, stirring your drink absentmindedly. “If we don’t have to perform, what do we even talk about?”

Caitlyn hesitated, then set her cup down. “I suppose… we could get to know each other. Properly this time.”

You blinked. You weren’t expecting that.

You leaned forward, chin resting on your hand. “Alright, then. What’s something nobody knows about Caitlyn Kiramman?”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s an unfair question. My entire life is online.”

“Exactly. So tell me something real.”

Caitlyn was quiet for a moment, considering. Then, finally, she said, “I don’t like champagne.”

You stared. “That’s it? That’s your big secret?”

She shrugged, a tiny smirk playing at her lips. “You asked for something nobody knows. Everyone assumes I love it, but I hate the taste.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I feel like you’re holding out on me.”

“Maybe.”

The conversation flowed surprisingly easily after that—soft jabs, little confessions, Caitlyn rolling her eyes every time you made an outrageous claim. It felt… natural. Like this wasn’t just an act.

Which was dangerous.

Because when she smiled at you—not the carefully controlled one she used in interviews, but a real, amused, genuine smile—something in your chest tightened.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, you felt an inkling of fear.

What if this wasn’t just a game anymore?

What if, somewhere along the way, you actually started to believe it?

Caitlyn walked you back to your car after the café, her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat. The air was crisp, the streetlights casting a soft glow over the sidewalk. It should’ve been just another night—just another outing to maintain the illusion.

And yet, something about the night sat heavy in your chest.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Caitlyn said, stopping a few feet away from your car.

You hesitated. “You know, for a fake relationship, this is starting to feel suspiciously real.”

She smirked, tilting her head. “Maybe we’re just good at what we do.”

The way she said it—so casual, so confident—rubbed you the wrong way. You didn’t know why.

You shifted your weight. “Yeah. Right.”

Caitlyn’s gaze flickered over your face, something unreadable in her expression. She hesitated, then reached up, adjusting the collar of your jacket—an action so small, so intimate, that your breath caught.

Then she stepped back. “Get home safe.”

You barely managed to nod before slipping into your car, shutting the door a little too fast.

You sat there for a moment, staring at your steering wheel.

This was bad.

This was really bad.

Later that night, you were once again scrolling through Twitter, but this time, your mind wasn’t on the edits or the conspiracies. It was on her.

On the way her fingers had lingered when she fixed your collar. On the way she’d looked at you. On the way your heart had nearly betrayed you right then and there.

You shut your phone off and threw it onto your bed, groaning. “No. Nope. Not happening.”

You weren’t catching feelings for Caitlyn. You refused.

Except…

Your brain replayed everything—every touch, every moment where the line between fake and real had blurred just a little too much. You were so screwed.

_

The next morning, you arrived at Caitlyn’s place for another staged event—some kind of “impromptu” paparazzi run-in.

When she opened the door, she looked too good, wearing a fitted sweater and jeans, hair effortlessly styled. You hated that you noticed.

“You’re staring,” she said, smirking. You scoffed. “I was actually just wondering how someone can be so insufferable this early in the morning.” She hummed, stepping aside to let you in. “Come on. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can go back to pretending I don’t exist.”

The words shouldn’t have made your stomach twist. But they did. The paparazzi caught you leaving her apartment an hour later, her hand resting on your lower back as she guided you to the car.

You played your part well. You smiled, leaned into her touch, whispered something just low enough that the cameras couldn’t pick it up.

To everyone else, you looked like a couple deeply in love.

But inside, you were spiraling.

Because Caitlyn’s touch wasn’t supposed to feel this comforting. And your heart wasn’t supposed to race when she pulled you closer.

And yet, here you were.

Falling.

–

The problem with pretending was that, eventually, you started to believe it.

That was the thought that haunted you as you sat curled up on your couch later that night, staring at your phone like it held all the answers.

A simple photo of you and Caitlyn laughing together as you left her apartment—was blowing up. The internet was obsessed.

@ ynstan THEY LOOK SO IN LOVE PLEASE I CAN’T TAKE IT 😭💍

@ caitlynsimp That little whisper. The way [Y/N] leaned into her touch. It’s giving soulmates.

@ softforcaitlyn If this is fake, then so is gravity. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.

You groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. The world believed this romance was real. Every time you checked your notifications, there were thousands of fans analyzing every glance, every touch.

And the worst part? You weren’t sure they were wrong.

A sharp knock at your door snapped you out of your downward spiral.

You frowned, dragging yourself off the couch. When you opened the door, Caitlyn was standing there, looking just as exhausted as you felt.

“I figured you’d still be awake,” she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

You shut the door behind her, raising an eyebrow. “What's up?”

She sighed, shrugging off her coat. “Apparently, my PR team thinks we should do an interview. A sit-down, deep-dive into our relationship.”

Your stomach twisted. Great. Another opportunity to pretend. Another opportunity to make this worse.

Caitlyn dropped onto your couch, stretching her arms over the back. “You don’t have to say yes. I know these things exhaust you.”

You snorted, walking over to grab two glasses. “And they don’t exhaust you?”

“I’ve had to fake being polite my entire life,” she said dryly. “This is just a different kind of performance.”

You hesitated, pouring the wine. “Do you ever get tired of pretending?”

Something flickered in Caitlyn’s expression, so quick you almost missed it. Then she exhaled, shaking her head. “It’s necessary.” You sat beside her, passing her a glass. “That’s not an answer.” She stared at you for a long moment, then gave a tired smile. “No. It’s not.”

And just like that, you felt that invisible line between you both blur even further.

Because for the first time since this whole thing started, Caitlyn wasn’t performing.

And that scared you more than anything.

You weren’t sure how long the two of you sat there, sipping wine in comfortable silence. It wasn’t unusual for Caitlyn to show up like this, slipping into your space as if she belonged there.

And the worst part? You didn’t mind.

At some point, Caitlyn had stretched her legs across your lap, the casual intimacy of it making your chest feel too tight. She was scrolling through her phone, her face illuminated by the screen’s glow.

Then, suddenly—

“Did you see this?” she asked, tilting the phone toward you.

It was another Twitter post.

@ ynxcait4ever okay but the way [Y/N] touches Caitlyn so naturally??? like they don’t even think about it??? THEY’RE IN LOVE.

Attached was a clip from your most recent outing together, where you had casually placed a hand on Caitlyn’s back as you guided her through a crowd. A touch so small you hadn’t even thought about it.

But now, watching it back? You realized just how real it looked.

Your throat went dry. “Huh.” Caitlyn hummed, taking another sip of her wine. “They’re very observant.” You laughed, but it felt forced. “Or delusional.” Caitlyn smirked. “Possibly both.” Silence settled between you again. But this time, it felt heavier.

Because the problem wasn’t that people believed in this relationship.

The problem was that you were starting to believe in it, too.

—

You weren’t sure what woke you up first—the soft morning light filtering through your curtains or the warmth beside you.

Wait.

You cracked one eye open, blinking against the drowsiness.

Caitlyn was still there.

Somehow, in the haze of late-night conversations and too much wine, the two of you had fallen asleep on the couch. Caitlyn’s arm was draped loosely around your waist, her body curled slightly toward yours.

Your heart stuttered.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Carefully, you shifted, attempting to untangle yourself from her without waking her up. But the moment you moved, Caitlyn stirred, her brows furrowing.

“Mmh…” she mumbled, still half-asleep.

You froze.

Then, her grip on you tightened, just slightly.

And she mumbled something else.

Something that made your breath catch.

“Don’t go.”

Your entire body went still.

For a long moment, you just sat there, staring at her.

Did she know what she was saying?

Did you?

Your pulse was hammering now, a war waging inside your chest. You knew what this was supposed to be. A PR stunt. An act. A lie.

But this?

This didn’t feel like a lie.

Caitlyn’s breathing evened out again, slipping back into sleep.

And you—against all better judgment—let yourself stay.

Just for a little longer.

Just until you figured out what the hell this all meant.

You told yourself you’d get up soon.

You really needed to get up.

But Caitlyn’s arm was still around your waist, her body warm against yours, and for some godforsaken reason, you just… stayed.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince yourself that this wasn’t anything.

And yet—

Caitlyn shifted slightly, pressing her face into your shoulder, and your breath hitched.

Okay. Maybe this was something.

The realization made your stomach twist.

You were playing a dangerous game, toeing a line that wasn’t even visible anymore. This was supposed to be fake, but nothing about this felt fake. Not the warmth of Caitlyn’s body against yours. Not the way your heart stuttered at every little unconscious touch. Not the way you wanted to stay wrapped up in this.

Your fingers twitched at your side, aching to reach out—to pull her closer instead of pulling away.

You were so fucked.

Then, Caitlyn stirred, letting out a sleepy hum before slowly blinking awake.

For a brief second, she just looked at you, her expression soft with sleep and something unreadable.

Then—realization hit.

Her body stiffened slightly. The warmth in her eyes shuttered behind something unreadable, something carefully controlled.

You swallowed. “Morning.”

Caitlyn blinked again, as if she was still processing the fact that the two of you were still tangled together like this. Then, she cleared her throat, slowly untangling herself from you. “Morning,” she murmured.

You missed her warmth the second it was gone.

She sat up, running a hand through her slightly messy hair. “I should… probably go.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

You forced a smirk, trying to shove down whatever the hell you were feeling. “Wow, you’re not even gonna stay for breakfast? Rude.”

Caitlyn let out a small breath of amusement but didn’t take the bait. She was already slipping back into her usual poise, smoothing out her clothes, pushing any vulnerability she might’ve shown back beneath a carefully constructed mask.

That stung more than it should have.

She glanced at you, hesitating for half a second. “…Last night. It—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “It won’t happen again.”

Your smirk faltered.

Right.

Because this was fake. Because she didn’t feel what you felt.

You ignored the way your chest tightened. “Yeah,” you said lightly, forcing an easy grin. “Of course.”

Caitlyn gave you a small nod before heading toward the door.

You waited until it clicked shut behind her before exhaling sharply, rubbing a hand down your face.

You were so fucked.

The moment she stepped out of your apartment, Caitlyn let out a slow breath, pressing a hand against her chest as if that would do anything to steady the ridiculous pounding of her heart.

What the hell was wrong with her?

She knew the answer.

She just didn’t want to admit it.

Because if she admitted it, then this entire thing—the careful distance she tried to maintain, the lines she kept redrawing—would fall apart completely.

And Caitlyn could not afford to fall for you.

She shook her head, straightened her posture, and walked away.

She just had to pretend this wasn’t happening.

She just had to lie.

–

Scrolling through Twitter was a mistake.

You should’ve known better. You did know better.

And yet, here you were, lying on your couch, staring at your phone as the internet collectively lost its mind over you and Caitlyn.

@ ynxcaitforever Y’ALL. THE WAY THEY LOOK AT EACH OTHER. IT’S NOT NORMAL. THIS ISN’T A DRILL.

@ caitlyniswinning What do you mean they were seen leaving a cafe together last night?? Oh, this is so real.

@ y/nstan Caitlyn giving [Y/N] her jacket… SHE’S SUCH A GENTLEWOMAN.

You groaned, tossing your phone onto the couch beside you.

The thing was—you should be laughing at this. You should be sending the tweets to Caitlyn with some dumb joke about the internet eating this up.

Instead, your heart was doing something stupid, twisting in your chest in a way that made your stomach turn.

Because the way Caitlyn looked at you did make your breath hitch.

Because the way she touched you did make your skin burn.

Because for a moment last night, tangled up in the warmth of her arms, you let yourself forget that this was a lie.

You let yourself want it to be real.

And that was dangerous.

Your phone buzzed.

Caitlyn: Are you free today?

Your stomach flipped. Pathetic.

You stared at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You could say no. You should say no.

Instead—

You: Yeah. What’s up?

Caitlyn didn’t know why she texted you.

She told herself it was to keep up appearances. That’s what she kept telling herself about everything lately.

But the truth—the truth was far more terrifying.

Because she wanted to see you.

And that was a problem.

Her phone buzzed.

You: Yeah. What’s up?

She exhaled.

Caitlyn: Want to go for a drive?

You: This isn’t some elaborate scheme to kidnap me, is it?

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.

Caitlyn: Would it make a difference if it was?

A pause. Then—

You: Depends. Are we getting coffee first?

—

You didn’t realize how much you needed fresh air until Caitlyn’s car cut through the open road, city lights fading behind you.

The silence between you was surprisingly comfortable. Music played softly from the speakers, the low hum of the engine filling the spaces between your thoughts.

You glanced at Caitlyn. She was focused on the road, her hands steady on the wheel, her profile illuminated by the glow of the dashboard lights.

Something about her like this—calm, unguarded—made your chest ache.

You turned away, staring out the window. “This is nice.”

Caitlyn hummed. “You sound surprised.”

You smirked. “Well, last time we were alone in a car together, you yelled at me for talking too much.”

Caitlyn scoffed, but there was a smile tugging at her lips. “That was justified.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Whatever you say, pop star.”

She didn’t argue, just let the music fill the air again.

And then—

“You’ve been quiet today,” she said.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh. Have I?”

Caitlyn gave you a knowing look. “I’ve known you long enough to recognize when something’s on your mind.”

That should’ve been your cue to deflect, to change the subject, to lie.

But sitting here, in the quiet, with Caitlyn next to you…

You sighed. “I was scrolling through Twitter.”

Caitlyn let out a soft laugh. “That’s your first mistake.”

You smiled, but it was weak. “They think this is real.”

Silence.

Caitlyn’s fingers tightened slightly on the wheel.

You exhaled. “Do you ever feel guilty?”

She glanced at you. “For what?”

“For lying.”

Caitlyn’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought she wasn’t going to answer.

Then—

“I try not to think about it.”

You swallowed. “And does that work?”

A beat of silence.

“No.”

The admission sat heavy between you. Neither of you said anything for a while. Then—Caitlyn let out a slow breath.

“This was supposed to be simple,” she murmured. You turned to her, watching as her expression flickered—like she wasn’t sure if she was saying this to you or herself.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “It was.”

Neither of you said the obvious—that it wasn’t anymore.

And maybe it never was. The drive back was quieter. Heavier. You weren’t sure if it was because of the conversation or because of the way Caitlyn was gripping the wheel like she was holding onto something that was slipping away.

You should’ve dropped the topic. You should’ve.

But instead—

“You never answered my question,” you said softly, staring at the passing streetlights.

Caitlyn glanced at you. “Which one?”

You hesitated. “Do you feel guilty?” A muscle in her jaw twitched. “I thought I did.”

You turned to look at her, but she kept her eyes on the road. “Thought?”

Caitlyn inhaled sharply, exhaling through her nose. “I don’t know if guilt is the right word anymore.” You frowned. “Then what is?”

A pause. A long, heavy pause.

Then—

“Conflicted.”

Your heart skipped.

You weren’t sure what to say to that.

Because the thing was—you felt conflicted too.

But for a completely different reason.

Because this was all supposed to be fake. The lingering touches. The effortless conversations. The way your breath caught when she looked at you like she felt something she shouldn’t.

But now—now, your heart was betraying you.

And you weren’t sure if you were the only one.

Caitlyn pulled into your driveway, shifting the car into park. The engine cut off, leaving only the soft hum of the outside world.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you spoke.

It was one of those moments—one of those moments where the air was thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

You turned to her. She was already watching you.

“Caitlyn…”

You weren’t sure what you were going to say.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to say it.

But before you could, she exhaled, breaking eye contact. “You should get some rest.”

It stung.

And you hated that it did.

You forced a small smile. “Right. Yeah.”

You reached for the door handle, pausing.

And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was stupid.

But you turned back, leaning in just enough to whisper “You know, you really suck at lying.”

Then you were out of the car, closing the door behind you before you could see her reaction. Because if you stayed any longer, you weren’t sure if you’d have the strength to walk away.

Caitlyn didn’t move.

She sat there, hands still gripping the wheel, staring at the empty passenger seat like she could still feel the ghost of your presence.

Her heart was hammering.

Because the way you looked at her just now—

Like you knew.

Like you saw through her.

Like you could hear the war raging inside her, the part of her that knew this was all fake—the part of her that was terrified because she wanted it to be real.

She let out a shaky breath, leaning back against the headrest, staring at the roof of the car.

She was screwed.

Because maybe—just maybe—she was starting to fall for you—no, she was falling for you.

And that?

That was dangerous.

-

You barely slept.

Not because you weren’t tired—you were exhausted. But every time you closed your eyes, your mind kept circling back to Caitlyn. The way she looked at you. The way her voice softened when she admitted she felt conflicted.

You weren’t stupid.

You knew what this was supposed to be. A PR stunt. A mutually beneficial arrangement. Something with an expiration date. But lately, it hadn’t felt like that. Lately, every lingering glance, every touch that lasted too long, every almost had started to mean something.

And that terrified you.

Because if Caitlyn felt the same way—if she was starting to feel the same way— Then what the hell were you supposed to do when this all ended?

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of your phone buzzing against your nightstand.

Your heart lurched when you saw the name.

Caitlyn Kiramman.

For a moment, you just stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen.

Then, before you could overthink it, you answered.

“Hello?”

A pause.

Then—

“Good morning.”

You swallowed. “Hey.”

Another pause.

You swore you could hear her exhale. “I—uh. I was thinking… I mean, we should probably be seen together today.”

Right. Of course. That’s what this was about.

You shouldn’t have expected anything else.

You forced a casual tone. “Right. Yeah. Where were you thinking?”

Caitlyn hesitated. “There’s a cafe in the city. Small, private. We won’t be swarmed there.”

That wasn’t like her. Caitlyn never cared about privacy before. The whole point of this was to be seen.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen like this.

Not after last night.

Not after the way things felt like they were teetering on the edge of something neither of you were ready to admit.

Still, you nodded. “Alright. Text me the details.”

“Okay.”

Another silence.

Then, just as you were about to hang up, she said, almost too softly—

“I’ll see you soon.”

And for some reason, it sounded more like a promise than a plan.

The place Caitlyn picked was nice. Warm lighting, soft music, tucked away from the rest of the city’s chaos.

But your mind wasn’t focused on that.

Your mind was on the way Caitlyn looked when she walked in.

Dark jeans, a fitted coat, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose her wrists. A small silver watch glinted under the light.

And her hair—slightly tousled, like she’d run her hands through it a few too many times on the way here.

She looked… good. Unfairly so.

And worse? She looked nervous.

She didn’t get nervous. Not Caitlyn Kiramman.

But today, she sat across from you, fingers curled around a porcelain coffee cup, and refused to meet your eyes.

You swallowed.

“So…” You tried to sound normal, even if your heart was not. “You seemed in a hurry to see me.”

Caitlyn huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. PR reasons.”

You arched a brow. “PR reasons.”

She finally looked at you. Really looked at you.

And for a second, it was hard to breathe.

Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “Is that all you think this is?”

You blinked.

Your throat was dry.

“Isn’t it?”

A muscle in Caitlyn’s jaw twitched. She set her cup down.

And suddenly, the air shifted.

Like you were both standing on the edge of something dangerous.

You should’ve backed down. You should’ve laughed it off.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you leaned in, just slightly, and whispered—

“You tell me.”

Caitlyn’s breath hitched.

For a moment, just a moment, you thought she was going to say it.

Admit it.

Ruin everything.

But instead, she exhaled shakily, leaned back in her seat, and said—

“Finish your coffee.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

But not forgotten.

Not even close.

The rest of the coffee date felt like a game of pretend.

You and Caitlyn talked about things that didn’t matter—weather, upcoming projects, travel schedules—skirting around the elephant in the room. It was like last night and the tension from earlier had never happened.

Or at least, that’s what Caitlyn wanted you to believe.

You weren’t convinced.

Her fingers tapped against her cup too often. Her gaze flickered toward your lips when she thought you weren’t paying attention. And when your knees brushed under the table, she tensed but didn’t move away.

It was subtle, but it was there.

And maybe you were a little bit of a masochist, because you pushed it.

You stirred your drink absentmindedly. “You know, people are gonna think we’re breaking up soon.”

Caitlyn blinked. “What?”

You nodded toward the corner of the cafe. A guy in a hoodie was pretending to read a newspaper, but the camera lens peeking through the pages was obvious.

“You’re being distant. Not holding my hand. No sickening pet names. Tabloids are gonna eat that up.”

Caitlyn’s jaw clenched. “You think I care what the tabloids say?”

You smirked. “You should.”

Then, without warning, you reached across the table and took her hand.

Her breath hitched.

For a moment, she just stared.

It was stupid. Your hands had touched before. Paps had caught you tangled up in each other, bodies pressed too close, lips at each other’s ears like lovers whispering sweet nothings.

But this?

This felt more intimate.

More dangerous.

Her fingers twitched under your touch, but she didn’t pull away.

“If you don’t care,” you murmured, tilting your head, “then this shouldn’t bother you.”

Caitlyn’s gaze snapped up to meet yours. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

Checkmate.

She squeezed your hand once, like a silent warning, before letting go.

“Let’s go,” she said, standing up. “We’ve been here long enough.”

—

The air was thick with unspoken words. Caitlyn had been tense since you left the cafe, fingers gripping the wheel a little too tightly. You watched her for a moment, then sighed. “You’re mad.” “I’m not mad,” she said, but the sharpness in her tone suggested otherwise.

“You are mad.”

Caitlyn exhaled sharply. “I just—” She hesitated. “You don’t get it.”

Your brows furrowed. “Then make me get it.”

Silence.

Then, finally, she said, “This is already… difficult. You don’t have to make it harder.”

You blinked. “What?”

