#questions from the vortex

[borrowedtimeandspace]

For the sentence prompt list your choice of characters 😊

1) Hey is something wrong with your arm?

37) Oh god I almost crushed you!

61) I don’t care how small you think you are you made the biggest impact on my life

Ok it's been a little longer than I thought it would be, and I'm afraid I don't have a lot to show for it. Just wanted to pop back into this ask and let you know that these prompts ARE coming, I promise! One of them got quite long on me, and I have ideas for the other two that are still ruminating.

For your patience with my shenanigans, have a sneak peek of what is in store. Which prompt is it for? That's for me to know and you to find out later mwahaha

~~~

Zepheera opened her mouth to reply, only to find herself quite out of breath from all her venting. Her heart hammered almost painfully against her ribs, and she dreaded to think of the state of her blood pressure. Swallowing thickly, she ran a shaking hand down her face and began to shuffle slowly across the console. 

It seemed her impulse to blow off steam and make the duplicate regret its prodding didn't quite have the intended effect. Zepheera needed to settle down, couldn't let her emotions run off on her like that if she wanted to keep her guard up.

Problem was, that dam was broken, and stopping it now wasn't easy.

[jupiterpilgrim]

Before the World Knew

Part 1

Yoo Jimin (Karina) x male reader

word count: 20K

The automatic glass doors hiss shut behind you, sealing you back into the humid chaos of a Seoul afternoon. You shove your hands deep into your pockets, shoulders slumped, the stiff collar of the button-down you wore specifically for this interview suddenly feeling like a noose. "Nailed it", you think. Yeah, right.

Nailed it like a coffin lid.

That interview was a fucking train wreck. Stuttering over standard questions, sweating through your shirt despite the blasting AC, pretty sure you called the interviewer by the wrong name at least once. You can practically feel the rejection email drafting itself in their system right now. Landing a decent PR job in this city is proving harder than cracking Fort Knox with a toothpick. You thought graduating with a Public Relations degree, even from a university abroad, would give you some kind of edge. Turns out, it just makes you another drop in an ocean teeming with overqualified, hyper-competitive graduates who probably know the right people (something you definitely lack).

It's been a few weeks since you touched down at Incheon, hauling two overweight suitcases and a boatload of naive optimism. Seoul. The big leagues. You figured, new city, new start, maybe finally shake off that aimless post-college dread. You found a shoebox apartment that costs a criminal amount of money and have been pounding the pavement, digitally and literally, trying to find something, anything, that doesn’t involve fetching coffee or making copies for peanuts. So far? Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Just a growing pile of polite "we'll keep your resume on file" emails and the soul-crushing realization that your savings account is evaporating faster than puddle water in August.

Only a divine miracle would be able to make you feel anything remotely close to happiness now.

You sigh, kicking at a loose pebble on the sidewalk. The city rushes around you, a blur of impeccably dressed office workers, delivery scooters weaving through traffic like suicidal insects, the distant thrum of k-pop blasting from a storefront. It’s overwhelming, vibrant, and right now, utterly indifferent to your dwindling prospects. You just want a decent meal and maybe to wallow in front of Netflix for twelve hours straight.

Lost in your pity party, you don't see the person turning the corner until it's too late. Thump. You stumble back, colliding shoulders hard enough to knock the phone clean out of their hand. It clatters onto the pavement with a sickening plastic crack.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, my bad!" you blurt out, scrambling to pick it up, praying the screen isn't spiderwebbed. You snatch the phone (miraculously intact) and look up to hand it back, apology ready on your lips.

And then your brain just… stops.

Everything stops. The noise of the city, the frantic rush, the self-pity spiral: it all evaporates. Because the person standing in front of you, rubbing their shoulder with a slight wince, eyes wide behind a pair of large, stylish sunglasses… No. It can't be.

She’s smaller than you remember, but the face… fuck, that face. The perfect, almost unreal symmetry, the sharp jawline softened by full cheeks, the distinctive curve of her lips, currently pressed into a thin line of surprise. Even with the sunglasses and a simple baseball cap pulled low, obscuring most of her hair, it's undeniably her. Years have passed, sure. She’s changed. She’s… Karina now, a name screamed by millions, plastered on billboards, dominating charts. But beneath the idol gloss, beneath the global fame, it’s still her.

It's still Jimin. Yoo Jimin. Your childhood best friend. The girl you haven't spoken to since she vanished into the K-Pop trainee vortex years ago.

She takes the phone, her fingers brushing yours for a split second, sending a jolt up your arm that has nothing to do with static electricity. Her gaze flicks up, meeting yours through the dark lenses. You see confusion flicker there, then a dawning recognition that mirrors your own shock.

Her lips part slightly. “No way…”