Caitlyn swallowed, staring straight ahead. “You do things like that. Hold my hand. Look at me like…” She exhaled. “Like it means something.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“And it doesn’t?” you asked, barely above a whisper. Caitlyn gripped the wheel tighter. “It can’t.”

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then, before you could stop yourself, you murmured, “I think it already does.” Caitlyn’s fingers twitched, but she didn’t look at you.

You both knew you’d crossed a line.

The problem was—neither of you were sure you wanted to go back.

The car ride back was too quiet. Caitlyn hadn’t said a word since you muttered I think it already does. She kept her eyes on the road, jaw tense, hands gripping the wheel like she was bracing for impact.

You were bracing, too. You’d been playing this game for weeks—flirting just enough to make headlines, touching just enough to make it convincing, keeping the world fooled while pretending you weren’t fooling yourselves.

But now?

Now, the game wasn’t fun anymore.

Now, you were sitting in Caitlyn Kiramman’s stupid expensive car, feeling like you had just ruined something neither of you had the guts to name. The weight of it settled between you, heavy and suffocating.

The tension didn't break until Caitlyn pulled up in front of your apartment. She put the car in park but didn’t move to unlock the doors. Didn’t even look at you. You stared at her profile, frustration bubbling up in your chest.

“You’re just gonna act like that didn’t happen?” you asked. Caitlyn’s grip on the wheel tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You let out a dry laugh. “Seriously?” She finally turned to you. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes—those sharp, too-blue eyes—were full of something raw.

-

Your phone vibrated on the couch. A text.

Caitlyn: Can we talk?

You stared at the message, pulse skipping.

A part of you wanted to ignore it. Wanted to pretend that you hadn’t just spent the last hour spiraling over a situation you weren’t even supposed to care about.

But you weren’t that strong.

You: Door’s open.

A few minutes later, there was a soft click as Caitlyn let herself in. She didn’t look at you right away. Just stood near the doorway, shifting on her feet like she was considering leaving before she made things worse. Too bad. She was already here. You sat up, raising a brow. “So?”

She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “I—” She hesitated. “I shouldn’t have shut you out like that.”

You folded your arms. “No kidding.”

Caitlyn let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “I just…” She trailed off, struggling to find the words. “This is getting messy.”

You huffed a laugh. “Yeah, no shit.”

She finally met your gaze, and for the first time, you saw it—hesitation.

Like she wasn’t sure if she was about to ruin everything.

You swallowed hard. “Caitlyn, what are we doing?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then, finally, she whispered, “I don’t know.” You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Silence stretched between you, thick with things neither of you were brave enough to say. And then, slowly, carefully, Caitlyn took a step closer.

Your heart stuttered.

She was close enough now that you could see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes—the same uncertainty that had been clawing at you for weeks.

“If we keep going like this…” Caitlyn swallowed. “Someone’s going to get hurt.” Your throat felt tight. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you dared to cross that last, dangerous line.

But for the first time, it felt like you weren’t running in circles anymore. For the first time, it felt like you were standing on the edge of something real.

And you had no idea what to do about it. You should have said something. Caitlyn was standing there, close enough that you could see the slight part of her lips, the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

Close enough that if you just reached out—just a little—you could close the space between you. But neither of you moved. You just stood there, staring at each other like two people standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting to see who would jump first.

“…We should stop this.” Caitlyn’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

Your heart twisted. “Do you want to?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

That silence was enough of an answer.

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “You can’t keep doing this,” you muttered. “You can’t keep pulling me in just to push me away.”

Caitlyn flinched, like the words physically hit her. “I’m not—” “You are,” you snapped, your chest tightening. “Every time I start to think this means something, you remind me that it doesn’t. And I let you.” Caitlyn sucked in a breath. “It’s not that simple.”

“Then explain it to me!”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

And that—that—was what hurt the most.

Not the hesitation. Not the way she kept denying what was right in front of her.

But the fact that even now, even when the weight of this thing between you was crushing, she still wouldn’t let herself want it. You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “That’s what I thought.”

You turned, rubbing a hand down your face, trying to steady yourself. Trying not to let it show just how badly this was getting to you.

And then—softly, barely above a whisper—Caitlyn said, “I’m scared.” You froze. She never let her guard down like that. Not with you. Not with anyone.

Slowly, you turned back to her.

Caitlyn’s hands were clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. Her expression was tight, her walls cracked just enough for you to see through. You exhaled. “Scared of what?” She swallowed. “That if I let this happen… if I let myself feel this…” She shook her head. “I won’t be able to stop.”

The words knocked the air out of your lungs. You could handle her pushing you away. Could handle her pretending this wasn’t real.

But this—this raw admission—was too much.

Your voice came out quieter than you intended. “And that would be so bad?” Caitlyn looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a second—just a second—you saw it. All the fear. All the longing. All the things she’d been trying so desperately to deny.

But then, just like that, the walls went back up.

She inhaled sharply, straightening her shoulders. “I should go.”

Your stomach dropped.

She was running again.

Of course she was.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to nod. “Right. Of course.” Caitlyn hesitated—like she wanted to say something, do something—but instead, she turned on her heel and walked away.

You didn’t stop her.

You just stood there, staring at the door after it shut behind her, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of you. The moment the door shut behind her, you felt it—the ache in your chest, the unspoken words clawing at your throat, the unbearable weight of letting her go again.

No.

Not this time.

Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you forward as you yanked the door open and stepped into the hallway.

“Caitlyn!”

She froze at the sound of your voice.

For a moment, she didn’t turn around. She just stood there, shoulders tense, fists clenched at her sides like she was bracing herself.

You took a step closer, then another. “Don’t do this.”

Caitlyn swallowed, her head tilting slightly like she was considering your words. Then, she shook her head. “I have to.”

You exhaled sharply, your heart pounding. “No, you don’t. You just want to.”

Finally, she turned to face you.

Her eyes were guarded, but you saw through it—saw the hesitation, the conflict, the part of her that didn’t actually want to walk away.

You took another step, closing the space between you. “Tell me to stop,” you murmured. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want this.”

Caitlyn parted her lips—whether to speak or to breathe, you weren’t sure—but no words came out.

She couldn’t say it.

You reached for her hand, your fingers brushing against hers. “I know you’re scared,” you whispered. “But so am I.”

Caitlyn exhaled shakily, and that was when you saw it—the moment her resolve cracked, the moment the fight left her.

And then, suddenly, she was kissing you.

Desperately.

Like she was making up for all the times she ran. Like she was trying to say all the things she never let herself say.

You barely had time to react before you were kissing her back, your hands fisting the front of her shirt, pulling her in closer.

Caitlyn’s fingers tangled in your hair, her body pressing against yours as if she needed you closer—needed this, needed you.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to stop.”

You smiled softly, your fingers tracing the edge of her jaw. “Then don’t.”

Caitlyn let out a shaky breath, her grip on you tightening like she was scared you’d slip away if she let go. Her forehead stayed pressed against yours, her warm breath fanning across your lips.

For once, she wasn’t running.

For once, she was here.

But you needed more than this fleeting moment—you needed her to stay.

You reached up, cupping her face, tilting it so she had no choice but to look at you. “Caitlyn,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. “Don’t leave me again.”

Her eyes flickered with something unreadable—fear, longing, hesitation. But then her hands slid down to your waist, her fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt like she was anchoring herself to you.

“I don’t want to,” she admitted, her voice barely audible.

Your heart clenched. “Then don’t.”

Caitlyn swallowed hard, her lips parting like she wanted to say something else, but instead, she kissed you again—slower this time, lingering, like she was memorizing the feeling.

Your arms wrapped around her, holding her as close as possible, afraid that if you let go, she’d disappear again.

The hallway around you blurred into nothing—there was only her, only the warmth of her lips, the tremble in her hands, the way her body pressed against yours like she was afraid you’d vanish, too.

When she pulled away, she didn’t go far. Her forehead pressed to yours again, her fingers skimming your sides like she still wasn’t sure if she was allowed to touch you.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted, voice raw. “I don’t know how to let myself have this.”

You exhaled softly, brushing your thumb over her cheek. “Then let me show you.”

Caitlyn closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, and when she opened them again, something had shifted.

There was still fear, but there was something else, too.

Something like acceptance.

“…Okay.”

It was barely a whisper, but it was enough.

You smiled, pressing another soft kiss to her lips. “Okay.”

_

@PopCultureDaily

🚨BREAKING: Caitlyn Kiramman and [Y/N] spotted on a romantic late-night date… and yes, THEY KISSED! 💋👀

Paparazzi caught the two sharing a slow, intimate kiss outside a quiet, upscale restaurant, and the internet is LOSING IT.

📸 [Attached Image: Caitlyn cupping [Y/N]’s face, kissing them softly under the glow of city lights]

Fans are already calling it the most cinematic moment of the year. Are we finally witnessing the real-life romance of the century?! 😭❤️ #CaitlynAnd[Y/N] #PowerCouple

@ fangirl_101

WE WON. WE ACTUALLY WON. 🫠

@ shipname_updates

The way she’s holding [Y/N] like they’re the most precious thing in the world… yeah, I’m unwell.

@ lesbianrights

HISTORY IS BEING MADE.

And just like that, the internet had its confirmation.

It was real.

And this time, neither of you were running from it.

A/N - didnt get to proofread this one... sori guys late post UGHHH.

[hotheadedhero]

*peeks in here*

*walks away to check if you do bayverse*

*return*

The bay bois getting an s/o who will occasionally will randomly be cuddling and then... *Affectionate bite* then letting go and telling them they love them.

AN: As an affectionate biter myself, I gotcha babes ;)

Affectionate Biting

Bay Turtles x Reader

Warnings: very mildly suggestive, an insomniac trying to grammar <3

Leonardo

The first time you oh-so casually bit him and smiled afterwards as if it was nothing had him going for a spin. Confused is the prominent word to describe how he was feeling at the time. The action was just so unprompted. He couldn't figure out why you felt the need to do something like that, nor how it could be seen as an act of love.

He's learnt over time that it's an unavoidable urge for you. There's nothing you can do about it. You just have to bite him for whatever reason you deem necessary. Leo is all too aware of this by now and may or may not use it to his advantage.

"For every hour we're out tonight, I'll give you a free bite. No questions asked, okay?"

These are terms you can comply with. He knows how much you miss him when he's gone, so setting up this ultimatum is an effective way of letting him go on patrol more easily.

Raphael

Being with you has involved its fair share of revelations and discoveries. There's at least a handful of things he's become savvy to whilst being with you but the random biting is one of the more bizarre ones.

Actions speak louder than words and they always mean the most to him but biting? What's up with that? Humans are weird. That's the conclusion he's come to. Even now in this very moment, you've taken a hold of his wrist whilst curled up in bed together.

"What are you, a cat or something? Quit it."

Of course, he's only joking. It's just so he can see your tongue poke out and your nose scrunch up in the cute way he likes. Even if he did seriously mean for you to stop, he doubts you would. You live by your own rules when it comes to these things. And, sure, you can bite him if you like. Just as long as you expect to get bitten back.

Donatello

It may catch him by surprise from time to time but only because you do it in the most random of situations. Whilst he's working away and you're sitting in his lap, you'll just latch onto the closest part of him you can access. He might jump if he's in the zone but it's never an issue.

Regardless of it being a problem or not, you've had your own curiosities about why you have such a primal impulse to chomp down on your boyfriend. Luckily, Donnie being as knowledgeable as ever has the answers.

"... the desire to pseudo-bite or squeeze anything we find extremely cute is actually a neurochemical reaction. 'Cute aggression' isn't motivated by vicious intent. Instead, scientists think-"

He halts on his words, blinks out of his matter-of-fact mode, and gazes down at you. All the while, you have his forearm locked between your teeth. Your attempt to smile coyly against his skin is adorable, and he smiles back before continuing his explanation.

Michelangelo

He won't ask any questions. In all honesty, he loves it. Although, there might have been a bit of a misunderstanding the first couple of times you went to take a nip at him. Let's just say he thought you were trying to get him in the mood. Can't blame a guy for assuming his lover is a little freaky in the sheets.

Having such a strong force overcome you is something he understands, though. It's like him when it comes to pulling a fast one over his brothers. You can bite him whenever you want to if that's what you feel you need to do. Even if you turned into a zombie, he'd still let you.

"And then we could be like, zombie lovers roaming the streets together."

Mikey holds his arms out, hands dangling as he playfully groans like the undead. You aren't entirely sure how the conversation developed like that but it's cute nonetheless. Hey, he's just being honest. He loves you that much.

[oopsiedaisydeer]

your butt is the bomb

fluff, awkwardness, friends to lovers?, light flirting, unintentional flirting, banter, miscommunication, teasing, mild sexual innuendo, lighthearted, platonic? feelings, silly

word count - 1.2k

You’re mid-sentence when it happens.

“I just don’t think the moon landing was real,” Chris says, stretching his legs out on the couch in his room. “Like, yeah, sure, space exists or whatever, but you expect me to believe they had the technology to land on the moon in the sixties? People barely had color TV.”

You roll your eyes. “You wouldn’t believe in the moon landing.”

He gasps, clutching his chest. “Are you saying you do?”

“I’m saying I’m an innocent until proven guilty kind of girl.”

Chris shakes his head like he’s disappointed in you. “This is ridiculous.”

And then, just as you’re about to throw another sarcastic comment his way, your phone lights up. Noticing its low battery, you roll onto your side on Chris’ bed, plugging it in. Unbeknownst to you, your oversized shirt rides up, exposing your sleep shorts. Chris doesn’t mean for it to happen, but his gaze flickers and then his brow furrows, his head tilting just slightly.

As you turn back around to face him, Chris can’t help but blurt it out.

He clears his throat. “You have a cute butt, you know. Very round, nice, compact-”

You freeze mid-laugh, blinking at him. “Chris, what the actual-” You can’t even finish the sentence. Did he seriously just say that?

The room falls silent. You blink at him, utterly stunned, while he stares back at you like you’re the one who just said something weird. It takes approximately three full seconds for his own words to catch up to him, and when they do, his face shifts into something between mild horror and begrudging realization.

“Oh. Oh, wait-” He holds up a hand. “That sounded kinda-”

“Insane? Wildly inappropriate? Like something I should slap you for?”

Chris huffs, crossing his arms. “It was a compliment!”

“It was about my butt!”

“Yeah, but in, like, a normal way-”

"There is no normal way to say that, Christopher."

Chris huffs, crossing his arms, but his mind is already racing. It was just a compliment, right? He tries to push the weird feeling out of his chest, but it’s there, like something’s stirring under the surface. It was a compliment.

He clears his throat anxiously. “It was a compliment!” he repeats, trying to sound convincing, but the way her eyes narrow at him makes him second-guess himself. Maybe that wasn’t the best way to phrase it… You’re so smooth, Chris. Real smooth.

“Right.”

 “Whatever, man. I was just making an observation. Like, just, you know, being honest.”

“You sound like Jake Peralta right now.”

“What? No, I don’t.”

“You literally just recreated a classic Peraltiago moment. ‘Your butt is da bomb. There will be no survivors,’ Christopher.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s a compliment. Second of all, your butt is da bomb- wait, no, that sounded worse.”

You sigh dramatically, before an idea comes to you. “First of all, compact? As a compliment? What does that even mean?” you ask, gesturing wildly. “Second of all, if we’re making observations, let’s talk about your butt. Very, uh… symmetrical. Good proportions.”

Chris chokes on air, his Pepsi not even having reached his lips. “What- wait, seriously? Are we doing this?”

“Yeah, I mean, if we’re handing out compliments, it’s only fair” you say, teasing, but also grimacing.

His ears go pink, his voice a little less certain now. “That’s- not the same thing.”

“Oh? So now you see the issue?”

Chris groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you.”

You shake your head, grabbing your water bottle and twisting it in your hands. The moment lingers, Chris still sulking over your lack of appreciation for his totally normal and platonic compliment.

And then, as if to pivot into something equally bizarre, you mumble, “When I couldn’t sleep as a kid, I used to try balancing my water bottle on my forehead.”

Chris lifts his head slightly. “What? Actually?”

“Yeah, like, I’d just be lying in bed, eyes wide open, and I’d think: What if I could balance my water bottle on my forehead for a full minute? Just... to see if I could.”

He stares at you like you’ve just confessed a strange, deeply important secret. “And?”

“I could do it. Didn’t help me sleep though.”

Silence. Then Chris sits up, slow, thoughtful as if he’s considering your childish admission seriously. “You think you could still do it?”

You narrow your eyes, leaning forward just a little. “Are you… challenging me?”

“No, I just don’t think you can do it.” He smiles at her, his tone doubting but playful.

The water bottle is in your hands before he even finishes speaking. You lie down completely, looking up at the ceiling, and carefully place the bottle on the center of your forehead. Chris watches, elbow on the armrest, chin resting against his palm, looking equal parts skeptical and intrigued.

For a few glorious seconds, you think you might actually pull it off. But then Chris stands up and flops on the bed next to you.

“Hey-”

The bottle wobbles once, twice, and then tumbles off your face, and you catch it with your hand. Chris bursts out laughing, practically folding over, and you groan in annoyance. You throw the bottle at him, the movement dramatic, not even trying to aim. It bounces off his shoulder and hits the floor with a soft thud.

“Okay, rude,” he wheezes, still grinning. “Not my fault you have terrible focus.”

You scowl, but you’re smiling too. “Not my fault you say weird things about my butt.”

Chris opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, then stops. Shuts it. Tilts his head.

And then, for the first time since this conversation started, his brain finally catches up.

“Wait. Hold on.” A little crinkle appears above his nose, like a thought is just starting to bloom. He stares at you for a beat longer, eyes flicking back and forth as if he’s sorting through his words. “Did that… what I said before… sound like flirting?”

You blink. “Chris”, you warn.

“No, but, hold on.” He suddenly looks very, very deep in thought. “Because I was just saying it, like, observationally, but now I’m thinking about it, and…”

Your heart skips a beat at the way his voice falters, and you find yourself wondering if you’re just imagining it. Was he really…? You shake your head. No, this is just Chris being Chris, right? You tell yourself, brushing it off.

“Chris, oh my God.” You throw your head back with a groan, smacking his arm before standing up and walking toward his bathroom.

He calls after you, still stuck in the rabbit hole of his own making. “But wait! If I was flirting… hypothetically… would it have worked? Like, actually?”

He says the last part slower, like he’s genuinely trying to piece it all together, his gaze fixed on you.

You call back out to him. “You’re never getting an answer to that!”

Chris stares at the ceiling, groaning internally. He can’t decide if it was the best thing ever or the worst mistake he’d made all week.

They were friends, he reminds himself. But it was just a half-assed attempt to comfort himself as he waited for you to come back.

thank u rose for the dividers!! @bernardsbendystraws

a/n: this is me coming out as a silly girl. let me know if u enjoy!

taglist: @blushsturns @sturnslutz @snoopychris @sturnshood @sturns-mermaid @chrissweetheart @cowboylikenat @recordeeznuts @camzeecorner comment if u would like to be tagged in my main (non-au) works!!

[vervainandspritz]

CRAWLING BACK TO YOU

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Word count: 4k

Warnings: drinking, swearing, feelings, friends to lovers trope kind of

Notes: Guys thanks for 400 follows love y'all

Was it possible to get used to a life so bizarrely unusual and different to find it… peaceful? Feeling her lungs fill out with fresh air when in reality every piece of clothing Y/N owned was sprinkled with ash of the wild flame that the Shelby family was?

People were scared of getting burned, naturally. Fading in and out of her life as soon as they'd find out she was associated with Peaky blinders.

At first it bothered her, oh, so much. That people didn't see a thing about her besides her association. Now, she was years into the strange peace she found in one of the most dangerous cities in Britain, with a gun settled in her hand so frequently it fit better than the several sets of leather gloves she owned.

A matter running so deep in her mind, she found herself touching it over and over, sometimes with a glimmer in her eyes.

…or like that day, sitting in the Garrison with her gaze fixated on a glass in her hand. Mentally fiddling with the churning in her stomach as his blue eyes filled her head all over again. The room was as loud as ever, accompanied by both men and women in questionable states of sobriety, laughs and conversations that didn't matter. Not one bit.

An upcoming weekend allowed people of Birmingham to loosen up, shake off the tension from the hard work they've been holding in their tired bones.

Nobody seemed to notice when the door swung open, allowing cold air of a Friday night to seep in. Nobody but her.

Footsteps echoed quietly, going unnoticed in the loud crowd but Y/N knew exactly who came in despite her eyes remaining on her glass of rum.

”Y/N, what do you think about him?” A voice came to her ears suddenly, a slight nudge to her side bringing her out of the weird state.

”Hmm?” She asked before quickly glancing at her friend, gaze looking for clues as to not show her disinterest. Emily rolled her eyes with a sigh, dramatically slumping her shoulders.

”Don’t tell me you just zoned out, again, after I just spent five minutes explaining the matter.” She raised her eyebrows while her blue eyes narrowed for a moment before she sighed again. ”Alright. You're lucky I can't be mad at you. What's wrong?” Y/N’s demeanour seemed to be a little different than usual, and knowing her for so long, Emily immediately picked on it.

Okay, maybe not immediately, she thought, but eventually she got there.

Y/N cleared her throat, a chuckle pushing past her lips before she pushed her glass away.

”Nothing really. I haven't eaten much today, and alcohol hit me harder than usual.” Came out of her mouth so smoothly, despite being just partially true.

”And it absolutely doesn't have anything to do with the pack of wolves you surround yourself with, does it?”

Just like that Y/N loosened up again, laughing at the way Emily always so easily joked about them so lightheartedly, as nobody else would dare. ”Speaking of the devil” she added with a smirk, glancing towards the door. ”Yours just appeared. Right on time as well, because I need to wrap it up and go home. Betty refuses to sleep when I'm not home.” Y/N sighed, feeling bad for not paying attention before Emily had to leave.

”Of course,” She nodded, ”Arthur will drive you home” Y/N said, as usual but Emily shook her head while making a funny face.

”Absolutely not! Send the younger one. Arthur can't seem to understand I'm married,” She rolled her eyes with a giggle as she nudged Y/N’s side. ”I’ll wait outside”

As the taller woman walked away, Y/N threw back the remaining liquor and took a deep breath before she got up, looking around.

Before she spotted the Shelby brothers, she felt a heavy gaze on her back which admittedly made things easier. Turning around, her eyes met Tommy's from the other side of the room. He was sober while she clearly already had a few, her gaze a bit softer around the edges. Making her way to their table, she took a deep breath once again.

”John,” Y/N greeted him first with a smile, “would you kindly drive Emily home tonight?” her speech came out a little smoother than usual, tension from her voice long gone which showed her state, already a bit softened by alcohol.

“I don't mind driving her,” Arthur abruptly interjected.

“No, no that's all right Art you're in no state to drive clearly.” She stated firmly with a hint of humour in her voice. His brows shot up.

”I just had ONE drink! Are you mad?” He asked pretentiously with a huff, making John laugh.

”Seems like you need to try harder, aye!” The younger brother chuckled before getting up and standing by Y/N.

”Sure thing, Darling, but you owe me a drink” He winked, making her roll her eyes playfully.

”Sure thing” She repeated, mockingly.

”Someone already had a few” Tommy interjected suddenly, a hint of teasing in his voice, but one only Y/N could pick up on.

”Oh, and you're here as well” She replied, her gaze meeting his once again with that mischievous glimmer. ”Found time to spend among us, Mr. Shelby?”

Thomas watched her for a moment before slowly but surely one corner of his lips twitched in sort of a smirk.

”Sit down before I kick you out of my pub, eh?” He patted the free space where John was sitting just a few moments ago.

And so she did, ignoring his comment while pouring herself a glass of whisky with a smirk. One thing that never changed between them were their verbal skirmishes. Ever since the young blue eyed boy chased her with a stick dipped in the mud, devilishly proud of himself while at it.

Arthur kept mumbling to himself about the unfairness of the situation, unserious as ever. Pouring himself another drink, he glanced at Y/N, feeling her amused look on him.

”Don’t need me as a driver, so let the man be, would you?” He threw in a snarky remark with a hint of amusement, to which she lifted her hands in the air in a gesture of surrender.

”Wouldn’t dare to tell you what to do, old man”

a smirk slowly spread on his face and so the game began all over again. Soon John came back along with other Blinders crowding the table as they drank, talked and had fun just like always while making sure everything in the pub was going just fine.

Y/N’s nonchalant, easygoing aura was strong as ever when Tommy's eyes drifted towards her every now and then. Time was passing by quickly when they had fun simultaneously drinking.

Nights like these were secretly meaningful to all the Shelby's, giving them space and time to forget for a little while about the heavy responsibilities and dangers of their day to day life. It was one of the instances where people could see Tommy slightly let his guard down as the alcohol affected his mind, causing him to behave more freely in a less controlled environment.

A lazy smile appeared on Y/N’s face as she chuckled listening to the colourful stories, obviously enhanced into dramatic details to be more entertaining. She liked seeing them like this, these fleeting moments of freedom making each of the men by the table turn into these young boys she used to know long years ago without the scarring of life they all carried nowadays.

Reaching for a pack of cigarettes sitting on the table, Y/N plucked one for Tommy, putting it into his hand out of habit without even thinking. One of those things she'd do even under the influence, with her better judgement clouded almost completely.

Without looking at her, Tommy put it between his lips, reaching for matches to light her cigarette before his own. The gestures were so natural nobody even noticed.

Putting the little box back on a table, Thomas let his hand fall down, landing on her thigh as his fingers began slowly stroking her soft skin mindlessly as he spoke to Isaiah across the table.

Her eyes drifted briefly on his face, grazing over his strong features and the way his lips remained formed in a relaxed smile as he spoke when suddenly another person got her attention.

A man in the background, about ten feet away from them, stood with a woman, kissing her cheek as she hugged him quickly before disappearing in the crowd.

His familiar features and cocky grin immediately sparked her interest, as she recognised Paul, a good friend of hers who happened to be delivering ingredients to her bakery everyday.

Seeing her, he moved closer before finally standing by the table.

“Evening, Y/N” He spoke up, nodding towards the men who quickly realized he was familiar with her, so not a bother. ”Care to go for a smoke with me?” He suggested, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. His light hair dishevelled, eyes shiny from the small amount of alcohol he had as well.

Tommy's hand remained on her thigh, only slipping away as she moved towards the exit.

”Lead the way” She responded, grabbing her coat as well as her eyes briefly met John's who was clearly having a good time tormenting her whenever a man would show any interest.

”See you tomorrow then, aye, Y/N?” John called after her with mischief in his voice followed by a chuckle from Arthur.

She just shook her head with amusement before they disappeared through the door.

Tommy straightened his back, reaching for another cigarette to light, nodding to Isaiah to pour another drink.

”Well..” John started off, clearing his throat, ”At least someone gets some action today” elbowing his brother to the side he laughed, reminding Arthur of the failure in pursuing Emily. One of many.

”Already told you to fuck off, didn't I?” He responded, rolling his eyes before shoving him back.

Tommy remained quiet, his mood taking a hit from Y/N’s abrupt exit with another fella. His emotions usually kept at bay, now strengthened by the alcohol, grew to an alarming size in his head.

Throwing back another glass of whisky he relaxed into the seat once again, barely listening to the conversation as he zoned out, consumed by his contradictory thoughts.

Not long after he decided enough was enough, raising from the seat slowly, letting his brothers know he'd be going back home as tomorrow he had business to attend, as usual. It took a moment for his eyes to regain focus as whisky affected him a bit more than usual, perhaps because once again he forgot to eat anything substantial throughout the day.

Saying his goodbyes Tommy pulled his cap onto his head, walking through the crowd as people parted, not wanting to disrespect the mobster.

Cold air of the night hit him as soon as the door swung open, his eyes getting used to the darkness fairly quickly as he gazed towards his vehicle, simultaneously searching for keys in his pocket.

Making his way to the car he squinted, trying to grasp the right key which was a bit of a challenge in his current state. Getting a hold of the right one, he suddenly dropped the keys hearing a familiar voice behind his back.

”You’re absolutely not driving in this state” Y/N said, grabbing his arm.

”Fuck!” Tommy groaned, eyeing the fallen item. He could barely see them, wiping his eyes he turned towards Y/N. ”I dropped my fucking keys” He informed her, as if she wasn't a witness to this situation.

His balance was slightly off as he narrowed his cloudy eyes, obviously blaming her for what just happened. His drunken state made Y/N unable to hold in a giggle as she rolled her eyes stepping closer. Bending over she grabbed them, choosing the right key as she opened the door on the driver's side, slipping into the seat.

He stood there, his brows raised in a question which she immediately answered.

“I told you. You're not driving. Get into the car before you'll have to walk.” Her voice was lighthearted as she held his gaze.

Thomas tilted his head to the side, the small hint of bitterness making it through his exterior.

”Don’t you have places to be?” He asked, obviously hinting at the man she left with, making Y/N roll her eyes once again on his dramatics.

”Tommy get in the car” She repeated, knowing there was no point in arguing with him over whatever In his current state.

He stood for another longer moment before finally sighing and making his way around to the other side, sitting on the passenger seat. Tilting his head back he let it rest, closing his eyes.

Y/N let her eyes linger on his face for a moment before taking a deep breath and starting the engine.

They didn't say a word throughout the whole drive, and only later she realized Tommy fell asleep. Parking the car she leaned closer, touching his shoulder.

”Come on, let's get inside” She whispered, watching as he slowly opened his eyes in an awfully adorable way.

She bit back the smile as he nodded, mumbling something before climbing out of the car.

She grabbed his arm wanting to help him walk, but he pulled it back, telling her he was perfectly capable of walking alone. Stubborn as always.

A couple minutes later she shed her coat, pulling his own off of him as well along with the cap, making him roll his eyes.

”You realize I'm not that drunk, eh?” He asked, seeing her behaviour.

”I’m not allowed to help, am I?” She shot back, grabbing his hand as she pulled him towards the stairs leading up to his bedroom. ”Oh, and by the way, no. I've got no places to be so I'm staying over.” She stated, completely unfazed and with enough attitude to make him laugh out loud.

”Good to know” He replied, letting her pull him along. Despite his stubbornness, they both knew it happened more times than they'd be able to count. Their relationship was so specific in ways other people wouldn't understand… and neither of them seemed to be ready to admit it.

Thomas was on the edge of bed, groaning as he took off his boots. Y/N walked across the room, opening the wardrobe as she found her own shelf.

He watched her as she pulled out his shirt and her shorts, knowing well she'd be sleeping in this set. Thomas realized he couldn't remember the time before she was in his life. Before the top shelf was hers, filled with pieces of clothing he never cared to move.

She moved around so confidently, knowing exactly where everything was. It brought him a weird sense of comfort, even though his face remained in a neutral expression as she looked back.

”Do you need help changing or are you perfectly capable of doing that too, Mr. Shelby?” She asked, matching his neutral expression along with a professional tone of voice, obviously teasing him.

He shook his head slightly, letting out a sigh as he finally smirked. Looking at her for a longer moment, Tommy let his eyes linger on her body before meeting her eyes again.

”Are you trying to take advantage of me, Dove?” He asked, his voice clearly lower and with intent as he gave her the smile, one he learned long ago worked on women ever since he was a boy.

Y/N chuckled, approaching him to the point where he had to tilt his head back so their eyes could meet. Leaning down to his level, she started unbuttoning his shirt.

”I wouldn't dare” Her voice was calm, even though she felt everything but calm seeing him looking at her like this. Unable to put up the walls that usually surrounded him when he was sober. The tension seemed to grow rapidly as she was halfway down, eyes focused on the task but Tommy's gaze had her face turn slightly red which was not visible in the dim light luckily.

Stepping back, she looked up at him.

”You take care of that, and I'm going to change. Try not to fall, eh?” She teased with a smirk, walking into the bathroom.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Y/N took a deep breath, leaning forward as she needed a moment. She was very aware of the tension surrounding them the whole night and as she stood in front of him, with his eyes gazing at her this way, it felt more dangerous than ever before despite the fact they were bordering on this line for years now.

Everything felt stronger lately and she was.. more anxious than anything.

Looking up she caught her reflection, silently grazing over her face and body before sighing deeply as she turned around, swiftly changing into his shirt and her shorts.

Returning to the room, she looked up to check whether he was sleeping and surprisingly, Tommy was laying on the bed, shirtless and wearing only his undergarments. His arm was draped over his head, eyes closed but the tension in his shoulders was visible. Y/N knew he wasn't sleeping, but she didn't want to risk anything more after today so she let him be, turning off the lights as she moved around the bed, slipping on the other side.

His bed was big, more than big enough for the two of them. Y/N and Tommy never had an issue sleeping together even back when they were teenagers, sharing a bed in his small room in Small Heath.

She covered herself with a blanket, facing away from him for a while, attempting to get comfortable but the silence was deafening. She heard him move and turn as well, looking for a position comfortable enough to sleep in. Minutes were passing and Y/N was still wide awake, unable to even close her eyes for longer than a moment with the amount of thoughts running through her head.

The clock was ticking, and she looked through the big window, moonlight seeping in through the blinds and she still yet to be comfortable enough to feel even remotely tired.

Eventually the frustration took over and she sighed with annoyance, slowly sitting up. Y/N desperately wanted to sleep, as it would be the easy way out. Making it to the morning and hoping the infatuation would pass or fade away into something more bearable, just like always.

The moon looked beautiful that night, she thought, as she heard him move in a different way this time. The mattress dipped closer and she felt him sitting right behind her, the warmth of his body contrasting to the coldness of her hands caused by anxiety.

Her heart started thumping wildly in her chest, the anticipation almost took much to handle, shivers running down her spine as his breath touched her skin.

Yet she didn't dare to look at him, stubbornly keeping her eyes fixated on the view while he moved closer.

After a longer moment his fingers grasped her chin, making her look at him. Tommy felt the stirring too, somewhere in his chest, and the desperation seemed completely impossible to escape.

Forcing her to look at him, he moved closer. His face seemed even more unreal that way, kissed by the moonlight in the middle of the night causing her to sigh weakly.

He didn't move either, not for a while as they watched, fixated like it was the very first time, even though they knew each other’s features by heart. From her chin his fingers moved to cup her cheek instead, feeling the subtle warmth of her skin.

Lost in the moment Y/N sighed, his face so close to her own she could see every detail. Every scar and freckle decorating his skin. Her lips parted slightly as she tried to catch a breath, but his presence and warmth felt so.. overwhelming in a way she couldn't describe. A warmth she grew to associate with safety while simultaneously feeling like she's gambling every time they're close.

His arms wrapped around her tighter, pulling her on his lap with one hand holding her hip while the other cupped her cheek so roughly. Delicate caresses of his calloused fingers feeling better than she cared to admit. She couldn't think properly while his firm chest was pressed against her soft bosom, his lips ghosting over her jaw.

”Y/N” He whispered, Tommy's hot breath against her skin making her shiver and her eyes fall shut.

She moved her hand on top of his, trying to ground herself. Chaotic snippets of moments and thoughts running through her puzzled mind as her core ached for his touch.

”Look at me” He spoke again, tilting her head down to look him in the eyes. His own were barely open, pupils blown out with need as he stared at her with something she couldn't really understand. Failing to keep herself at bay, Y/N slowly leaned down, their breaths mingling and noses touched. She could feel the ghost of his soft lips touching hers, but couldn't quite force herself to let him have her. Again.

“Why do you keep doing this?” She whispered breathlessly, her other hand grasping his shoulder so hard she thought he might bruise.

Thomas' breath hitched, and he stopped moving for a moment, frozen as he realized the sense of her question. His heart began racing but he kept holding her so close, panting against her lips as he tried to search for an answer in his mind, which now seemed to be.. empty.

Y/N squeezed her eyes painfully hard waiting for an answer that seemed to never come before letting go of his shoulder with a humourless chuckle. Pulling his hands away from her she raised from his lap, quickly fixing her blouse before grabbing her black coat from the chair.

”Y/N” He spoke up, his voice gravely with disappointment aimed nowhere but at himself. ”Y/N, don't go” Tommy tried to convince, attempting to grasp her wrist but she slipped easily, seemingly between his fingers.

Like she always did.