Her voice. It’s softer than you remember, maybe a bit huskier, but it’s still Jimin’s voice. Hearing her say your name after all this time feels like being struck by lightning. You just stare, dumbfounded, unable to form a coherent thought.

She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, revealing those large, dark eyes you used to get lost in during boring classes back home. They widen further as she really looks at you.

“Holy shit, it is you! Oh my god! What the hell are you doing here?”

The sheer, unadulterated surprise in her voice snaps you back to reality. You manage a shaky laugh, running a hand through your hair. “Jimin? Wow. Uh, hi.” Eloquent, very eloquent.

She laughs, a bright, musical sound that cuts through the city noise. It’s the same laugh you remember, the one that always made your stomach do stupid flips. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got after, what, six years? Seven?”

“Something like that,” you say, still reeling. “Damn. You, uh… you look…” Famous? Untouchable? Like a goddess who accidentally stumbled onto a mortal sidewalk? “…different.” Lame. You mentally kick yourself.

Jimin grins, the expression lighting up her whole face. It’s that specific grin, the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes. God, you missed that. “Yeah, well, a few things have happened since middle school.” She gestures vaguely, a hint of playful understatement in her tone.

“Yeah, no kidding,” you say, finally finding your footing. “Saw you… everywhere, basically. Aespa, huh? That’s insane, Jimin. Congratulations.”

Her smile softens slightly at the use of her real name. “Thanks. It’s… been wild.” She glances around quickly, lowering her voice a fraction. “But seriously, what are you doing in Seoul? Last I heard, you were going to college somewhere overseas?”

“Yeah, I was,” you explain, stuffing your hands back in your pockets. “Finished up my PR degree a few months back. Moved here a few weeks ago to, you know, try and find a job. Join the rat race.” You grimace, thinking of the disastrous interview. “Not going great so far, but hey, Seoul’s cool.”

Her eyes light up, genuine happiness flashing across her features. “You live here now? That’s amazing! Oh my god, I can’t believe it!” She bounces slightly on the balls of her feet, looking genuinely thrilled. The reaction warms something inside you that the job rejection had chilled.

“Yeah, it’s… definitely a change of pace,” you admit. It hits you again: you’re standing on a random street corner, catching up with Karina from Aespa. One of the biggest names in K-Pop. Your childhood friend, the one who disappeared into SM Entertainment and became someone else entirely. What are the actual, statistical chances of this happening? It feels like the universe is fucking with you, dangling a piece of your past right in front of your face when you least expect it. Fate? Maybe. Or just Seoul being a surprisingly small world sometimes.

“We have to catch up properly,” Jimin says immediately, her excitement palpable. “Like, actually talk. Are you busy right now?”

You glance down at your slightly rumpled interview clothes. “Uh, not exactly. Just finished bombing a job interview, so my schedule’s wide open for existential dread and instant noodles.”

She winces sympathetically, then pulls out her phone again (the one you nearly shattered). “Okay, first, give me your number. Is it still the same old one?” You rattle off your new Korean number, and she quickly taps it in, sending you a test message immediately. Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

It’s really you!!!

You look up, grinning. “Got it.”

“Good.” She slides her phone away, pulling her cap down a bit lower. “Look, I’m kind of on my way to practice right now, but are you free later this week? Or maybe this weekend? We could grab coffee? Drinks? Food? Whatever works.”

Hanging out with Jimin again. After all these years. After… everything.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah, definitely. Coffee sounds great. Or drinks. Whatever’s easier for you, I know you’re probably crazy busy.”

“Never too busy for you,” she says, and the way she smiles; warm, genuine, a flash of the girl you knew before the fame… makes your heart do that stupid flip again. “Seriously, text me when you’re free. We’ll figure it out. It’s… it’s really, really good to see you.”

“You too, Jimin,” you reply, meaning it more than you thought possible. “Like, really fucking good.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “Okay, I actually have to run before my manager sends out a search party.” She steps back, adjusting her cap and sunglasses, the idol persona clicking back into place. But just before she turns away, her eyes meet yours one last time, and there’s a spark there; something familiar, something you both thought was long buried.

“Text me!” she calls over her shoulder, before disappearing into the flow of the crowd, leaving you standing there, blinking in the afternoon sun, wondering if any of that actually just happened.

—

The days following that almost-too-surreal-to-be-true bump-in on the street are a weird blur of text messages and tentative plans. You’re talking to Yoo Jimin. Karina. Actually talking. Not just a polite exchange, but actual back-and-forth, interspersed with smiley faces and those little KakaoTalk character reactions she always overused, even back then. You finally manage to nail down a time to meet properly, a casual stroll through one of Seoul’s sprawling, meticulously landscaped parks. Her idea. Probably safer for her, less chance of being mobbed.