”Goodnight, Tommy”

~~~

The whole next day Y/N threw herself into a bunch of work, whether it was around the house or finishing up the new recipes she prepared to introduce in her bakery the upcoming week.

By the end of the day she was covered in flour, but her apartment was squeaky clean. Her hair was a complete mess when she saw herself in the mirror, making her chuckle. She was physically tired but mentally proud of herself for taking her mind off of the blue eyed man so successfully.

…and then her phone rang. It was late, way too late for any other person to call, so subconsciously she knew it was him. Silently cursing herself for it, she picked up.

”Hello?” Y/N asked nevertheless but she didn't hear anything else for a moment before he cleared his throat.

”Because I can't force myself to let you go” Thomas spoke up, his words a little blurred, gravelly with the weight of his confession. ”...and I'm tired of pretending. This needs to end.” A moment of silence seemed to stretch into eternity, but Tommy knew she was listening. He could hear her breathing. As Y/N finally found some words, wanting to respond, he hang up.

She stood there, frozen for a couple moments, holding the phone as if he was still on the other side. What are you talking about, she wanted to ask, but Y/N knew what he meant. Despite her asking yesterday, it intimidated her a little to hear it from him. They never confronted each other before, but.. her heart swelled with the emotion she was never able to express before.

Suddenly a loud knock on the door came to her ears, her heart froze still for a moment before she opened it.

His eyes were bright, raw and vulnerable as he held her eye contact.

“Can I come in?”

[yandere-romanticaa]

Darkness loomed over Penacony as you ran barefoot across the dimly lit streets, the drunk passerbys oblivious to your rushed footsteps and heaving chest.

It has been six months since you felt the cool fresh air on your own. Six long, hellish months of bizarre captivity that made your head spin. Boothill was the personification of a locked and loaded gun, constantly on the chase for his next IPC lackey to shoot, or if he was in the mood he would hop on a totally different planet which no one knew about, which naturally only made him want to go even more.

The pain of trying to keep up with him was horrid. Rancid even. Scrapes and bruises, hell, even broken bones became a mild concern once you started to see the plethora of wanted posters which had your face plastered over them.

Solid bounty to boot.

Whenever you would bring up these concerns, Boothill would let out the most hearty laugh, his head thrown back so hard that his hat would come off. He would then proceed to smack you across your back, proudly saying that it was his own personal little way of claiming you.

No person with any common sense would dare come for you.

He would just shoot them dead on the spot.

"That's not a threat pumkin'!" he would say as he casually drank his drink, the alcohol swishing and swaying in the pristine crystal glass. He drank it all in one swoop before setting it back down on the counter, his gaze laser focused on you.

"It's a promise."

From the corner of your eye, you could see the way his hand was resting on the holster of his gun and came to the wise realization that you believed him.

Through trial and error, you have come to terms with the fact that Boothill will keep his promises, particularly if they were related to you.

Running away from him in the overcrowded bar was... was most definitely not the brightest idea but it had worked. It was indeed still working, even with your aching feet and burning lungs. Your entire body begged you to just stop and take a breath, but that option was impossible, because you knew all too well what was in store for you.

As if on cue, you heard him before you saw him.

Endless echoes of shouts, yelps and strings of curses followed you as you continued to flee from him. Boothill pushed, shoved and kicked absolutely every single person onto the ground if they dared to stand in his way, not giving a flying fuck - oh how satisfying it was to curse in front of him since you knew that he could not - any of them were hurt.

"Come back!" he yelled, his voice heavy and hoarse.

You did not turn around, such a luxury was not possible. Against your body's wishes, you ran.

He pursued.

A chorus of shots rang in the air, all of which were too close for comfort. None of the bullets were meant for you as the Galaxy Ranger was being pursued by the Bloodhound family, each one barking orders and insults at each other as they did everything they could to keep your so called lover in check.

As if Xipe themself had acknowledged your efforts, you spotted a tiny alleyway which was perfect to hide in. Boothill had lost his momentum due to his own pursuers, giving you precious seconds to decide on your next course of action.

And with the way you could feel your feet physically give into the pressure, you made your way into the pitch dark alleyway, carefully tip toeing around any possible source of sound. With a sigh you sat behind a large dumpster, the ultimate coverage in this time of need.

A faint glimmer of hope formed in your heart. It was hard to focus on anything other than the fact that you were free from his grasp. You'd much rather take in the stench of trash than his robotic arms, the memory alone making you shiver.

Behind the safety of your dumpster, the streets sounded like a mini warzone.

How typical of him. Being subtle was never his style.

Everything he did, Boothill did to be the biggest menace and pest known to society. He would tell you stories of his escapades as his eyes trailed over your whole body like a starving wolf, his sharp pearly white teeth almost looking like knives in your eyes.

Oh how he loved to sink his teeth into your neck. The noises you let out only seemed to spur him, giving him more motivation to mar your skin. Even now the traces were there, nasty and crude. Tracing a few fingers around your throat, you felt the raging pulse point becoming heavier and heavier, as if it was getting ready to pop and burst right in this dingy alley.

If it were not for the sounds of gunfire, you would have believed that your own heart was going to betray you. There was no way that no one was hearing this, the sheer intensity so strong and dizzying. Hot white pain seeped into your lungs and quickly made its way into your veins, chaining you onto the ground.

That's easy prey, you suddenly heard his voice in your head.

The second they're too scared to move, well I'll be fudged, that's when you shoot pumpkin'.

And you had quietly agreed with him on that summer eve. You could still recall how he hid you both beneath some bushes as he went to scavenge some food for you, showing you some tips and tricks along the way. You could recall the way the thorny bushes had wounded you, pricking the soft flesh of your arms, fresh droplets of blood coating the mostly dry ground.

It hasn't rained in ages on that planet, if you recall correctly.

Rain. What you would give for the fresh scent of the rain. The harsh droplets would mask the yelling, the roaring thunder could perhaps comfort you in some odd way.

And just like that, you wish had come true.

A single piece of evening dew feel on your cheek, the liquid oddly warmer than it ought to be.

You could not be bothered to care.

Closing your eyes, you decided to bask in the first moments of glorious freedom you had managed to steal for yourself.

Boothill had taught you well, ironically enough.

There would be no more yelling, no more loud gun fights, no more long distance traveling. No more needy Galaxy Ranger who wanted you to pay constant attention to him 24/7. You already knew where you wanted to settle somewhere, a quiet and quaint place, a place oozing with peace and serenity.

Much like this dumpster, but a lot more pleasing to the senses.

The streets were quiet and the only sound that could be heard was the music in the distance, a sound so hauntingly pleasant that it made you feel -

Quiet.

Why had it gone quiet?

Like a phantom he emerged from the shadows, his all too familiar silhouette taking over the entire alleyway. His footsteps were slow, methodic. Well calculated.

And like a true phantom, he never left you alone.

His presence was dark and imposing, testing out the waters to see whether or not you were going to come out on your own or if he had to get his hands dirty.

However, he did not give you the luxury of thinking.

"Found ya." he said through gritted teeth, his red eyes gleaming like stars in the night.

Stars you would have a hard time looking the same ever again.

[agreeewrites]

Easy to Love | G.W. 🩷

feat George Weasley x bsf!reader

SUMMARY: You get stood up by your boyfriend on Valentine's Day. Thankfully, your best friend George is ready to give you the Valentine's you deserve.

CW: MDNI 18+, smut, hurt/comfort, cheating on shitty boyfriends, idiots to lovers, petty!George, dirty talk, oral, piv, dom!George, all the Valentine's fluff

AN: happy valentines day!!!! you all have my heart 🫶

masterlist

Your hurried footsteps echoed along the empty corridor, dampened by the screaming rain pouring from the thick blanket of clouds over the castle.

Fucking perfect, you thought, bitterly wiping tears and splattered rain from your cheeks. It was like the universe was taunting you.

Stood up by your boyfriend on Valentine's Day? Forced to walk back to Hogwarts in shame? Here, have some torrential downpour to really set the mood.

You still couldn't believe Jack stood you up. Left you looking like an idiot in the Three Broomsticks, alone and glowering into your fruity red drink, surrounded by pink streamers and heart balloons larger than your head. Completely humiliating.

Of all the shitty things he'd done to you over the last six months, this took the cake. And bizarrely, you felt like you deserved it for putting up with his bullshit for so long. You should have seen this coming from a mile away.

But you were too native, too stupid to see the red flags right under your nose. Well, that wasn't true. You saw them. You were just too scared to do anything about it.

Too scared to be alone. Too proud to admit you were wrong about him.

Merlin, George was going to be so fucking smug.

Your best friend, George Weasley, hated Jack. He hated Jack more than you'd ever seen him hate anyone. George had never had a problem with your past partners, albeit there was only two. But something about Jack brought out a side of George you’d never seen: vindictive, petty, mean.

Never directed towards you, of course, Jack and his friends bore the brunt of his wrath. It was enough that Jack steered clear of both George and his twin, who always matched his energy.

You knew George was just looking out for you, trying to protect you from, well, this. What you were feeling now. But you'd be damned if you gave him the satisfaction of being right.

Finally, the Fat Lady greeted you with a warm smile as you reached the top of the stairs. “Not out celebrating, lovey? Look at you, you're soaked!”

You sighed, looking down at your new dress, a babydoll in your favorite shade of pink, the fabric mottled with water and clinging to your skin. “Men suck,” you said.

The Fat Lady laughed. “They certainly do! What's the password, dear?”

You gave it to her, and she swung open, a waft of thumping music and the week of alcohol washed over you.

Shit. You'd completely forgotten about the Valentine's party tonight. While a drink sounded lovely, a drunken grind-fest was the last thing you wanted to participate in.

You pushed your way through the crowd, trying to make a beeline towards the girls dormitory. The crowd was thick, pushing and shoving, while music thumped loudly in your brain. Red hearts and cupids and streamers, were everywhere, a sheen of pink glitter starting to collect on your still-damp skin. Everywhere you looked, couples were all over each other, making out of dancing to the music, cuddled up on every available surface.

Tears burned behind your eyes again, and you tried pushing through with a little more force.

You popped out into a quieter area by the roaring fire, a circle of chairs occupied by the Quidditch team and a few others, which meant—

“Y/n?”

You looked up from your feet and locked eyes with George, who was hurriedly shifting a girl off his lap, ignoring her whine of protest while she grabbed at his white shirt.

The knife of hurt inexplicably twisted deeper in your gut, and you turned your back to him, pushing the other way through the crowd.

“Hey—wait!”

You made it to the stairs, but there was no outrunning those long legs—a lesson you'd learned countless times.

George snagged your wrist, turning you back towards him. “What happened?” The furrow between his brows deepened when he took in your tearful, soaked form. “Why are you wet? And where's the bilge-rat you call a boyfriend?”

You yanked your hand out of his hold. “Fuck if I know,” you snapped, trudging up the stairs, George on your heels.

“What do you mean? Didn't you have a date?” He asked, his tone getting angrier by the second.

You didn't respond, opening the door to your dorm and trying to slam it in George's face, but he caught it and pushed in behind you.

“Fuck, will you just tell me what happened? Are you okay?” He made an effort to soften his voice, catching your purse when you flung it at him.

“No, I'm not okay!” You cried, finally facing him, tears rolling down your cheeks. “Jack stood me up. He left me at the bar and—” emotion pinched your throat, cutting off your words.

You watched George cycle through the five stages of grief, frozen in the middle of the room. Then—

“Do you want me to find him?” He asked, voice a carefully measured calm.

“And do what?” You wiped at your cheeks, beyond frustrated. You couldn't decide if you wanted him to fuck off, or give you one of those big bear hugs he was so good at.

“Break his teeth in? Throw him in the lake? Set his hair on fire—”

“Stop it, George,” you muttered, sounding more defeated than angry.

He crossed the room to you, taking your trembling hands. “How can I fix it, love?” he asked, peering down at your pitiful, makeup smudged face.

You shook your head, avoiding his perceptive gaze. “Unless you have a time-turner to make me less of an idiot—”

“Oi.” George squeezed your hands, shaking you. “Don't talk about my girl that way. You did nothing wrong.”

You jerked your hands away, pushing past him and stalking over towards you vanity. “Please. You wanted me to leave him before we even got together. You made it abundantly clear how much you hated him.”

“Of course I did. He’s a prick—”

“So, clearly, you think I did something wrong by staying with him.” You angrily tugged your hair out of its style, wet strands tangled and getting frizzy, and started scrubbing off your makeup with a towelette. “Congratu-fucking-lations, you were right. You got what you wanted. Are you happy now?”

George looked like you'd struck him, hovering behind you in the mirror. You hated that he looked so handsome tonight in his white button down and dark wash jeans, his copper hair messy and flecked with glitter and heart-shaped confetti. It made it so much harder to be angry with him.

“You think this is what I wanted?” He asked. “The last thing I want is to see you hurting. Of course I'm not fucking happy that you're heartbroken. Even if it is over some limp-dick weasel.”

You scoffed, though you knew that was true, but it was easier to be angry right now. Easier to push him away than let him in.

George pressed on. “I'd like to hang him by the bollocks from the Whomping Willow for leaving you out in that storm, for all the shit he's done to you—”

“Just—go back to your party, George. I'm sure that doe-eyed girl is still waiting for you,” you hissed. It was a low blow, but you just wanted him gone so you could wallow in self-pity alone.

Suddenly, he was moving. His hands griped your waist, spinning your around and pressing you back into the vanity. His expression was severe. “Don't fucking do that,” he bit. “Don't act like I'm the bad guy when all I've wanted—” his voice caught in his throat, and he turned his head away, like he couldn't look at you.

His hands were burning through the thin fabric of your dress, his grip tight enough to ache, and you felt a long-suppressed heat kindle in your belly. George had manhandled you plenty of times: throwing you over his shoulder, dragging you by the hand through the halls, lifting you to retrieve a book from a high shelf. But this felt…different. Charged in a way you'd spent years trying to ignore for the sake of your friendship.

“What, George?” You asked, gripping the edge of the vanity so you didn't reach out to touch him.

He sighed. “When all I've wanted is to make you happy.” He looked at you again, his dark eyes filled with hurt and something warm, honeyed, that you refused to acknowledge.

Your anger crumbled into guilt. “I-I should have listened,” you croaked, tears rising once again. “I'm sorry, I—”

“No, no. None of that,” he shushed, bundling you into his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I just feel so…so stupid,” you whimpered, crying into the safety of his chest, enveloped in the spiced, slightly sweet smell of his cologne.

“You aren't stupid, love. Far from it,” he soothed, hand smoothing up and down your spine. “This is on him, not you. You don't deserve to be treated like this.” He rocked you gently while you cried, cooing softly in your ear and keeping you grounded with his touch, until finally, your sobs ebbed to sniffles, and you drew a full, shaky breath. “There you go,” he said. “Take another one—that’s it. I've got you.”

“Thanks, Georgie,” you sniffled into his shirt.

“No need to thank me. I'm sorry that your Valentine's was ruined,” he murmured into your hair.

“I'm sorry yours was ruined too,” you mumbled, your fists tightening in the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him a fraction closer, unwilling to part just yet.

“Ruined?” He chuckled. “Got my Valentine right here.” He squeezed you a little tighter, the air wheezing for your lungs until you laughed.

“Since when am I your Valentine?” You asked, pulling back to look up at him, a traitorous stab of affection making your heart skip. Shit, you should not be feeling these things for your best friend. It was just your hurt feelings, the holiday—nothing more.

“Since second year when I gave you that heart-shaped box of chocolates,” he said, pretending to be offended that you didn't remember.

“The one that exploded pink powder all over my face?”

George grimaced. “I forgot it did that…sorry, by the way.”

You smiled, pinching his freckled cheek. “You're forgiven.”

He grinned back, glancing down at your wet dress. “C’mon, get out of this wet cupcake and meet me in my dorm, I have something for you.”

“Cupcake?” You rolled your eyes, finally stepping out of his arms, though his hand lingered on your waist until you were fully out of arms reach. “It's a dress!”

“If you say so,” he teased, perusing your legs as you walked away. “I prefer your bunny pajamas, but—”

You chucked your shoe at him. “Fuck off, I'll see you in a second.”

He held his hands up in surrender and slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.

What on earth could he have for you? Probably his usual box of chocolates, you mused as you peeled off the soggy fabric. Hopefully the non-explosive variety.

You riffled through your trunk, searching for something oversized and comfortable. But to your dismay, nearly everything large enough was your boyfriends, and you absolutely refused to wear something of his.

But at the very bottom of your trunk, something familiar caught your eye. You pulled it out, unveiling an old Quidditch hoodie, the letters faded and fabric soft from countless washes. George had lent it to you before a particularly cold match, and Gryffindor won in a landslide. It became a good luck charm of sorts, one you wore to every game there after.

But when you started dating Jack, he'd gotten pissed at you for wearing it, and you'd hidden it at the bottom of your trunk, never quite ready to give it back to George.

It smelled of green grass and open sky, and you tugged it over your head, letting it's warmth envelop you. Then, you put on a pair of sleep shorts and fuzzy socks, and padded out of the room towards George's, knocking twice before letting yourself in.

Fred and George were standing by the window, arguing in hushed voices, and straightened abruptly when you walked in.

“Hey, gorgeous!” Fred said, crossing the room and pulling you into a back-breaking hug. He reeked of beer. “How are we?”

“Peachy,” you replied tightly, glancing at George over Fred’s shoulder. He was scratching the back of his head, looking sheepish.

“Naughty girl, lying to me.” Fred winked, and you swatted his shoulder. “But don't worry, love. The boys are on it!”

“The boys? Wait—Fred!” But he was already gone, the door swinging shut behind him. You glared at George, and he held his hands up.

“They were worried about you!” He said defensively. “We care about you, y’know…” his voice trailed off when his eyes landed on your hoodie. “You still have that?”

Heat creeped up your neck. “’Course I do.”

“I thought shit-for-brains made you—”

“He tried,” you replied, tension coiling around the two of you once again.

A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. “My good luck charm,” he chuckled, and your heart leapt into your throat.

“So, what do you have for me?” You asked, sitting on the edge of his bed like you always did. But something in his eyes flashed, making your lower belly heat.

What was going on with him?

He pushed himself from the wall and walked towards his trunk, just to the left of you. He rummaged around, withdrawing a pink gift bag with heart-covered tissue paper sticking out from the top.

“Oh, George…you didn't have to do this,” you said when he sat beside you.

“I wanted to.” He shrugged, setting the bag on your lap.

Heart pounding in your chest, you carefully removed the tissue paper, finding a pile of candy: chocolates and gummy lips and heart-shaped lollipops. There were also a few sachets of your favorite tea, pilfered from the kitchen, you imagined, and a copy of the book you'd been eyeballing your last trip to Hogsmeade with him and Fred.

Your heart was so full you feared it may burst. “Georgie, this is so sweet, thank you—”

“There's one more thing,” he said, gently taking the bag from you. He stuck his hand all the way to the bottom, and withdrew a small, pink-wrapped box with a ribbon tied around it.

The air was sucked from your lungs, ears ringing with shock as you gingerly took the box from him. He fidgeted beside you as you slowly unwrapped the paper, fingers trembling. The energy was taught around you, practically humming with tension.

A velvet box fell into your palm, the most gorgeous shade of burgundy with a delicate golden latch.

You almost didn't want to open it, terrified of what this meant, but so giddy you could sing. George, the poor guy, looked ready to burst out of his skin with impatience.

Carefully, you opened the lid. Inside was a gorgeous chain bracelet, the metal polished to perfection, with two charms resting against the velvet pillow. A tiny heart with your initial etched onto it, and a small fox, George's favorite mischievous, red-haired critter.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, tears pooling on your lower lashes. It was the most thoughtful gift you'd ever received. “George, I—”

“And you can get more charms, there's a shop in Hogsmeade with loads, books and birds and stars--”

You flung your arms around his neck, cutting off his nervous rambling. “I love it, Georgie, thank you,” you murmured into the crook of his neck.

He relaxed, his arms looping around your waist. “Of course,” he replied.

You pulled back, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand, inspecting the little fox. It crossed your mind that if Jack saw this, he'd be livid, probably go so far as to threaten George, break off the precious little fox, and your smile fell.

“Hey, what happened?” George asked, shifting to kneel in front of you as you curled inward. “You don't like the fox?”

“No, no—” you tried to suppress the tears forcing their way up. “I love the fox. I just—”

George's expression hardened. “Jack won't like it,” he said, an edge to his voice. “You're not going to stay with him, are you?”

You shook your head. “No, I'm not. But we're technically still together—”

“That's bullshit,” George snarled, pushing to his feet and stalking away from you. “He fucking forfeited his right when he left you alone like that. You could have gotten hurt. He just fucking abandoned you and is probably off with some other bird—”

A sob broke free from your chest, and he halted his tirade, shoulders sagging.

“Do you want him?” George asked, crouching in front of you again.

You shook your head. “No, I don’t,” you admitted.

George reached out to cradle your face, catching your tears with his thumbs. His eyes were so sweet, so sincere, it made your teeth ache. “Do you want me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words still felt like a punch through your chest.

Your mind was reeling. Of course, a part of you always wanted more with him, but… “I do, of course I do…but what if that ruins everything?” Your fingers curled into his shirt. “I don't want to lose you—”

“Never,” he said, shaking you so you met his eyes. “Never.”

“Relationships are different, though. What if we don't work like…that?”

His hands moved down to hold your neck, his touch gentle but insistent, your pulse thundering under his fingertips. “I’m still me, and you're still you. Are you going to look me in the eyes and tell me you haven't thought about it? That you haven't felt the pull?”

You don't reply, averting your eyes from his face.

“Not even when you're all alone, and Jack’s left you half-loved, tangled in your sheets…you don't think about me coming in there and taking care of you?”

Heat scorched your cheeks, your thighs clenching at the low purr of his voice, a pitch you hadn't heard before.

“Because I think about it all the time.”

You pussy throbbed and you gasped, shocked by the way your body was reacting to his words alone, your mind scrambling to keep up with this new reality you've stumbled into.

“Knowing I could treat you better, love you better—it keeps me up at night, baby. Imagining all the ways I could take care of you, make you happy, make you mine—”

Unable to stand it any longer, you yanked him forward and connected your mouth with his, cutting him off. He groaned, surging up to tackle you back onto his mattress, his lips hungry and rough against yours. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, his lips, his touch, his heat, burning you from the inside out.