You tell yourself the knot in your stomach is just… nerves. Normal, run-of-the-mill nerves. Anyone would be a little keyed up about meeting a global superstar, right? Especially one you used to share juice boxes and secrets with in your dorky pre-teen years. Yeah, that’s it. It’s the Karina factor. Definitely not the Jimin factor, not the sudden, unwelcome resurgence of that colossal, all-consuming crush you thought you’d successfully buried under six years of distance and a different continent.

Nope. Not at all.

But your brain, the traitorous bastard, keeps replaying flashes of the past. Jimin, with her scraped knees and fierce determination during school sports days. Jimin, laughing so hard milk nearly shot out her nose in the cafeteria. Jimin, biting her lip in concentration while trying to teach you a ridiculously complicated handshake. These images, once faded and dusty, are now vivid, almost painfully sharp, overlaid with the equally mind-boggling reality of who she is now. It’s a strange cocktail, this potent nostalgia mixed with the sheer absurdity of her current life. You feel like you’re about to meet two people at once: the girl next door and the untouchable idol.

—

You spot her near the park entrance, leaning against a cherry tree that’s probably in full, glorious bloom (though you barely register the flowers). She’s wearing a dress today, something new, light, and airy that dances around her knees when the breeze catches it. It's a soft, pastel color that makes her skin look even more luminous. Simple, yet on her, it looks like it walked straight off a runway. Her hair is down, long and dark, catching the sunlight. Even from a distance, she’s ridiculously, effortlessly beautiful.

“Hey,” you say, trying for casual, hoping your voice doesn’t crack.

She turns, and that smile (the one that could probably power a small city) spreads across her face. “Hey yourself! You found it okay?”

“Yeah, a park. Pretty hard to miss,” you joke, falling into step beside her as you start down a wide, tree-lined path. It’s surprisingly uncrowded for a weekend afternoon.

The conversation flows easier than you expected, or maybe feared. You start with the safe stuff: how crazy it is to see each other after so long, the "what are the odds" of it all. She’s a natural in front of a camera, even if it’s just her phone. Every few minutes, she’ll stop, pointing. “Ooh, here! The light’s perfect.” And you, feeling like an unqualified, suddenly very sweaty personal photographer, do your best to capture her. She poses with an easy grace, a slight tilt of her head, a playful smile, a candid laugh as a gust of wind messes with her hair. Each shot is stunning. She’s just…photogenic doesn’t even begin to cover it. She makes a random park bench look like a high-fashion editorial.

“So,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear after a particularly enthusiastic mini-photoshoot by a koi pond, “tell me everything. College overseas must have been wild. Did you turn into some party animal I wouldn’t recognize?”

You laugh. “Hardly. Mostly just late-night study sessions fueled by questionable instant ramen and an unhealthy amount of caffeine. PR’s no joke. But it was good. Different. What about you? From quiet Jimin who was scared of the dark to… well, Karina, leader of Aespa, breaking records and being the it girl of this generation. How does that even happen?”

She chuckles, a soft, genuine sound. “It’s… a lot. Still feels unreal sometimes. The training was brutal, no lie. There were days I wanted to quit, thought I wasn’t good enough.” Her voice drops a little, a hint of vulnerability seeping through. “But then… we debuted, and suddenly everything changed. The fans, the music, performing… it’s a different kind of magic, you know?”

You nod, trying to imagine it. The Jimin you knew was fiercely talented, Always singing and dancing at school talent shows, but this level of fame? It’s on another planet. “I can’t even picture it. Standing on those huge stages, millions of people screaming your name.”

“It’s terrifying and amazing all at once,” she admits. “But enough about me. What about your job hunt? Any better luck since… the sidewalk incident?” She grins, and you groan.

“Marginally. Had a couple more interviews. One was for a junior PR role at a gaming company, actually sounded pretty cool, but I think I fumbled the ‘what’s your five-year plan?’ question. Said something about ‘not starving’ which, in hindsight, maybe wasn’t the power move I thought it was.”

Jimin laughs, bumping your shoulder playfully. “Hey, honesty is a virtue. Besides, gaming PR? You’d be great at that. You practically lived in arcades back in the day.”

“True. But ‘great at Street Fighter’ doesn’t exactly scream ‘hire me’ on a resume.” You sigh. “It’s tough out here, man. Competition’s insane.”

She nods, her expression turning more serious. “How are you managing? Like, financially? Seoul’s not cheap.”

You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Oh, you know. Freelance gigs here and there. Been doing some weekend shifts at a department store in Myeongdong, in the electronics section. Surprisingly good for people-watching. And it pays the bills. Barely.” You force a smile. “It’s fine. Temporary. Just until something in PR lands.”

Jimin stops walking, turning to face you properly. She’s biting her lip, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. “Send me your resume.”

“What?”

“Your resume,” she repeats, more firmly this time. “And your portfolio, if you have one. Anything that shows off your PR skills. I’ll send it to the team at SM.”