No one has ever kissed you like that before, desperate, ravenous. With an eagerness that was palpable, his heart thundering against yours as he pressed impossibly closer to you.

He pried open your lips with his, his tongue plunging into your mouth with fervid strokes. One of his hands slid under your hoodie, caressing the bare skin of your hip and up your side, leaving tingles in the wake of his calloused palm. His other hand found the crook of your knee, lifting it up to hug his waist, opening your legs so he could press closer, harder…

“George!” You gasped when he rolled his hips against yours, the hard ridge of his cock straining against his jeans, your tiny shorts offering next to no barrier.

“Fuck, I've wanted to hear that for so long,” he panted, burying his face into your neck to kiss and lick at the sensitive skin. “Sound so pretty, baby.” He rolled his hips again, and your whole body arched closer to him, desperate for more as a weak whine spilled from your lips. The seam of his jeans caught your swelling clit just right, making your entire body hum with desire.

“Merlin’s fuck—what are you doing to me?” You keened, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, starving for the feel of his skin against yours.

“The bare minimum,” he teased, nipping at your earlobe. “You make it so easy to love you.” His hands squeezed at your flesh, his breath hot against your neck as he continued rocking your hips together. “So fucking sexy, so responsive. I knew you'd be perfect—” he grunted when you thrust your hips back up against him.

You finally managed to get his shirt off, pushing it over his shoulders and he tossed it onto the floor. The pale stretch of freckled skin on his chest made your mouth water, but you didn't get to admire him for long. He tugged your hoodie over your head, casting it across the room, and revealing the near see-through lacy red thing you'd selected for the evening and didn't bother changing out of.

A broken sound hissed through his teeth. Jealousy bloomed in his eyes, his jaw feathering with irritation.

You reached up to caress his cheek, drawing his eyes to your face. “He never got to see it,” you cooed, petting the hard line of his jaw and coaxing him to relax. “All yours now, yeah? No one else's.”

His eyes searched your face, anger melting into scalding desire. “Say it again,” he rasped.

“All yours,” you hummed, pecking his lips.

His hand spread across your collarbones, long fingers stretching nearly shoulder to shoulder, and he shoved you roughly back onto the bed. The next moment, his mouth was on your chest, hot and warm through the thin lace as he smeared open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue lashed one peaked nipple, drawing a cry from your lips as he sucked the bud and fabric between his teeth.

Your hands flew into his hair, tugging and guiding his mouth where you wanted him, and he went willingly, eager for any and all contact, quick to repeat the tricks that made your breath hitch.

His hand slid down your stomach, beneath he waist band of your shorts, and he dragged his middle finger through your dripping slit, a high-pitched moaning making him smile against your chest.

“Merlin, you're soaked,” he purred, kissing up your neck and capturing your lips in a messy, top-lip kiss. His finger swirled around your puffy clit, applying just enough pressure to have pleasure radiating through your body. “You get this wet for him, baby?” He whispered, dipping his fingertips into your entrance, once, twice, before sinking down to the knuckle. “Little cunt sucking me right in. She was ready for me, hm?”

“G-George,” his name was a fractured whimper on your tongue, your mind going fuzzy when he curled his finger up, hitting a spot that you'd never felt before.

“Oh, you poor thing,” George cooed, adding a second finger and stroking the same spot again, your whole body hitching up the bed at the intensity of it. But his body weight held you down, his mouth painting gentle kisses along your skin to try and soothe you. “He never touch you like this? Never found that spot—fuck, right there, baby? That's it?”

You bobbled your head like an idiot, grinding your hips back into his hand as he started fucking his fingers into you more deliberately, the lewd, gooey smack of your pussy filling the dorm.

“Good girl,” he praised, propping himself up to peer down at you, eyes blown wide with lust as he took in your trembling, sweat-kissed skin. “How did I get so fucking lucky?” He asked, leaning down to kiss you again, all softness and affection, so different than the relentless way he was dominating your cunt.

You pawed at his jeans, tugging at his belt. “Mmph, please—need you,” you whined against his mouth, and he groaned.

“Fuck, you're killing me, love,” he grated, his hips bucking into your hand. “You want my cock that bad?”

You nodded, still struggling with his belt.

He pushed off of you and undid his belt, removing his jeans and shoes in record time, his flushed cock slapping up against his stomach. He grabbed you by the ankle and tugged you to the edge of the bed.

“You've got a slutty little thong under here, don't you?” He asked, toying with the waistband of your shorts.

“Maybe,” you said, half-distracted by his cock jumping at the sound of your voice, the tip slick with precum.

He glanced down, following your gaze, and chuckled. “My eyes are up here, pretty girl,” he chastised with a light slap to your inner thigh. He pushed your shorts down your legs, followed by the red thong your wore underneath. He tossed the thong onto his bedside table, instead of the floor with the rest of the clothes.

You raised an eyebrow at him, about to make some teasing remark, when he dragged his cockhead through your messy slit, and all thoughts tumbled right out of your brain, dripping from between your legs.

“For later, yeah?” He said, smirking when your eyes rolled back when he tapped your clit with the head. “So next time I see that fucker, I can show him exactly what he lost.”

“George—” you started to chastise him for being cruel when he notched at your entrance, sinking halfway into your willing pussy, and you both cried out. The fullness, the stretch, was mind-melting. Better than anything you'd felt in your life.

George braced his hand beside your head, sagging forward as he hissed a curse under his breath. “Fucking shit, love,” he panted, his muscles locked up so tight he was practically vibrating. “M'done for if you keep squeezin’ me like that.”

You moaned, lifting your hips to take him a little deeper, needing more even though you felt like he was ripping you apart at the seams. “Please, Georgie,” you whimpered, clawing at his skin. “Want all of you.”

“I know, honey. I know. Just give me a second.” He leaned further down, peppering kisses across your cheeks and jaw. “Don't wanna hurt you, gotta relax f’me.”

You took a few breaths, trying to get your muscles to relax as his lips moved over your fevered skin. You felt him slide a bit deeper, the stretch not quite as intense.

“Good girl, that's it. Just a little further,” he praised, his hand gripping the flesh of your hip as he started rocking into you, slow, rolling thrusts that got incrementally longer each time, until his pelvis met yours and you were a moaning mess, writhing beneath him, desperate for more.

George straightened, his hand on the bed shifting to your shoulder, and he snapped his hips forward, forcing a cry from your lips as pleasure struck you like lightning. He set a rough pace, fucking you deep and hard, his grip on your body keeping you locked in place.

You were lost in it, helpless to the pitch and roll of his ocean, completely adrift in the pleasure he was pulling from your body. You tried to fuck back against him, but your body refused to cooperate, dumb and boneless and cockdrunk.

“So fucking pretty like this. Tell me how pretty you are, baby,” he said, his hand leaving your hip to rub tight circles over your clit.

“Mmph—fuck, so pretty,” you managed, voice throttled with lust and desperation.

“Yeah, you are.” He grinned. “My pretty girl takin’ this cock so well. He fuck you like this? Have you a drooling mess for him?”

You shook your head, nails biting into his thighs as your release prowled closer, coiling tight in your belly. “No, never,” you keened, when ratcheted up the pace sensing your looming orgasm.

“That's right, all mine. Who does this pussy belong to? Who has your heart?”

“You, you! Fuck, George, I’m—”

“Go on, love. Come for me, I'm right there with you. Come on.” His thrusts grew rougher and sloppier as his own release approached, and with a final, punishing snap of his hips, you both went flying over the edge and into white hot bliss.

You screamed and he caught the sound with a kiss, fucked you through it as your pussy clamped around him. Wringing every bit of pleasure from you both until he sagged forward, his head falling into the crook of your neck as you both gasped for breath.

He kissed along the damp column of your throat, making his way to your lips, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your trembling thighs. “Did so good,” he murmured between lazy pecks. “I'm proud of you.”

You giggled, feeling almost giddy to have George in your arms, kissing you and praising you so sweetly. “That was amazing,” you breathed, and he smiled, giving one last thrust before withdrawing and using magic to clean you both up.

“You were amazing,” he corrected. “Like I said, you're easy to love.”

Butterflies rioted in your stomach. “So are you.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before handing you your hoodie and shorts. You both got semi-dressed and snuggled into his bed, his bare chest under your ear, heart thumping steadily.

You grabbed the gift bag and took out the bracelet. “Will you put it on me?”

“Of course,” he beamed, carefully taking the the jewelry and clasping it around your wrist, kissing the tender skin of your pulse before releasing you. “Looks perfect on you,” he said, looking down at your smiling face as you turned your wrist this way and that.

“I love it, Georgie. Thank you.” You snuggled closer into his side.

“Always.” He dropped a kiss on top of your head, then grabbed the gift back from you, pulling out a handful of candy and popping one of the lollipops into his mouth. “Not as sweet as your pussy, but…”

You rolled your eyes and placed a chocolate truffle on your tongue, letting the deliciousness fill your mouth.

Bang! There was a fumbling outside of the door and George quickly yanked the curtain shut, just before what sounded like several people came tumbling into the room.

“Get the fuck off of me, Weasley—” Jack.

“Absolutely not, you're going to apologize,” Fred replied, his voice a little too chipper for the current situation.

George was up in a blink, his chest littered with the marks you gave you him, and pushed through the curtain. “Well, well. Seems you aren't dead, or maimed…so what exactly is your excuse for standing up my girl on Valentine's Day?” George asked.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, I—your girl?” Jack hissed. “She's mine.”

George chuckled. “Love, would you like to come out here and set the record straight?”

“What?” Jack barked. “She's not here—”

You slipped out of bed and tried to right yourself before stepping out of the curtain and into the room. Fred and Lee had Jack by arms, dressed only in his boxers. Harry and Ron stood off to the side, watching everything unfold with mild amusement.

George was leaning against the bed frame, lollipop in his cheek, a triumphant smirk on his face.

“We're done, Jack,” you said, getting it over with. But strangely, you didn't feel any of the guilt from before. And you shouldn't. Jack was a prick, and didn't deserve your tears or empathy.

“I miss one date and you shack up with fucking Weasley?” Jack spit, and George's eyes darkened. “Fucking whore—”

Fred and Lee shook him roughly, yelling at him to watch his mouth, and you recoiled a bit. George seemed to stay surprisingly calm, until you saw him reach for his Beater bat beside the bed.

“George, wait—”

George jabbed the tip of the bat into Jack's sternum, and the boy went pale. “If I hear you running your fucking mouth about her again, I will smash your jaw to splinters. Clear?”

Your heart lost its rhythm. You'd never seen George like this, and you loved it. Loved being his.

Jack bobbed his head yes, trembling in Fred and Lee's hold.

Lee snickered. “Prick looks like he might piss himself.”

“Now get the fuck out,” George ordered.

“Wait, one more thing,” you said, and the boys all turned their attention to you. You sauntered up to Jack, and you saw a flicker of hope in his eyes.

Fucking idiot.

You thrust your knee up, nailing him right in the bollocks, and he howled so loud the other boys dropped him into a heap on the floor.

“Fuck you,” you spit, turning on your heel and stepping into George's open arms.

“That's my girl,” George cooed, taking the lollipop of his mouth to kiss you properly, the strawberry flavor sweet on his tongue. He waved at the others over your head as he deepened the kiss, and you heard them all file out, laughing and jeering as they dragged Jack behind them, the door swinging shut and locking.

“He deserved it,” you mumbled between kisses, giggling when George lifted you into the air, your legs wrapping around his waist.

“And now it's time you get what you deserve,” he smirked, laying you back down on the mattress and shifting down between your legs. “And I get my reward for absolutely crushing Valentine's Day.”

You burst out laughing, the sound shifting to moan as he licked a stripe through your slit. “You're right, best Valentine's Day ever.”

© agreeewrites 2025. do not copy, translate or claim my writing as your own.

[veebeeboo109]

[Read on AO3]

Continuation of Cleaning up the Timeline

[10.6k words - Poly!Lads x Reader: Rafayel is acting weird, and why does everyone seem to know what's going on except for you?]

Tags: Scenting, BREED!NG, Heat, Merman!Rafayel, Polycule Love and Deepspace MxM and FxM.

Ebb Day

“You smell .” Rafayel hisses when you return home on early spring evening. You’re surprised to see him lounging on the couch, and more surprised still when he jumps up and approaches you.

“I was running around all day.” You defend with a sigh. It wasn’t a particularly hard day, but the nature of your job was a physical one; you would think Rafayel would be used to it by now. “I just walked in, geez. ”

Xavier steps close behind you and audibly sniffs, “You don’t stink to me.”

You laugh at his gentle tone and wave him away, “Thank you, Xavier, but clearly I’ve offended Rafayel’s sensitive nose.”

You speak teasingly, but the scowl on Rafayel’s face doesn’t falter. It’s an odd day when your resident sea god isn’t tucked away in his studio when you get home, and even more bizarre when he doesn’t entertain banter.

His comment on your scent leads to him stripping you before you’ve even entered your bedroom and crowding you into the shower. It must be serious when he forgoes the bath. In another odd turn, Rafayel picks through the lineup of body wash you’ve collected, sniffing each one and scowling until he finds one he can tolerate. 

Rafayel scrubs at your skin with a fluffy pink luffa, and the determination in his eyes confuses you. He looks at you like you’ve betrayed him somehow, and so you grab his hand before he can continue his chafing. “What’s the matter? Did something happen?”

Rafayel’s eyes widen at your audacity to grab him. When he looks up at you, there’s an eerie blue tinge to his usual alexandrite eyes. Your heart twists in both fear and anticipation. 

“You stink.” He says curtly, twisting his wrist to detach your hand. You’re aware of Rafayel’s power, on a surface level, and the danger could pose to you, but you always forget what being at the receiving end of his ire feels like.

You’re a mackerel in a swarm, swimming wildly as the shark cuts through the water. You’re neither faster nor stronger than he is. You’re hardly a proper meal to chomp between his teeth.

There is less than one second where you realize something’s definitely not right before your cheek smacks against the tile wall. The icy cold sending shocks down your spine, contrasting against the scalding water. 

Steam has coated the glass walls of the shower, creating the illusion of being hidden. A sense of privacy that you know doesn’t truly exist in a house such as yours. Rafayel never really minds it. He, like a few of the others, enjoys the idea of the others hearing you. 

Though, today seems different. There’s an unhinged edge to your lover’s eyes, something has come loose inside him and it leaves him in shambles. Jaw open and panting as he pushes your shoulders into the wall but draws your hips back. 

With one hand, he grabs a fistful of your behind. Squeezing your flesh and looking drunk while he does, like the malleability is this new, novel, enchanting thing. 

“How dare you…” Rafayel’s voice is a growl– a deep, predatory sound. “How dare you…come here…like this…”

“What are talk–” Your words are cut off as Rafayel moves his hand and presses the tip of his thumb to your folds. The breath inside you falters, and escapes as a stuttering gasp. 

“It’s too hot.” He huffs and with the hand not teasing you, he reaches over to the shower controls and twists it to cold. It takes a moment for the spray to catch up, and when it does you squeal. 

The icy cold water is a shock to your system, and reflexively you wiggle away from it, pushing closer to the wall. “ Ah ! What’s wrong with you!? Turn it back!”

“Don’t run from me.” Rafayel croaks, sounding much less aggressive than before and much more desperate. The growl in his voice has turned to a whine.

You turn, too concerned now to entertain Rafayel’s seduction. Grabbing the siren by the sides of his face, you hold him still, letting the water cascade over his back. 

“Are you sick?” You ask gently, tilting his face from side to side.

He doesn’t look flush, at least, no more than usual. There’s a pink tinge to his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, but you could write that off from his arousal– which is currently resting against your hip and tapping you in time with the beat of his fast-paced heart. 

His eyes search your face and then drag down. Down the line of your neck and collarbone, sweeping across your chest and back up again. Lazy and unfocused like he can’t help himself.

“Rafayel,” You say when he doesn’t reply. Shaking him slightly, you try again, “Rafayel what’s going on?”

Rafayel blinks slowly and then squeezes his eyes closed tight. He grabs your upper arms like he might slip right down the drain if he doesn’t. “It’s nothing. It’s…I’m fine.”

You’re not convinced, and continue to hold him. The temperature in the shower is making you shiver, but you’re not going to be the first to let go. If something is wrong– and there clearly is– you won’t let him suffer alone. 

“Are you feverish?” You ask a little quieter. Nearly whispering. 

Rafayel’s shoulder jerk, and his head lifts suddenly. Snapping back to himself, he takes a quick breath and turns the shower off completely, “The water’s freezing. Let’s get you dry.”

The diversion makes you frown, but you follow him out of the shower anyway. The rosy tint to his cheeks remains, and somehow gets worse when he grabs a towel and begins to pat you dry. 

“I’m not letting this go,” You say firmly, grabbing the towel from his hands and wrapping it around yourself. 

“Ehh…” Rafayel makes a whiny, petulant sound, “Can’t you? It’s fine. I promise.”

You frown pointedly at him. It’s not like him to be so secretive. Usually, if something is bothering him, he’s chatting your ear off about it. Rafayel is guarded with most people, viciously so, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve done something wrong. Have you lost his trust somehow?

You get dressed and mull over this for a moment. Rafayel kisses your cheek and then your temple. He inhales deeply, like he’s trying to press your scent as far as it can go in his mind. Although that would normally amuse you, you’re only more perturbed. 

Rafayel retreats to his studio, mumbling to himself. While you head back downstairs, frustrated and confused. 

Things only get weirder from there. 

Rafayel’s already keen senses seem to be even sharper. He refuses to let anyone sleep in the bed unless they’ve bathed with scentless soap. 

Your room has somehow become his room, and your bed has become his bed. A safe spot that you have to have permission to enter. Rafayel refuses to entertain sass, and physically kicks Sylus out of the bed one night when the dragon teases a little too hard about him being needy. 

Zayne hardly gets a moment to himself, the poor guy. The cool aura the doctor exudes has Rafayel glued to his side. At night, you’re sandwiched between them, shivering despite being surrounded from tip to toe. One afternoon, after another day of hunting, you arrive to find Zayne on the couch with Rafayel in his lap. The artist has his arms beneath Zayne’s shirt, pressing as much flesh against him as possible. 

Finally someone acknowledges that something is wrong, but it comes in the form of a plane ticket and an already-packed suitcase being handed to you. 

Rafayel is buzzing about the house, prepping for this impromptu (but not-so impromptu) trip to your isolated beach house. He fusses over Caleb’s choice of traveling clothes, and the fact the pilot is only bringing a single duffle bag. 

Xavier follows the two of them around, mediating between the slightly neurotic artist and the too-casual pilot. Xavier’s suitcases sit beside yours in the entryway, and he’s been spending the better part of an hour trying to coax the two towards the door. 

Sylus coordinated the driving service and the airport for your flight (because all six of you won’t fit in the cars you currently have), grumbling on his phone about keeping things discreet. He’s got Mephisto on his free arm, typing what looks like some instructions to Luke and Kieran about an upcoming job. Always busy, that one.

This leaves you and Zayne waiting near the front door. Everyone else seems to be on board, and you’re beginning to wonder if they held a family meeting without you. Not that you’re complaining about having a week off, but this doesn’t feel like a vacation for some reason. 

Xavier is finally able to get the two bickering parties out the door, and the poor prince is exhausted. He falls asleep on the way to the airport and thankfully misses Rafayel’s hissy fit about the temperature inside the vehicle.

Sylus leaves the driver a heavy tip. 

Surprising to no one except you, Caleb is going to be flying the luxe private plane Sylus has procured. He puts on his fancy aviators and enters the aircraft first, meeting the other few members of crew that had been hired. 

Rafayel pulls you onto the plane and into a seat next to him near the back. Silently, he buckles you in and then begins to fidget with the air vents. He’s so on edge you can almost feel it radiate off of him, and you’re close to smacking him upside the head and demanding answers. 

You feel the plane whir to life beneath you. The intercom overhead statics before Caleb’s voice comes through, slightly muffled, “Lady and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Looks like we’ve got good weather on our trip. We’ll arrive at our destination at about 0800 hours local time.”

The plane begins to move, rolling slowly from the tarmac where you boarded to the runway. 

Caleb’s distorted laugh continues, “Probably a bad time to mention I haven’t flown a passenger aircraft since I was in flight school–”

A tight unamused silence falls. 

“ – anyway! Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.”

Sylus finishes off his glass of wine in one swig. “Hold tight.”

“If he pulls a barrel roll, I’ll kill him.” Zayne grumbles, not even looking up from the shopping catalog he snatched in the airport. 

Thankfully, Caleb doesn’t pull a barrel roll. Despite not having flown a passenger craft in a while, you weren’t able to tell at all. 

The last time you were here, you’d been hopped up on painkillers and surrounded by men so worried that your keel over from a harsh breeze you could barely enjoy it. You still had a wonderful time, but you were ready to experience your beach hideaway to the fullest this time. 

Only, you’re more worried about Rafayel to enjoy the scenery right now. It’s late when you arrive, and Rafayel insists on a bath. He pushes past the rest of you to shamble inside, and you’re dragging your suitcase so fast behind you it clacks against the sidewalk. 

You abandon the suitcase at the door and follow him, “Rafayel!”

He doesn’t turn, climbing the stairs and shoving open the hall bathroom. You hadn’t seen the upstairs on your last visit, and you're surprised by the large window that overlooks the ocean. The free-standing white tub sits just in front of it.

Rafayel turns on the cold tap and starts to fill the tub, stripping off his shirt without looking back at you. 

You grab his arm before he can take off his pants, “Rafayel, what’s– oh god, you’re burning up!”

Before he can even reply, you’re reaching out to place your hand against his forehead and then his neck. The heat coming off his skin is sweltering– searing like the flames of his evol. 

“I’ll get you some medicine or something.” You say, hating the way his eyes seem unfocused. There’s a pink blush spreading across his face, down to his neck and to his chest. You don’t want to leave him, but the desire to help was too strong. 

You hear the splash of water as you escape the bathroom, and nearly stumble down the stairs in your rush. 

“Zayne!” You call, and find him with your suitcase in his hand, bringing it to your bedroom. You scurry past a concerned looking Caleb to approach your doctor, “Do you have something for fever? Rafayel is sick.”

Zayne’s brow furrows, “Sick?”

“Kitten…” Sylus drawls, coming up to nearly press into your back. He too is rather warm, but even the heat from a dragon’s form pales in comparison to the fever you’d just felt coming off of Rafayel. “He’s not sick.”

You whirl to give Sylus a sharp, unamused glare– while Zayne roots through his carry-on bag for some medicine. Scowling at the amusement on the dragon's face, you poke him in the sternum harshly, “He’s burning up, and he could hardly keep eye contact. He’s clearly ill.”

“Here.” Zayne offers you a white pill bottle. An over-the-counter pain reliever, “I’m not sure if it will help with his different physiology, but it’s what I have. Though, is a fever not to be expected?”

Sylus chuckles like they’re all in on a secret, and you’re close to fuming. Xavier comes up and places a gentle hand to your back, giving both Zayne and Sylus a stern look, “Don’t be cruel. You know she wasn’t told anything about this.”

“Told about what!?” You screech, throwing your hands up and rattling the pills inside the bottle. “Somebody better start talking or I’m gonna start throwing hands, I swear to god.”

Zayne exchanges a look with the others, a silent exchange that looks too much like should we? Another scathing remark burns at the tip of your tongue, ready to kick these too-tall men into shape if they keep playing coy with information. If something’s wrong with Rafayel, then why can’t you know about it?

However,  your snark disappears as Caleb comes shambling down the stairs, looking a little wide-eyed and startled. “Uh, pips? Rafayel wants you.”

You turn and find that Caleb’s clothes are both wet in places and scorched in others. He brushes through his hair and sighs, like he barely escaped with his life. 

“What the hell happened to you?” You ask.

Caleb laughs sheepishly and shrugs, “He doesn’t want me, clearly . Told me he’d turn me into an apple fritter if I bothered him again.”

You huff, and turn to the others. “I’m going to take care of Rafayel.” Your voice is firm and leaves no room for argument, “And when I come back down, I expect some answers.”

You take the steps two at a time back up stairs, leaving the rest of your lovers in various states of amusement and discontent.

“Anyone care to fill me in?” Caleb asks as he pats down the side of his shirt that caught a little too close to Rafayel’s flames. The attack from the sea god hadn't been aimed to kill, just to scare. A wide spread of fire to disperse the unwanted intrusion. 

“She won’t be coming downstairs for a while.” Sylus replies, shifting on his feet and crossing his arms. “Our resident fish is experiencing his special time.”

Xavier scowls at the fiend, “We were sworn to secrecy on the matter. Where is your loyalty?”

“It was Rafayel’s idea to come here,” Zayne says matter-of-factly. “If it were to remain a secret, why not hide away for a week like he always did?”

Caleb groans, “C’mon, just tell me. I’ll find out eventually, won’t I? What harm is there now?”

Previously, Rafayel dealt with this time of year on his own. Sweat it out locked away in his room, or in a safehouse a few cities away. It was just an unspoken rule, Rafayel was at his most vulnerable at this time– and until recently, things were too uncertain for him to indulge in it.

In the Sanctuary, Rafayel was adamant that this unusual occurrence would be kept from you. The other men were sworn to secrecy, and promised to keep you occupied while Rafayel disappeared for a few days every year. Because, while Rafayel’s heart belonged to all of them, the bond of Lemuria was first forged with you. 

You knock softly before entering the bathroom. The sound of sloshing water meeting your ears as you slowly step inside. “Rafayel? You okay?”

A soft groan replies, and you spy his head hung back, resting on the rounded lip of the ivory tub. His hair is wet and slicked back, the long creamy length of his throat bobs as you grow closer. Sweat beads at his crown and drips down his nose– rosy lips parted and panting. 

And as pretty a picture he makes, it’s not what you stare at. 

Where his legs once were is a long, powerful, cerulean tail. The scales are huge and iridescent, shimmering like an opal with every tiny movement, gradually growing smaller down the length of it. It’s far too long to fit in the tub, so nearly half hangs out of it, draped across the floor. The translucent tailfin lies limply at your feet, and looks thin like dewy skin of a jellyfish. 

You haven’t seen his tail in this life, and it’s more striking than your returned memories could do justice. 

“Rafayel…” You whisper, partially in awe and partially in concern. He doesn’t look well, and he’s never changed forms in the bathtub before. Setting the pill bottle aside for a moment, you step close to the tub and use your hand to cup water and trickle it down the exposed scales– worried they might dry out. 

A soft, whine leaves his blushed lips, and his eyes stare at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like you might be something conjured from the fever. 

“It’s okay…” You say, reaching out to brush your hand through his damp hair, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

A piteous moan rings from him, and he grips the side of the tub like he might sink and drown. Hips rolling against the cold water and sloshing more over the side, splashing down on the tile. “I need….” He rasps, licking at his lips like he hasn’t tasted moisture in days. “I need… ”

“I know,” You say, reaching down to grab the pill bottle. “I got some painkillers. Here–”

You go to open the bottle, but Rafayel’s scalding palm snaps to your wrist. The sound of your gasp and the pills scattering to the floor fill the room, but then quickly followed with a low, animal rumble from Rafayel’s chest. 

He drags you close, hovering over him. Unceremoniously, Rafayel pulls your hand down beneath the water– the frigid temperature stings your skin. You feel the heat of him before you touch him, and the slick almost slimy feeling of his scales meets your fingertips. 

The instant your fingers meet his heated flesh, a ragged, dragged out moan is punched out of him, and his hips rolls towards your open palm. You’ve barely touched him, and he already looks completely fucked-out. Multi-colored irises rolled back, mouth open, throat bobbing. 

You press your hand a little firmer to the scales around his hip, and he inhales sharply through his teeth– a deeply satisfying sound. Dragging your fingers towards where you’re sure he wants it, you’re met with another shock. 

Where normally, his pretty flushed cock would be waiting for you– he throbs so pretty when he’s desperate– you find nothing. Well, not exactly nothing , but not what you were expecting. 

Rafayel still has a vice grip on your wrist, and pulls you closer to the crux of his hips– where his penis should be. Only, instead, you find more scales. Large, thin, and glass-like. The dip in them is nearly imperceptible, and looking through the rippling surface of the water provides no more clues. 

Your fingertips catch on an anomaly in the patter of his scales, a little divot you hadn’t felt the first time across. Pausing, you press a little to this odd dip, and Rafayel's keen moan lets you know you’re on the right track. 

You lift up to watch his face– the lewd colors of his cheeks contrasted by the shimmery scales that decorated it. You can almost see his pulse pound in his neck, and resist the urge to overstimulate him further with your teeth. Pushing your fingers harder, you gasp when the dip gives way to a slit. Your digits slide easily into a tight, fleshy passage, fluttering around you like a welcome. 

“ Ahh!” Rafayel cries, “Please! Please love….inside. Inside more…. more …”

He’s practically delirious with it, and it’s intoxicating. You’ve never had Rafayel begging for you like this, and the power is too delicious to stop. You’ve got the god of tides writhing on your fingers, and you're not even knuckle deep yet. 

“Why did you hide this from me?” You coo softly, leaning over to place your face close to his. He turns to face you, and his eyes immediately fall to your lips. A soft, silent, plea for your kiss. 

He tries to speak, and you can tell because his tongue moves ineffectually in his pleasure drunk mouth. You tut softly, and give him the tender kiss he desires. 

“Shh…” You hum against his lips, “I’ve got you. It’s okay….just let me take care of you….”

He dissolves at your words, pressing his face as close as he can to yours. You keep up a steady, slow rhythm of your fingers. Letting the gooey topography of his slit guide you. You’re not sure how much he can take, and you’re not interested in hurting him– yet. 

Rafayel’s hips continue to rut, as indiscernible pleas spill from his lips. You wonder if this is what you look like in the heat of things– a wanton amalgamation of desperation and desire chasing a high. 

As he gets closer to his peak, you notice something change. A tighter pressure that presses against the back of your fingers and then up. It’s wet, and swelteringly hot. The heat alone has you turning your head to try and get a better look at what’s going. 

Oh. 

You gasp softly, even through the shifting water you can see the flushed, nearly purple appendage protruding from his slit just beneath your hand. So he does have a cock in this form.

Except…it’s not alone. Side by side, they lie. Forming an almost mandorla shape together, and two halves of a whole separately. They long and prehensile, you discover, as they split apart to wrap around your wrist. 

It’s obscene. It’s….amazing. You can’t look away, and you can’t stop yourself from drawing your fingers from his channel and reaching for them. His cocks greet you like they’d been waiting for it. A deep, heavy throb as you wrap your fingers lightly around them. They fit together almost seamlessly, and if you hadn’t seen them move apart, you’d think there was only one, large, tentacle-like cock. 

You’ve barely squeezed them when Rafayel shouts– a strangled, surprised noise cutting through him. His cocks jolt and you can feel him come. The rush of come spurting out and into the water. Pump after pump after pump. 

Rafayel’s hand grabs at your arm, and his nails dig into your flesh harshly. 

You’re mesmerized. There’s a matching beat deep in your belly, as your own arousal begins to hurt slightly. Drunk on this all-encompassing control you have over him, you turn to watch his face as he comes down from his sudden, bone-shattering high. 

He starts to catch his breath, and you can see as his eyes slowly come back into focus. Whatever feverish delight had taken over him, is subsided for now, and he languidly draws you in. A hand on the side of your face and the other on your neck– he doesn’t let you escape. A soft kiss at first, and then a little harder. He bites at your lip like he might sustain himself from the taste alone. 

He pauses and pulls away, but only an inch. He searches your face for a moment, before whispering, “Did I hurt you?”

You laugh breathlessly and shake your head as much as you can while he holds you tightly, “No. No, I'm fine. Are you? You’ve never been like this before….”

Rafayel sighs wistfully, and lets you go. He looks down at himself. The tub is nearly half-empty now, with how much water he spilled in his rutting. The end of his tail knocked over the little side table which held the bath salts and bubbles– which now lay strewn across the floor. 

The water is a little murky now, and he frowns. 

“I guess I should explain.”

You’ve got your arms folded, sitting cross legged in the center of your bed and glaring at the sea god and his audacity. “So what was the plan? Come here and just hope I didn’t notice?”

Rafayel is bad at explaining things, and it felt like pulling teeth before you got even halfway to understand what was happening. 

Ebb Day. A day when the tide flows the opposite direction and creatures from the deep sea come to the surface. He’d started the explanation with some long winded fairytale about a mermaid and sailor that fell in love, but it turns out that has so very little to do with what is happening to him. 

From what you could piece together, it’s a day of extreme weakness for Lemurians. A day where even the weakest human might overpower them, and even more dangerous for those who were bonded. 

Lemurians’ whole beings become dedicated to those they love. They forge an unbreakable, soulbond with their chosen one, and all their senses become attuned to them. And the weeks leading up to Ebb day, their bodies not only crave their beloved but they need them. 

The week of Ebb day is uncomfortable for most, and wretched for those with bonds but for whatever reason unable to be with them. Rafayel is sparse in his explanation here, mumbling out half-heartedly comments about the pain and possible hallucinations that can occur. 

Ebb day is now five days away. Rafayel is almost too casual as he tells you that what happened in the bathroom will only get worse the closer you get. 

Zayne returns to the room with some bottles of water. He hands one to you, and then hands the other to Rafayel– letting his evol frost it over before the siren takes it. 

“I figured I’d spend it in the ocean.” Rafayel replies to your previous discontent with a shrug. “You get a little vacay, and I get to stay close. This is easier to deal with in the water anyways.”

That makes your scowl deepen, “You were going to go through this alone? Why? If you didn’t want me to know, then you could have at least had one of the others help?!”

Rafayel pauses mid-gulp. He finishes his water and tosses it aside, “It’s not that simple, cutie. It’s a nice thought, but I’m not exactly fun to be around when this happens. And I could seriously hurt you.”

“Don’t be dumb.” You bite back. “You think I can’t handle a little neediness and rough handling?”

Zayne sighs as he leaves the room, letting the two of you continue bickering with a shake of his head. Distantly, you hear Caleb’s muffled voice from just outside the door– he’s been lingering just outside, listening in just in case.

Rafayel’s face hardens, and he sits up from where he lounged against the pillows, “You think that’s all it is?”

He sounds a little darker, a little more genuinely irritated instead of that feigned annoyance he usually wears. The way he prowls across the bed to you has the hair on the back of your neck standing up, and you lean back on your hands. 

Rafayel’s grin is predatory, and it tingles that coil in your gut that makes your lips part in a soft, subtle gasp. He doesn’t touch you, but somehow pushes you onto your back nonetheless. Placing one hand to their side of your head, he crawls over you. 

“You’re not a Lemurian.” Rafayel purrs, “You won’t understand. It’s about connecting…body, mind, soul. It’s about possession. It’s about procreation.”

You swallow a heavy lump in your throat. Heart pounding in your ears as his lips caress every word. “P-procreation?”

Rafayel hums and lowers his head, hiding his face against your chest. He places a feather-light kiss to your collarbone, and then ghosts his lips up your neck, whispering against your jaw, “A week of being so tightly pressed together...you can’t tell where one body ends and the other begins. The final day…I’ll be so obsessed with the idea of filling you, I won’t stop til it takes .”

Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. Mind spinning as it slowly catches up with what he just said. “Do you…really want that?”

Rafayel pauses in his teasing. Lips hovering over the untouched side of your neck. He looks up at you through violet tinged lashes and smiles gently, “Not until you do.”

He returns to kissing you. Placing tender, loving touches to all the skin he can reach. It’s slow and lazy– like you’ve got all the time in the world. 

You blink a few times and try to screw your head on straight, “If we do this…” You whisper softly, “Is it guaranteed that I will…that I’ll…?”

You only ask because you’re not entirely certain that your poor human birth control could withstand Rafayel’s sea-god sex week. It’s been a wonder that it’s withstood the onslaught of your lovers up until now. 

Rafayel laughs, but it sounds like thunder. “Don’t tease me, cutie. I might get ideas…”

“Rafayel, I’m serious.” You reply, placing your hands to his face and pulling him to look at you. There’s a daze to his eyes again, but he’s still lucid for now. “I won’t let you go through this alone. Me and the others…we’re here for you. I just need to know if I should take something beforehand.”

There’s a shift in his expression. The teasing and taunting fading into something uncertain. You feel his gaze shift around your face, the weight of attention like layers of thick silk. A sense of anticipation tightens in the air as he shifts ever closer.

Rafayel sighs, nearly silent. “I warn you and warn you, yet still you insist…”

His voice trails off, words disappearing into the air around you. A firm hand on your hip has you sliding into him, and Rafayel catches your lips in a heady kiss. 

You feel the heat radiating off of him again, seeping into your mouth and warming your tongue like a steaming cup of tea. It’s hard to match his fervor when his entire body is hardwired to perceive you. How could you hope to meet him halfway when his body yearns not for food nor water, but for you?

In between wet kisses, Rafayel mumbles, “I won’t be held responsible then…” He tilts his head and drags his sharp teeth across the tender flesh of your throat, breathing raggedly like he has to put great effort in not biting down. “And I won’t hold back….”

 Rafayel’s fingertips leave trails of tingling sensations in their wake. His evol burns at the very tips of his skin, burning him from the inside out and using his desire as fuel. You’d be worried about him actually burning you if it didn’t feel so delectable.

Your clothes are torn from you, seams popped in the rush to remove them. A button from your shorts clattering across the hardwood floor. Rafayel doesn’t seem to hear any of it. His ears are filled with the sound of your breath. The soft whines that leave you, coaxed from you like a divine instrument. You sing for him even before he’s able to get his tongue inside you. 

The taste of you has his eyes rolling back in his head. He thought you tasted heavenly before, especially when you were close to ovulating. A special kind of sweetness that bloomed across his tongue– whispering in low tones to his worst instincts that you were ready. 

But this? Rafayel can’t get enough. He can’t stop from lapping at you like a ravenous beast, and maybe that’s all he is. Maybe all that talk of sea god this or god of tides that was just folklore to hide the true nature of him. The nature of a gluttonous, greedy man made weak from the dew between your legs. 

Your back arches and Rafayel moans, he reaches one hand up your body– needing to feel more of your precious skin. You’ve never felt cool to him before; your touch is always warm, but this heat ….this burning heat inside him threatens to melt his brain, and it feels like you’re the cure. You’re what he needs to quench the flames.

The room is a blur. Anything that isn’t you fades into a muted background. Rafayel isn’t sure how long he spent tongue-fucking you, but when he finds another moment of clarity, he’s above you. He’s got your thighs pressed to your chest, the backs of your knees acting as handrests as he presses you in half. 

“ Ra-Rafa–” You can’t even finish his name, nearly drooling as he teases his cock inside. Your weepy cunt throbbing for him– for him. 

Usually, Rafayel is whispering filth in your ear. He loves to watch your eyelashes flutter and feel you tighten up. It’s almost too easy to mumble praises and get you into that pliant, floaty headspace, and he never misses an opportunity. 

Except for now. Now, he’s slack jawed, groaning with every rough push of his hips. In this position he can reach that deep, squishy spot inside you that has your voice pitching up. He can feel you gush in a new wave of slick that has his tongue feeling too restless for his mouth– torn suddenly with the urge to drink it up. 

Rafayel doesn’t even realize he’s close to coming until you do. It’s like his body isn’t his– like the stimuli he’s feeling is just secondary to you. When you come– singing for him, squeezing him, Rafayel follows immediately after. Like your cry of pleasure is a plea for his come that he’s helpless to obey. 

It’s not enough to just come inside you. It’s not enough to just know he’s filled you up– no. No , it’s not enough. Rafayel grits his teeth, an uncomfortable feeling scouring under his skin that’s only soothed when he continues to thrust inside you. Deep, heavy rolls of his hips that pushes his come deeper and deeper and deeper . 

Rafayel nearly works himself back up into a fever again. The mantra burning inside his head is impossible to ignore, and he needs to know his come as where it’s supposed to be. 

He’s not sure how much time passes, only that he has to keep going. As long as it takes. 

A hand enters his line of vision, and Rafayel hisses softly. The pale skin of the intruder is familiar, but for some reason his hackles still raise. 

“You need to let go of her.” Xavier’s voice is soft, but firm. His hand rests on Rafayel’s shoulder, a cool but heavy weight that sobers the sea god slightly. 

Rafayel blinks, and looks down. You’re still beneath him, folded into a deep mating press. You’re breathing heavily, and when you meet Rafayel’s eyes he can see the remnants of tears that have leaked out. 

He pulls away, and scowls when he sees the imprint of his hands left on the backs of your legs. You exhale in relief as you unfold yourself, and lean your face into Xavier’s hand when he caresses you. 

Rafayel burns inside. The bond in his heart sits like a white-hot coal. This bond….was forged with you, and Rafayel had always assumed that he’d unconsciously reject the others if they’d intruded. 

But that’s not what he feels. He doesn’t feel possession over you, or a desire to sever Xavier’s hand from his wrist for daring to touch you. Rafayel sits on his heels and watches as the blond assesses you, cares for you, and places a soft kiss to your nose. 

“I’m okay…” You whisper softly, reassuring Xavier with a soft kiss to his palm. “I didn’t know I could bend like that for that long.”

Xavier hums, sounding both amused and impressed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I was worried.”

Rafayel finally finds the ability to move again, and slides back up you body, propping himself up on his elbows and laying across you like a heated weighted blanket, “Aw, were you worried she couldn’t handle it?”

Xavier, who was now sat on the edge of the bed near your head, looks over to Rafayel with an impassive expression, “No. Besides giving her a muscle cramp, I know bunny can handle it. It was you I was worried about.”

Rafayel’s brow lowers, and he has to grapple against a sudden rush of heat again. His mind whirls with this casual confession of concern, because he’s itching again. The desire to touch and taste is back– rising like a stoked inferno, but it’s not just you anymore. 

You sit up slightly, and Rafayel is caught ensnared by the vision of you. Your skin is flushed, hair askew, and a litany of lovely marks against your neck that Rafayel isn’t certain when he left. 

“He feels a little cooler now,” You say, reaching out to brush some hair from his face. A tender, compassionate gesture that shouldn’t stir him as much as it does. “I think letting him go a little wild is helping.”

Xavier hums and reaches out, placing the back of his palm against the forehead you exposed, “How frequently are the bouts of delirium? We should time them to make sure you’re eating enough…”

Xavier lets his hand fall, and Rafayel will deny the sound of disappointment that left him. 

“Rafayel?” Your voice calls to him, but instead of drawing his attention, the syllables of his name ring like weights at his ankles– dragging him further under. Vaguely, he hears you say, “He’s getting droopy eyed again. Rafayel, can you hear me?”

Rafayel feels your voice and moves, rising up to slide his form against yours, feeling the curves of your body like a wave against the sand. Dragging skin against skin so he can feel the balm you provide his heat, “I hear you…darling. I hear you fine.”

“You need to go again?” You whisper, reaching out to hold the sides of his face, “Can you wait? Take a drink at least…”

Rafayel grins, breathing out against your lips in an amused huff, “Oh good idea… I’m so thirsty…just let me…”

He slides back down, heading towards the only thing he wants to taste at the moment. Why would he need anything else? He’s certain, in this moment, that he could be sustained fro your pussy alone.

Before he can get his mouth where he wants it, something– someone – stops him. A hand that first tries to get his attention by squeezing his shoulder. Xavier calls Rafayel’s name, but the man doesn’t hear it. And when that doesn’t work, Xavier finds a grip in the sea god’s hair, fingers tangled in violet tresses and pulling his head back.

The sound that leaves Rafayel is wrecked. A broken, pleading moan that is far too high and whiny. “ Oh…”

Xavier inhales sharply and too easily, Rafayel follows his hold, crawling back up your body and rising up to his knees to be closer to Xavier’s face. The blond holds him close so that there’s no question the delirious man can hear him, “You’re going to hurt yourself, or hurt her. Is that what you want?”

Rafayel’s eyes and drooping, unfocused and unseeing because the sensation of the hand in his hair is too much. “N-no…”

Xavier nods, stunned slightly by how permissive Rafayel is with the manhandling. A whole new side of the artist is being revealed, and the room buzzes with anticipation for it. 

Something about Xavier’s command has Rafayel staying put, obeying despite everything. The prince exits to retrieve sustenance, and returns to find Rafayel covering your exposed skin in soft, wet kisses. He hadn’t moved from where Xavier had put him, and only touched what he could reach. 

Rafayel downs another entire bottle of water while you take a few sips of yours. You barely get the lid on before he’s grabbing you again, hot breath steaming out of him as he lines his weepy cock up with your tender entrance. 

“ A-ahh… ” You sigh as he wastes absolutely no time pushing inside you, too eager and too hot to think of anything else. 

Xavier hesitates before leaving, covering the sides of your face with his hands to watch the pleasure melt you. His hazy blue eyes look up at the other man currently wrecking you and asks, “Can I stay?”

Rafayel grunts, rutting his hips a little harder, “You’re next.”

It sounds like a horrible threat and a loving, desperate promise. 

Xavier keeps his distance for the moment, only entering the cloud of candy desire by holding your hands through the thorough wrecking. Rafayel doesn’t let up, his inhuman stamina coming to strut it’s stuff. Leaving you a leaky, trembling mess. 

After Rafayel comes inside a second time, you’re left drooling into the blankets, unsure what happens now. He’d said Xavier was next, but what did that mean?

You feel Rafayel drag Xavier onto the bed, tearing at his clothes even rougher than he’d been with yours. It’s hard to breathe, watching as the blond is unwrapped like a birthday present– clothing ripped like tissue paper and discarded for the prize underneath. 

Your mind is only a few seconds ahead of what’s in front of your eyes, and your imagination supplies lurid images of Rafayel pulling Xavier into a kiss. A beat and it happens, like foresight. You imagine Rafayel pushing Xavier onto the mattress beside you, and voila, there he is. 

You imagine Rafayel moving in between Xavier’s leg and being too hasty with trying to get inside him– but that’s not what happens next. Rafayel doesn’t rush like you thought he might. Instead, he takes his time to taste the prince’s neck. His chest and down the ripples expanse of his abdomen. 

Xavier is just as surprised as you are by the attention to his pleasure, and a sharp hiss cuts through the blond’s teeth when Rafayel drags his tongue up his cock. He was already half-hard just watching the two of you, but with that one lascivious lick he’s steely and twitching. 

This time, you get to kiss Xavier through his pleasure. Drink in his stunned gasps and shuddering moans as Rafayel takes him in his throat down to the hilt. 

Now that you’ve caught your breath, you can dedicate more attention to them. Letting your fingers dance across Xavier’s chest, feeling the way his heart pounds in his chest, and pinching his peachy nipples. 

It’s always been such a treat to see a man like Xavier crumble. His voice is always so soft, like feather down and sun sugar– but in pleasure it gets deeper, darker. Rich like couverture chocolate sparked with chili. Even as rough as Xavier can be, there’s gentleness. 

He likes to hold you by the throat, and he does so now. Not gripping, but cradling. Feeling the tender chords of your throat bend as you swallow and breathe. Your pulse thrums against his fingertips and it soothes him. Xavier finds comfort in him like you do in him. A place to unravel from your defensive coil and exist in decadent vulnerability. 

Xavier gets a little rougher when he’s close. Biting at his lip and pulling your face closer to his with one hand while his other goes to grip Rafayel’s hair– mindlessly thrusting up into the wet heat of his lover’s mouth. 

Rafayel knows it as well as you do that Xavier’s on the precipice– probably more so. With a satisfied rumble, the sea god draws away. Chuckling as he watches Xavier thrust up into nothing. 

“Stay just like that…” Rafayel commands, voice low, soft, but dangerous. He rises up onto his knees, and places his scalding hand just below Xavier’s navel. “Let me look at you for a minute.”

The minute passes agonizingly slowly. Xavier struggles not to move, his face twitching and you can almost see his train of thought. He’s debating disobeying– taking control. He’s not usually a fan of being on his back, even with you.

You wonder if Rafayel is doing it to edge the poor prince, or to try and memorize him to draw later. You found Rafayel’s more salacious sketchbook once while cleaning his studio– a small letter sized book filled with graphite sketches of you and your lovers in various erotic positions. 

Rafayel doesn’t say anything before he moves. There’s just the slightest shift in his breath, a sharp inhale that breaks the pattern before he’s dragging his hand down and gripping Xavier’s cock. Pumping a few times until the prince moans prettily. 

Of the months you’ve been with them, you’ve never seen Rafayel bottom. Not once. Not once has ever let the other men take him in that way, so it’s more than a little surprising to see him shift to straddle Xavier’s waist. 

Xavier’s hands snap to Rafayel’s hip, gripping him tightly, “Wait…are you sure?”

Even Xavier can’t believe it, apparently. The hands on Rafayel’s waist are pulling him down, but keeping him up.

You sit up onto your elbows and reach for Rafayel’s hand, which he grasps tightly. 

“Don’t deny me.” Rafayel hisses, glowering down at the blond with his chin raised, “I need it.”

So demanding, even like this. You're completely tongue-tied and unsure what to do, because your equal parts worried about the change in character and interested to see where it goes. 

“Bunny,” Xavier turns his head to motion towards the bedside table, “Lube.”

His voice is tight and strained and so you don’t waste any time. You clatter to the table and retrieve the half-empty bottle from the drawer. When you turn, Rafayel isn’t fighting against Xavier’s hold anymore, but is sitting on Xavier’s hip just behind where he wants to be. Letting their cocks sit beside each other. 

Rafayel is almost petulant as Xavier coaxes him to move, making sure he can prep him properly with his fingers. You soothe the siren’s hunger by keeping him occupied with your mouth. Kissing him sweetly until his whines of irritation turn into soft keens of pleasure. You wrap your hand around his reddened member and let him drive his hips forward and back– into your palm and back onto Xavier’s fingers. 

Once Xavier’s satisfied that no damage will be done, he returns to their original position. Xavier lays on his back and gasps when Rafayel climbs him like he’ll die if he doesn’t sit on Xavier right. this. instant.

Xavier moans, long and drawn out as Rafayel attempts to spear himself– gasping like he’s drawing. And maybe he is? You’ve been so consumed in the heat of the moment, you haven’t really considered what Rafayel might be feeling. 

It must be frightening to feel like you’ll die if you don’t get to touch someone. 

You rise to your knees, and move. Grabbing both of Rafayels hands and pulling his attention to you, “Slow. Slower than that. Rafayel, look at me, yeah?”

Rafayel does. Through a cloud of amethyst haze, his eyes find yours. He’s panting, shivering, sweating. 

“I need…”

“I know.” You say, and when you nod your noses brush together. “But you have to start slow. If you start slow, you can go fast later…follow me. Move with me.”

“Yes…” Rafayel begs, leaning forward to kiss you weakly. He slows the press of his hips downwards, following the gentle guidance of your hands. “ Oh…yes…”

“That’s it.” You breathe reverently. “You’re doing wonderful. So perfect.”

Rafayel responds to your praise with a staggered moan, breaking up into little pieces like thin sugar candy. 

Xavier is a barely contained flame. He’s got one hand gripping Rafayel’s hip to hold the slow pace, despite the pleasure that threatens to consume him from the sweltering heat swallowing him up. His other hand rests on your thigh, squeezing you like a stress ball as if it’s the only thing keeping him from coming apart at the seams. 

Soon enough, you find a rhythm. You feel powerful– like a goddess – guiding Rafayel with your hands up and down. Up the veiny length of Xavier’s shaft and back down again. 

Once Rafayel is moving without your assistance, Xavier is able to find his control again. It’s only a flicker of sanity through the draping heat that leads the prince to grabbing you, hauling up and grunting, “ Sit, bunny.”

It doesn’t take a starfleet scientist to figure what he means, because he’s forgoing thrusting up for the moment to make sure you’re positioned right. Thighs on either side of his head, and drippy sex right above his face. 

Bracing yourself against Xavier’s chest you slowly press down, but Xavier isn’t having any of the demure shit right now. He’s got a sea god bouncing on his cock, and he was a goddess on his face. He growls– the only warning you get before he’s dragging you down. Meeting your cunt with his outstretched tongue. 

The combined stimuli of Xavier’s devilish tongue and watching Rafayel ride him is enough to overcome any hesitation. Less than a minute later you’re rolling your hips. Riding Xavier’s face just like he wants you to. 

“ Ah! Ah! Ah!” You cry rhythmically, meeting the tempo Rafayel’s thrusts like you might connect your lust drunk minds, to feel what he feels. To taste that decadent pleasure you both deliriously chase. 

Oddly, you come first. Shaking and trembling as you feel Xavier drink up every drop of honey you give him. A muffled moan vibrates against your clit and sends shocks of sensation up your stripped spine– sparking into painful overstimulation.

Xavier isn’t far behind, wrung of his orgasm from the vice heat of Rafayel’s plushy insides. His peak is muffled because he won’t let you pull away. He won’t remove his tongue from inside you and miss even a second of the syrupy sweet taste. 

Rafayel slows his hips as Xavier slowly softens inside him, and when you find a moment to breathe– that breath catches in your lungs. Rafayel’s attention has turned to you, eyes falling on you like a headsman's axe. 

“Come to me.” Rafayel says sharply. 

Xavier barely has enough time to release his hold on your thighs before his violet haired lover is pulling you away. Pushing you over to squish your face in the bed right next to Xavier’s messy face, and pulling your hips up. 

“Can’t waste it.” Rafayel sounds possessed. Like his voice doesn’t belong to him. Speaking absentmindedly as he grips the base of his cock, precome dripping from the weepy slit. It takes a few searching half-hearted thrusts to find your seam and press inside. “Don’t waste a drop… my darling girl. My beloved bride…”

Rafayel thrusts with his whole body, and it’s the first sign of any exhaustion he’s shown. He draws out to the very tip and then pushes back inside, carving his place inside you like it’s his. And it is. You’re his. 

“Nngh!” You choke on a mixture of pleasure and pain. You’re pushing against the limits of what you can handle in a session, but the feeling satisfying this radiant divine part of Rafayel is enough to keep you going. “I-I won’t! I won’t waste it!”

It’s only two more thrusts before Rafayel comes, thready dripping from his blushed lips like a siren’s song. And it feels like that’s exactly what it is. Your mind sinks into a fluffy, warm space. Drunk and sedated simultaneously from his reverent attention and the heated rush of come flooding you once more.

Later that day, you’re laying on a lounge chair on the back porch, letting the afternoon sun warm your skin. Caleb sits beside you, massaging your body with some oddly scented lotion. 

On paper, spending all day squished between your ravenous, heat-stricken lover and one or two of your other lovers sounds great. On paper, Rafayel’s ebb day rut sounded great. Marathon sex without end? Yes please.

Only, the reality is a little less sexy and a bit more sticky. Rafayel refuses to come unless it’s inside you, even when he was previous fucking someone else. You’d feel special if you didn’t feel like an overfilled cream donut– who’re you kidding? You’re definitely gonna miss this once it’s over. 

Until then, you hurt. Your muscles ache and you feel raw inside. It stings a little when you walk– the little limp you had when you finally got a chance to stand up only riled Rafayel up again. 

Currently, Zayne is occupying the sea god with Xavier. While Sylus and Caleb keep you company and let you rest for a moment. Sylus sits in a lawn chair right next to the door, sipping at pomegranate lemonade with a little yellow umbrella, and acting like a bouncer. No one’s going in or going out at the moment, not until Caleb’s done. 

“I smell like a medicine cabinet now…” You whine softly but make no effort to move away. 

“It’s magnesium lotion, pipsqueak.” Caleb explains as he digs his thumbs into your calf, rolling out the potential knots and pressing the cream deep. “It’ll help you from getting sore.”

“I’m already sore.” You hide your face into the pillow and groan softly. “Ugh this is only day one….”

Sylus chuckles and swirls his drink a few times, the ice cubes rattling together, “We should feel grateful he’s willing to play with others. He was always adamant it could only be you.”

Lifting your head, you give Sylus a sharp look, “What do you mean ‘he always’ ?”

Sylus brings his drink to his lips and smiles when he places the bendy straw in his mouth. He takes a long, slow swig before he answers you, “I’d like to preempt this with the fact I was never on board with keeping it a secret, but it wasn’t my secret to share.”

“Big on transparency, are you?” Caleb remarks as he gently rolls his fingers around your ankle. 

“Oh, communication is key.” Sylus replies playfully, “We were made aware of his predicament in the world before. The Sanctuary was hardly a place for a Lemurian to hide away during such a vulnerable time. This bond that Lemurians forge, he was certain it would reject everyone except you, and your fishy had the sense that you , for whatever reason, couldn’t handle a week of his full attention. Though, was he wrong?”

You pout but it quickly morphs into a grimace as Caleb finds a knot in your thigh. “Sorry, pips.” He says softly, and then under furth examination, clicks his tongue in disappointment. “You have bruises here. On the backs of your thighs.”

Sylus lowers his chin to peer over his sunglasses, while Caleb traces the blooming marks with his fingertips. You twist to try and see, but the backs of your thighs aren’t exactly accessible, and so you fall back to lay on your stomach. “I’m not surprised. He had me in that mating press for like thirty minutes.”

“M-mating press?” Caleb stutters, hand falling a little heavier on your skin and squeezing ever so slightly. 

“Okay so maybe he wasn’t wrong entirely.” You concede, “But he was wrong about the bond rejecting you. He didn’t have to go through it alone.”

“If someone is half-wrong,” Sylus begins as he leans back in his chair, “Does that make the half-right part inconsequential?”

“He should be gentler.” Caleb mumbles softly, drawing his thumbs up the back of your thigh, and then– a moment later– pressing his lips there. “If he can’t control himself, then maybe he should go through it alone.”

You turn and give Caleb a stern look, letting him stew on the words he just said. 

Sylus’ laugh is devilish and he lowers his sunglasses to give Caleb a mischievous smirk, “Ooh, better apologize puppy. I’d hate to see you sleeping outside.”

Caleb frowns, and no such apology is made. 

Thankfully, after the first day. Rafayel cools off a little. The excitement of the new opportunities had made his poor fishy brain melt a little, and he’d gotten so carried away he even wore himself out. 

Shifts were taken. Though it was hard to keep as Rafayel’s instincts were fickle and unfathomable. He would seek out one of your group like he’d been starved of them, and it felt like a roll of the dice who it would be. 

On the dreaded Ebb day . It was gloomy– the sky was overcast in bluish grey and the wind was sharper as it rushed in from the ocean. It felt foreboding, and it was. 

Rafayel wouldn’t let any of you leave the bedroom. He snapped at Zayne for daring to try and go make breakfast, and nearly clawed Caleb’s arm off when he tried to escape the nest of bodies and sleep on the floor. 

This bed wasn’t nearly as spacious as your bed at home, but Rafayel seemed to enjoy the closeness. While the rest of you sweat through the humidity, the sea god seemed soothed by it. Though he complained about the heat constantly, when someone was touching him he would sigh like a cold compress was pressed to his skin. 

During the week, Rafayel would have time between his bouts of ravenous desire. Sometimes he was granted hours between them where he was able to drink, eat, and bathe. And then, just as suddenly, he’d grab you. Pin you to the ground and mount you like he hadn’t seen you in months. Begging you to take it like he might cry if you didn’t. 

Today, there was no such reprieve. The moment the sun rose, Rafayel was gone. Replaced by someone who didn’t exist without you. His skin needed to be pressed to yours. He’d awoken you with his cock inside you– with slow, heavy thrusts. Sylus was still awake, and talked the two of you through it. Holding onto Rafayel’s hip with a tight hand to keep from pounding too harshly into you. 

After you were filled, Sylus kissed you. He drank in the remnants of your pleasure and gently detached you from the sea god. He handed you to Zayne, whispering a soft request to take care of you to the doctor. 

You were able to get a few more hours of sleep while Sylus battled against the other mythic creature. Dragon versus siren, and this once– the dragon came out on top. Bending Rafayel over to fuck him deep and fast. It was hard to sleep through the harsh slaps of hips against one another, and the weepy cries of Rafayel’s cross-eyed pleasure. 

When Sylus had had his fill, Rafayel found you again. Pushing you into Zayne’s chest and not caring that the doctor held you while he pushed your legs apart. Pleading with you to please, please, please show him your pretty pussy again. 

Zayne was an active bystander for this round. A slower, more purposeful rutting as Rafayel rolled with him. Guided by the doctor’s skilled fingers that shimmered with frost. 

You could hardly catch your breath. Every inhale stung with the frigid air, and every exhale swallowed by Rafayel’s desperate mouth. His cock felt even more swelteringly hot inside you with Zayne at your back. The contrast was too much, and you came three times before Rafayel met his end– filling you again. 

You were icky and dripping by midday. Sticky with sweat, leaking Rafayel’s come despite his commands to not spill a drop. While the others tried to rest in between rounds, Caleb couldn’t sleep, and spent most of his time trying to take care of you. 

He tutted softly as you sleepily leaned into him, letting him drag the warm washcloth against your abdomen and then down to the crux of your thighs. It was gentle and reverent, but Rafayel took personal offense to this. He snarled at Caleb and snatched the washcloth– throwing it across the room like a poisoned article.

Caleb was punished with face shoved into your pussy, lapping like the little puppy he was while Rafayel fucked him harshly. It was almost mean, and even Xavier woke up and attempted to draw the siren’s attention away. 

It didn’t work. And Rafayel wasn’t satisfied until he’d made Caleb beg to come. The colonel sang his pleas into the folds of your cunt, only drawing his tongue away for those few moments until it was back again. 

Rafayel didn’t come inside Caleb. In a flurry, he pulled out, and rolled Caleb away, dragging you by the ankle to shove back inside you. It seemed you were due a punishment too, for letting Caleb wipe away his come in the first place. Rafayel whispered his promises to fill you darkly in your ear. Now, he’d have to try twice as hard. 

Xavier was the only one Rafayel was halfway gentle with. The only of your group besides you that he seemed willing to ride without harsh desperation, and so the rounds that included the blond were the easiest. 

It was almost sundown when you found yourself feeling a bit dizzy, draped across Sylus’ chest as Rafayel fucked you from behind. Xavier’s firm hands on the artist’s waist kept him from pounding you, and the blond’s low voice in his ear had him trembling close to orgasm in record time. 

The sunset, and darkness blanketed your house. It snuck up on you, because one moment you were still being used like a come dump and the next you’re passed out alongside the others in a haphazard pile. 

Zayne, of course, is the only one sleeping halfway properly. He’s got a pillow and everything. From there, it’s just downhill With Sylus leaning against him, nearly upright and Xavier in his lap, splayed like a sleepy housecat. Caleb is snoring on top of Zayne with his legs over Xavier’s and an arm draped over his eyes. You’re nestled somewhere in the middle, with Rafayel laying on your chest with your legs intertwined. 

Exhaustion is too soft a word. This is bone-deep debility. Wrung out like wet rags of every last drop of moisture. You snore louder than you ever have, and even the storm that brews outside that night does nothing to stir any of you. 

A short spring storm wets the earth. Thunder rumbles and lightning casts flashes of cool light into your room. None of it disturbs your rest. Not even the rush of wind and rain tapping against your window intrudes upon the blessed peace you’ve finally found. 

When morning comes, the storm is gone, and Ebb day is finally over.

[writesvani]

dear me | 03

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs (for this chapter): emotional distress, unresolved feelings, unspoken grief, jealousy, insecurity, avoidance, mentions of lost friendships, nostalgia, mild self-deprecation, strained relationships, anxiety, bittersweet memories

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter | next chapter

wc: 3,4k // date: 25th of March

CHAPTER THREE — Saturdays are for Yoongi; happy reading my gummies...

AN (DON'T SKIP): this chapter was so much fun to write, and i genuinely hope you all love it as much as i do! starting now, my new update schedule is officially in motion, and with that comes my note goal: 200. yup, you heard me right, two hundred. am i being ambitious? maybe. am i manifesting? absolutely. but hey, dear me usually hits that, so let’s keep the streak alive!

and here’s the deal—once we hit that goal, chapter 4 will drop faster than y/n dodging her feelings. so, leave your comments, send me asks, scream in the tags—I’m dying to hear your thoughts!

also, yes, i know these first few chapters are on the shorter side, but they're just here to introduce you to the story and its dynamics! i promise, longer chapters are coming soon

— love, vani ♡

The best part of your week is Saturday. There’s something about it—a sense of idle calmness, as though the world has momentarily slowed down. It’s the one day where you can embrace doing absolutely nothing, soaking up your unproductivity like a ray of sunlight. Saturday is the calm before the storm of the week, and that’s why, despite your constant need for structure and routine, you let it unfold naturally.

It’s funny, really. The simplicity of having one messy, unplanned day brings an unexpected thrill. You find joy in the uncertainty of how the day will pass, how it’ll surprise you. It’s a break from the usual schedule, a breath of fresh air in the middle of your carefully organized life.

Yoongi sits across from you, his usual aura of coolness interrupted by his bizarrely slouched posture. His hair is a mess—tousled and looking as though he’s been trying to tame it all morning, but it stubbornly refuses to cooperate. In front of him sits a caramel latte, the steam curling lazily as he takes occasional sips, his eyes flicking between you and your phone.

“Damn, that looks good,” he says, his voice a low murmur, but his gaze is anything but casual. He’s practically staring at the picture on your phone like it’s holding the secrets of universe.

You smirk, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. “Mhm, that’s what I’m talking about,” you reply, practically grinning from ear to ear. The pride you feel is almost tangible as you show him the picture—a shot of the crème brûlée you recently made at work. It’s perfect, golden, and just begging to be devoured.

Yoongi’s eyes are wide, his expression a mix of admiration and hunger. “I’m not even gonna lie, I’d eat that straight off the screen if I could,” he admits, a little too eagerly.

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair. “Well, you can’t. But if you want, I’ll make you one next time.”

His face softens into a grin, and he leans forward, his hands wrapped around his latte like it’s his only lifeline. “Deal. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I think I do,” you say, the ease of afternoon gently swallowing you.

You lean back in your chair, tapping your fingers lightly on your cup, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of your lips. “But seriously, Yoon, I could teach you how to cook. You might actually impress someone with your skills for once.”

He raises an eyebrow, the amusement in his eyes barely hiding his disbelief. “Me? Cook? Please, I can barely make instant ramen without setting off the smoke alarm.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head in mock disbelief. "I remember the last time you tried cooking. The whole apartment smelled like burnt toast for days."

He slouches slightly in his chair, shoulders tensing as he glances away, a sheepish expression crossing his face. “Okay, that was one time. I may or may not have gotten distracted by my playlist. But I’m definitely not cut out for the kitchen.”

“You say that like you’ve given up entirely,” you tease, leaning forward with a playful glint in your eye. “Come on, hun. Everyone can cook if they try. Even you could pull off something other than cereal or microwaveable noodles.”

His hands wrap tighter around his latte, and he shrugs slightly, eyes flicking to the side as though he’s mentally weighing his options. “What’s the point? You’re the one with the magic touch. Every meal you make is basically a Michelin-starred dish.”

You raise an eyebrow, feeling the pride swelling in your chest despite your modest shrug. “You’d be surprised.”

Yoongi leans back in his chair, his head tilting just slightly as he observes you. His lips curl into a small smirk, though there’s a hint of skepticism in his eyes. “Yeah, right. Last time I tried, I couldn’t even boil an egg without making it look like a science experiment gone wrong.”

Your eyes widen, and you nearly choke on your drink. “That’s because you didn’t even know the difference between boiling and frying! You can’t just throw an egg in a pan and hope for the best, dude.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning slightly forward as he feigns annoyance, but the playful gleam in his eyes betrays his true feelings. “Hey, I was improvising!” His lips curl into a mischievous grin. “It’s not my fault the egg didn’t cooperate with my vision.”

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the amused smile tugging at your lips. “I’m sure the egg was just terrified by your lack of culinary expertise.”

Yoongi’s posture stiffens as he glares at you, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward, giving him away. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’m a cooking disaster. I’ll just leave the meals to you, Chef Extraordinaire.”

You sit up straighter, tilting your head slightly, the teasing glint never leaving your eyes. “Smart choice,” you reply, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. “But, just so you know, next time I’m cooking, you’re the official taste tester. And trust me, you don’t want to disappoint me.”

He leans back again, hands resting on his lap as he stares at you with mock seriousness, though his lips are still twitching into a grin. “Challenge accepted,” he says, his tone a bit more dramatic than necessary. But you know he’s secretly terrified of the idea of cooking for himself.

A soft shift moves through the air, a gentle shift of calm that settles between you and Yoongi. Quietness. His fingers dance over the screen of his phone, tapping at the surface with practiced ease. You can guess he’s texting someone—maybe Nina, maybe a friend, maybe… Jungkook. The thought makes a knot tighten in your chest, but you push it away. It’s not something you want to think about right now. Instead, you pull out your own phone, your fingers flicking through the screen aimlessly.

Nothing exciting. Nothing new.

You let out a soft breath, your eyes drifting up to meet Yoongi’s. There’s a quiet comfort in the air now, the type that doesn’t feel awkward or forced. It’s the kind of silence that wraps around you like a blanket. The kind that settles into your bones, making your muscles relax and your fingers stretch out in a lazy ease. It’s the kind of quiet that only comes from familiarity, from knowing someone well enough that you can just be—no words needed.

The thought makes something soft bloom in your chest.

Yoongi’s presence brings a sense of grounding, like you’ve known him forever and there’s nothing that could change that. The fact that, despite everything, there’s still someone you can rely on, someone you can lean on when the world feels too heavy. It’s a rare comfort.

You haven’t seen him much lately. The demands of his job as a publisher, your own strict schedule—it’s hard to make time. Too hard for regular drinks or coffee, even calls. But somehow, there’s always that one day of the week that pulls you two back together, a day when the chaos of your lives fades just enough for you to enjoy each other’s company.

And that day is usually Sunday.

Maybe that’s why you love Sundays so much. The way everything slows down, the world becomes a little softer. The way Yoongi's presence feels like a breath of fresh air. It’s those moments, those quiet moments, that you cherish more than anything else.

You glance at him again. His eyes flick up to meet yours for a brief moment before he looks away, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You feel it, the shared understanding between you two. And in that second, you realize that, even though you can’t always be together, these Sundays are enough to keep you close. To remind you that, no matter what, you have this.

You have him.

But alas, the silence, unfortunately, can’t last forever. A small motion, a sound disrupts the calm, and you find yourself briefly flinching at the sharp ring of Yoongi’s phone. You blink, your attention drawn to the screen before you can stop yourself. It’s ringing, and without thinking, your eyes are already glued to the name flashing across it.

“Nin 🫶🏻,” it says.

Your throat tightens, a lump forming that you can’t swallow down. Of course, there’s nothing strange about Nina calling him—she’s his sister, after all. It has happened countless times in the years you’ve known the twins.

Nina has visited him more times than you can count, and you’ve met up with her, too, shared easy conversations and laughter like before. But this… this is different. This time, seeing her name on his screen feels like a punch to the gut.

It’s the first time you’ve seen it since that day—since the day you saw it written in beautiful, flowing cursive on that damn envelope sitting in your desk drawer (well, except the day you saw it tangled in your emails from the past you, but you're choosing to ignore that).

The one you’ve kept hidden, locked away.

The one that still reminds you of a friendship that’s lost.

A friendship with Jungkook that once meant everything but now feels like it belongs to another lifetime.

A friendship that has been broken, shattered beyond recognition.

That envelope, that name, that moment—it's a reminder of the bond between you and Jungkook, the one you once cherished, now reduced to something unrecognizable. And it stings. It always stings. The ache doesn’t go away, even though you try to heal it.

Desperately.

Eagerly.

You force yourself to move on, to pretend like you’ve moved past it, but the wound is still there. Still fresh, deep beneath the surface.

You inhale sharply, trying to mask the uneasiness threatening to bubble up inside you. You flash your teeth at Yoongi, offering him a soothing smile—one that feels more like a mask than anything genuine. You can feel the tightness in your chest, but you push it down.

"I gotta take this. I’ll be back," Yoongi says, his voice breaking through your thoughts. His movements are quick, almost hurried, as he stands and brings the phone to his ear.

You nod, though it feels like a distant gesture, your eyes still locked on his phone screen even as he turns to leave. The words “Heey” drift back to you just before he’s out of sight, and suddenly, the space between you and him feels much larger. Much emptier.

You’re left in the quiet once more, but this time, the stillness feels heavier. The silence is louder now, pressing down on you as the ache grows, gnawing at your chest.

You’re reminded again, in the simplest of ways, that you’re not the number one in Yoongi’s life. That place is always reserved for his sister, Nina. And though you know it’s natural, normal even, a small part of you can’t help but envy her—for being the priority in the lives of everyone you ever cared about the way you always wished you could be. It’s irrational, you know it is, but it still stings in the way that only silent truths can. The hurt lingers, no matter how much you try to reason with it. You push it down, bury it beneath the smile you’ve perfected over the years.

Yoongi’s footsteps return before you can fully process the pain, the familiar sound of his shoes brushing against the floor, and he moves past you with an energy that immediately pulls your attention. There’s an excited gleam in his eyes—bright, almost too bright for his usual self. It’s contagious, but you can’t quite bring yourself to smile the way he does.

He’s joyful. Too joyful for Yoongi. And it’s a little too much, but you lean forward instinctively, elbows planted on the table, your hands cradling your face.

“You won’t believe this,” he says, his voice light with excitement as he takes a sip of his latte, the warmth of the cup seeming to match his newfound energy.

You stare at him, curiosity piquing despite the heaviness in your chest. “What happened?”

“Nin and Kook are coming to town next week, to check the venues,” he continues, his words rushing out of him like a wave breaking against the shore.

And just like that, the names—Nin and Kook—splash over you like ice water. They burn, sharp and familiar. The names of people you loved, people who are no longer yours to love. The uneasiness quakes through you, a familiar sting at the back of your throat. You try not to let it show, though. You won’t let it show.

Yoongi keeps talking, trying to act oblivious to the weight his words carry. “And they want us to grab a coffee together when we’re free,” he adds, a casual air to his voice, as if the idea of sitting in a café with them—laughing, reminiscing about high school, pretending like everything is fine—doesn’t rip at the edges of your heart. It feels wrong, the thought of being in the same room as Jungkook again, when so much has changed, when so much has been lost.

You swallow, forcing yourself to sit up a little straighter, letting the fake calmness wash over you. “Really? How did that plan come to life?” you ask, your brow quirking in an exaggerated show of curiosity, anything to mask the storm bubbling inside you.

Yoongi shifts, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, his gaze flitting between you and his empty cup. “Nina asked where I was… I told her I was grabbing coffee with you,” he rambles, his voice quieting slightly. “Then she mentioned that she and Kook were coming to town next week to check the venues. And, well, yeah, the rest is history.”

You nod slowly, trying to pretend that the mention of Jungkook doesn’t twist something deep inside you. The urge to respond, to say something that doesn’t betray the knot tightening in your gut, claws at you. But you just nod again, this time with a tight smile.

“Sounds… fun,” you manage, though the words feel foreign in your mouth.

“Could at least try sounding a bit more excited,” Yoongi says, giving you that look—the one that knows you too well. It’s the look that cuts straight through the act, the one that makes you feel like you’re not hiding anything at all. It’s funny, in a way, how he can pick up on your discomfort so quickly, but still, for all his sharpness, he never seemed to notice that you used to be in love with his sister’s fiancé. Or maybe, a small part of you wonders, he did know. And chose not to bring it up. Because acknowledging it would make it real, and if it was real, things would get messy. Yoongi would have to choose a side, and both of you knew exactly where his loyalty would lie.

You shift uncomfortably, forcing a smile, but it feels like the most unnatural thing in the world. “I am, I swear,” you say, but your fingers twitch against your cheeks, a small gesture as they trace the scar you’ve long since tried to forget.

Yoongi watches you closely, his gaze softening as he picks up on the subtle shift. “You don’t have to pretend for me,” he says quietly, almost too quietly. But the weight of it lands in your chest, sending a quick flutter through your heart. "I know this is gonna be a lil weird for you."

You blink, trying to clear the lump in your throat, but the words feel too heavy, too loaded. The silence lingers for a beat, thick and raw. Then Yoongi’s voice breaks through again, a little more careful this time.

“I mean, the four of us haven’t been in the same room together in years. I get it. I know you haven’t seen Kook in a while.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” you say, but your voice catches just slightly. “But it doesn’t make it weird...”

Yoongi tilts his head, the tiniest smirk curling on his lips. “You know, Nin says he mentions you a lot.” He leans back in his chair, watching you with those eyes that know too much, the ones that see past all the masks you wear.

Yoongi's words linger in the air, sinking in slowly, creeping up on wounds that you thought had healed. The fact that Jungkook still mentions you, still thinks about you—it shouldn’t sting this much, but it does. It really does.

Two years have passed since you last saw him, and the memory of that moment is sharper than you’d like to admit. The last time you sat down with Jungkook was after an awkward run-in outside his parents' house, where he invited you in for a drink. And it was… weird.

You both were strangers by then, with too much history between you to ignore, and yet not enough common ground to feel like you truly knew each other anymore. It was like trying to force something familiar into an unfamiliar shape. The conversation, stilted and uncomfortable, quickly drifted to small talk—safe topics about childhood and high school memories, things that kept the ground beneath your feet solid, even if it felt like you were both standing on shaky ground.

You blink, breaking out of the fog of that memory. Yoongi’s eyes are still on you, waiting for you to say something. Anything. You open your mouth, but the words falter, unsure of where they’re going. “Look, Yoon, okay, maybe…” You pause, trying to form the thoughts swirling in your head. “Maybe it’s a little weird because I haven’t talked to both of them in a while. But so what?” You shrug, trying to play it off, but the unease bubbling inside you is hard to ignore.

Yoongi tilts his head, studying you with that familiar, knowing gaze. “So what?” he echoes, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re telling me you’re not worried about it?”

You don’t answer immediately, your fingers tapping lightly on the table as you try to steady yourself. The truth is, you’re not sure what you’re worried about. The past? The present? The strange space in between?

Yoongi's buzz slowly fades, and you can’t help but feel the weight of it. The joy that had been on his face when he finished that call, the spark in his eyes—it all starts to slip away, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve somehow extinguished it. He was so eager, so excited for the four of you to hang out again, and now, with all your overthinking and awkward thoughts about Jungkook and the thing that happened between you, you’ve managed to ruin it.

You glance at Yoongi now, watching him carefully, as if he’s trying to decode something that’s impossible to read. His eyes are focused on you, sharp and observant, like he’s piecing together a puzzle with every little shift in your expression.

Your eyelashes flutter, and instinctively, your tongue darts out to wet your lips, but they feel dry, a little too dry. You take a sip of your coffee—cold, bitter, the taste of it almost mirroring the ache in your chest.

"I have nothing to worry about," you say, your voice a little softer than you intend. You scratch the back of your head. "I know that once we get past those first five minutes of awkward hell, it'll be like back in the days."

Yoongi shrugs, and a small, almost nostalgic smile tugs at his lips. "Yeah... like when we were young," he agrees, his voice carrying a bittersweet edge.

Your eyebrow quirks up, and you let out a short laugh, though it’s not entirely a pleasant one. "Dude, are you seriously quoting Adele right now?"

He looks at you, unbothered. "What? I’m just trying to lighten the mood."

"With a depression anthem?" you joke, the corners of your mouth lifting despite yourself.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Don’t kill my creative vibe, okay?"

You shake your head, but the tension loosens just a little. Maybe it’s stupid, but his attempt at humor, however ridiculous, makes things feel a little less heavy. The fact that Yoongi can still make you laugh, even in the middle of all this weirdness, is oddly comforting.

The conversation shifts, both of you silently agreeing to steer clear of Jungkook, Nina, and the storm their arrival will inevitably bring. No mention of wedding venues, no talk of Nina with a ring on her finger—the ring you haven’t even seen, don’t even know what it looks like.

And maybe that’s for the best.

So instead, you devote yourself to Yoongi again, clinging to the safe space he provides. You let him pull you into a discussion about a new book he’s reviewing, something he’s beta reading for a supposedly famous writer. Supposedly being the key word, because despite his insistence that they’re a big deal, you’ve never heard of them. Then again, maybe that just says more about you than it does about them—about the fact that you haven’t picked up modern fiction in a while, about how your shelves are still filled with books from a past version of yourself.

You laugh at his dramatic retelling of the plot, roll your eyes when he insists the main character is "literally the most annoying protagonist ever written," and for a while, it works. You manage to push the conversation from earlier to the back of your mind.

But not far enough.

Because the weight of it still lingers—heavy, unfiltered, sitting right there in your heart. And no matter how hard you try to ignore it, no matter how fast you try to outrun it, the truth remains.

It’s still there.

Just like Jungkook.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97 @gukieater @themwordsblog @whatevevrerr @amarawayne @tititania @guwol @reallygenerouskoala @bgfdcvbnjk @kyljjk @whoa-jo @taekritimin123 @minimoninini @upo1313 @polnaraffsrack @tatzzz-25 @orphicepiphany @coletaehyung @bjoriis @epiphany-n @kimyishin @eegyo @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @parkinglot-nights @mar-lo-pap @evrsncenewyork @jjeonjjk7

[taeyongdoyoung]

summary: your best friend brags complains that he can't get laid due to his huge dick posing a threat to random girls at parties, so you offer to fix his little big problem pairing: soobin x reader genre: smut, best friends to lovers warnings: explicit language, big dick soobin (canon event), size kink, foreplay, eating out, blowjob, hugging, fingering, size training, creampie, consensual intercourse, kissing, aftercare, allusions to death in a sexual context, lowkey possessive soobin at the end author's note: the killa is on my mind 24/7 and im down bad for soobin 25/8 🥵 so i had to get it out of my system somehow 🤷 word count: 2k

“You’re kidding, right?” you ask your best friend when he makes a rather shocking confession as the two of you are sitting in his bedroom after one of your usual anime marathons.

“I wish I was. But I would never lie to you,” Soobin responds truthfully. His big moist eyes look a 100% genuine but it still sounds so...bizarre.

“Let me get this straight…Every time you try to hook up with a girl at one of those parties Yeonjun keep dragging you to, you go to a room, eat them out like the generous, selfless guy you are, and then after you take off your pants, they get scared by your gigantic cock and refuse to have sex, running away in horror?”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to explain for the past 10 minutes, yeah,” Soobin confirms with a very adorable pout on his stupid face.

You shake your head in utter disbelief.

“I’m sorry but this is just ridiculous. Any girl would be happy to hook up with a guy that has a huge dick.”

“Well, I guess not any girl ‘cause this shit has happened three times already and I’m at my limit. Why can’t I just get laid?” Soobin bemoans his tragic destiny.

“No, I don’t get it. The least they could do is give you a quickie or something to return the favour. It’s so rude to just sprint away. I can’t believe your cock is that terrifying.”

“Ugh, please stop saying that. It’s so embarrassing,” Soobin covers his face behind his big hands. Hold on a minute…

“If what you’re saying is true, then I think it’s pretty hot. Those girls are surely missing out.”

“Or maybe they’re just looking after themselves. Like…I’m not mad at them for being spooked out, I just wish I could finally get some, you know?” Soobin sighs.

“Death by dick does seem appealing,” you shrug.

“Y/N!” he exclaims.

“Listen, what if I make you an offer? You prove to me that you weren’t exaggerating about your size and I promise I won’t run away and will take care of your…frustrations.”

“Are you seriously suggesting this?” Soobin freaks out. “This could ruin our friendship.”

“I won’t be weird about it, I swear. What do you say?”

“Fuck it. I’m so horny that this actually sounds like a good idea,” Soobin admits. “Can I eat you out first?”

“Erm, if you insist,” you reply, suddenly feeling nervous.

“I just wanna take care of you, make sure you’re all nice and wet for me,” Soobin explains patiently.

“You really don’t have to,” you reassure him.

“I know but it’d be awkward for me to just whip it out. Please?”

“Oh…okay,” you really can’t imagine saying no when he’s asking you so sweetly. God, what did you get yourself into?

Soobin takes off your leggings and panties in one swift movement and pushes you down gently on the bed so you are in a lying position. He spreads your thighs apart and looks at your pussy, already glistening with wetness caused by the conversation you’ve been having. Soobin smirks but doesn’t say anything about it. You’re grateful for that as he dives in, licking and kissing all over you. Fucking hell, if his tongue is capable of making you feel this way, you are slightly unnerved to find out what his cock can achieve. But unlike those girls at the parties, you are determined to never run away from your best friend.

Soon enough, you reach your high, overwhelmed by Soobin’s insane tongue movements and his big hands gripping your thighs. You need a few moments to gather your thoughts and when you are finally able to speak, those are the first words that leave your mouth:

“I think they fleed because you eat pussy like a starved animal. Seriously, what the hell was that?”

Soobin chuckles nervously and runs his fingers through his black hair, pushing it back and exposing his forehead for a bit.

“Trust me, it’s not that.”

“Prove it,” you challenge him even though you are fairly certain he’s telling the truth. Your best friend has never lied to you, so why start now?

Soobin takes off his pants, his hands are shaking and you immediately feel bad. You put your hand on his in an attempt to calm him down.

“Hey, you don’t have to if you feel uncomfortable.”

“I do want this, but after so many failed attempts, I’m so anxious…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Soobin,” you insist and squeeze his hand reassuringly.

His skin complexion looks slightly less pale and your words seem to give him the confidence he so desperately needs. Moment of truth. Soobin takes off his boxers and…Oh damn, he was not exaggerating. He’s not just big, he’s so huge a part of you wonders how is it humanly possible to carry such a weapon around and maintain the gentle, humble composure with which Soobin carries himself.

“You’re not running yet,” he jokes.

“Soob?”

“Y-yeah?” his voice cracks, he is obviously terrified of what you’re going to say.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, I finally get why these girls ran away.”

“Oh,” he sounds a little dejected, as if already expecting you to go back on your offer.

“But! That’s not gonna stop me. Just tell me what you want first and I’ll try my best to make you happy.”

“Huh?” Soobin is too flustered to process your words.

“My hands, my mouth, or my pussy, what do you want first?”

“You mean…you’re willing to give me all of them?” he blinks in shock.

This poor, precious boy. Did he really face disappointment so many times that he is now looking a gift horse in the mouth with such uncertainty?

“Just pick, Soobie, I promise I’ll give you anything you need.”

“Um…can you suck me off? Please?”

Gosh, he’s so adorable you want to eat him.

You nod a little too enthusiastically and go down on your knees, taking as much of his cock as you can. It’s a tight fit but what you can’t put inside your mouth you make up for by wrapping your hands around him. You suck and lick and touch him, eager to give him as much pleasure as he did you. Your beloved best friend has obviously been frustrated for a while now because it doesn’t take him long to cum inside your mouth. There is so much you can’t manage to swallow it all despite your valiant efforts and you see some of it falling down your cheeks. You wipe it off with a finger, sticking it into your mouth, grinning widely at Soobin.

“Fuck, you’re incredible. What…how…are you okay?”

He presses his big palm against your cheek and it takes a lot of self-control for you to not melt right there and then.

“I’m great. Did…did it feel good for you?” you ask sheepishly.

You’re not particularly confident about your skills but you genuinely did your best for him.

“Are you crazy? It felt insanely good,” Soobin takes your hand, lifting you up and wrapping his arms around you in a hug.

“I’m glad,” you respond, feeling safer and warmer than ever before in your life.

“Do…you still want to…you know?” Soobin asks.

“If you’re asking whether you can put your cock inside my pussy, then yeah, go for it. As long as it’s something you want, of course.”

You keep reminding him to only do things he’s completely okay with, because you would hate to put your best friend in a situation he doesn’t enjoy just because of your greed.

“I want you so bad, you have no idea. But I think I’ll need to stretch you out a bit, yeah?”

“O-okay,” you quickly agree and in no time, Soobin’s long fingers are inside of your pussy, going deeper than your own have ever been and making you feel things you never even dreamed about.

“How does it feel?” Soobin asks in concern.

“Heavenly,” you admit and just as you’re about to reach your second orgasm, Soobin’s fingers leave you.

“N-no, why’d you do that?” you whine frustratedly.

“Wanna feel you come around my cock.”

As it turns out, you'd like this just as much so you quickly forgive him for ruining your orgasm.

“I think I have a condom in my-“ Soobin starts but you cut him off.

“I’m taking a pill. And I believe we’re both clean, so…”

“You gon’ let me fuck you raw?” Soobin inquires, not wanting to make assumptions.

“Yeah, I trust you,” you reply with conviction.

“You’re a dream,” Soobin chuckles and nudges the head of his cock against your moist entrance. You brace yourself for some level of discomfort and are surprised that it doesn’t come right away. Soobin takes his sweet time getting inside you, making sure you’re okay.

“Fuck, Soob, you're so big,” you moan, already feeling overstimulated.

“This is just the tip, baby,” he explains shyly, which makes you lose your mind.

Soobin goes deeper very slowly, making you feel every inch, stretching you out bit by bit.

“How much more?” you ask somewhat impatiently.

“Just a little bit. Can’t help it that your pussy is so tiny,” he teases you.

“Not my fault your dick is so gigantic,” you bite right back.

“I promise, I'll try my best not to split you in half,” Soobin jokes, which does little to ease your worries, but at the same time only makes you wetter.

“Keep talking to me,” you plead for him.

“Does it hurt?” he wants to know, as he keeps entering you further.

“It’s a good kind of hurt,” you explain, wincing slightly.

Once you’ve gotten used to it, you signal to Soobin that he can start moving and he does just that, fucking into you with an impressive speed. You try to meet him halfway, lifting your hips up for him, melting into one.

“You’re taking it so well, my darling best friend,” Soobin praises you relentlessly.

“Anything for you, Soobie,” you cry out in sweet bliss.

“I’m close,” Soobin confesses soon enough.

“Fill me up,” you beg him, almost in a daze, deeply affected by his overpowering presence.

He doesn’t need to be asked twice and spills his seed inside of you. It feels so good that you cum with him, walls clenching around his enormous dick. Soobin leans down to kiss you, further blurring the lines between friendship and…whatever this is.

Then, he takes his cock out and you realize something far more terrifying than his intimidating size - you are falling in love with your best friend.

Soobin quickly brings a towel and a bottle of water, taking care of you like no one else before. You want to cry, touched by his sweetness and falling even further.

“How do you feel?” Soobin brushes a piece of hair behind your ear.

“I feel…like I'm on another planet,” you confess shakily.

Soobin chuckles, visibly relieved to hear that.

“You’re so cute,” he murmurs, enveloping you in a hug. His large frame towers over you and if it was anyone else, you’d probably feel slightly threatened. But this is Soobin, and even though he just fucked your brains out, you feel completely safe and protected. Safe enough to be honest about how you feel.

“I know I promised not to be weird about it but…I don’t think I can go back to being friends.”

Soobin pales for a moment, scared of losing you.

“Why not?” he blinks, barely restraining his tears.

“I wanna belong to you,” you try to ease his worries by openly saying what your heart and soul desire.

“Oh…But baby, you already do,” Soobin suddenly beams with excitement. “And I belong to you, too.”

“I think you killed me a little,” you laugh. “Killed my pussy with your big cock and ruined me for other men.”

Soobin raises an eyebrow.

“Bold of you to assume that I’d let other men near your pussy. You’re all mine now.”

The End