You can’t help it; a laugh bursts out of you, loud and incredulous. “Jimin, no. Come on.” You even raise your hands in a placating gesture. “I appreciate it, seriously, that’s incredibly sweet of you, but… SM Entertainment? They’re not going to hire some random, inexperienced guy who just rolled into the country. Especially not for their PR team. They probably have a waiting list a mile long of geniuses with connections.”

Her expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it becomes more determined. “Don’t doubt me. And don’t doubt yourself. You’re smart, you’re good with people, you get how things work. Just send it to me. What’s the worst that can happen? They say no? Big deal. You’re already getting that.”

There’s a conviction in her voice that’s hard to argue with, even though every rational part of your brain is screaming that this is a pipe dream. “I… I don’t want you to go out on a limb for me, Jimin. Especially if it’s for nothing.”

“It’s not for nothing if I believe in you, is it?” she says softly, and damn her, that hits you right in the feelings. “Just promise me you’ll send it. Please?”

You let out a long breath, rubbing the back of your neck. She’s looking at you with that earnest, hopeful expression, and you know you’re going to cave. “Okay, okay. I promise. I’ll send it tonight.” You still think it’s a snowball’s chance in hell, but for her? You’ll try.

She beams, her good mood instantly restored. “Good! It would be so crazy if we ended up working at the same place, wouldn’t it? Like fate, again!”

“Yeah,” you agree, a small, hesitant smile on your own face. “Completely insane.” But the thought, as outlandish as it seems, sparks a tiny, traitorous flicker of hope. It’s nice, you realize, to have someone in your corner. Someone who, despite the years and the fame, still seems to genuinely care.

“Ice cream break?” she suggests, pointing towards a small vendor cart surrounded by happy kids. “My treat. To celebrate your future employment at SM.”

“Don’t jinx it,” you groan, but you’re already following her, the weight on your shoulders feeling a little lighter than it did before.

The ice cream is sweet, cold, and a welcome distraction. You talk about lighter things: terrible movies you’ve both seen, the weirdest food trends in Seoul, the time you both tried to dye your hair with Kool-Aid in eighth grade and ended up looking like deranged parrots. It’s easy, comfortable, like no time has passed at all.

As the sun begins to dip lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you find yourselves back near the park entrance.

“This was… really great, Jimin,” you say, meaning it. “Thanks for today.”

“I had fun too,” she replies, her smile soft. “We definitely need to do this again. And sooner than another six years, okay?”

“Deal.”

She pulls out her phone. “Okay, one more photo. But this time, you have to be in it.”

You instinctively start to protest. “Oh, no, I’m good. I’ll just–”

“Nope! Non-negotiable,” she says, already switching to the front-facing camera. She grabs your arm, pulling you closer until your shoulders are pressed together. You’re acutely aware of her warmth, the faint scent of her perfume, the way her hair tickles your cheek. She holds the phone up, angling it for the perfect shot. “Okay, smile! Or… try not to look like you’re being held hostage.”

You manage a slightly stiff, awkward smile as she snaps a few pictures. She scrolls through them, a pleased expression on her face. “Cute! See? Not so bad.” She shows you one where you’re both actually smiling, the city lights just starting to twinkle in the background. It is cute. This crazy, unexpected reunion, now captured in a small digital frame.

She sends the photo to you, and as you look at it on your own screen, a feeling of… something warm, something hopeful, settles in your chest. Okay, maybe this move to Seoul wasn't a complete disaster after all. Maybe fate really does have a weird sense of humor. And maybe that spark you both felt isn't just a relic of the past.

—

You’re elbow-deep in a tangled mess of headphones and Bluetooth speakers at your soul-crushing electronics store job a few days later, trying to explain to a very persistent customer why his twenty-year-old MP3 player probably isn’t compatible with the latest Bose noise-cancelling monstrosities, when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You almost ignore it (probably another scam likely call) but the insistent vibration continues. Excusing yourself with a strained smile, you fish it out.

Unknown number.

You almost swipe it away, but something makes you answer. “Hello?”

A clear female voice speaks your name.

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you reply, already bracing for a sales pitch.

“This is Kim Hana from SM Entertainment’s Human Resources department. We received your resume regarding a potential opening in our Artist Relations team, specifically working with Aespa. Are you available for an interview later this week?”

Your brain short-circuits. SM Entertainment? Aespa? You almost swallow your tongue. The headphones in your hand slip, clattering onto the counter. The customer gives you a weird look. You try to speak, but only a strangled squeak comes out. Clearing your throat violently, you manage, “Excuse me? SM… Entertainment?”

“Yes,” Ms. Kim says, her voice betraying no hint of surprise at your shock. “Yoo Jimin forwarded your details. She spoke very highly of you. We have an opening for a Junior PR and Communications liaison for Aespa’s team. It involves assisting with press releases, social media coordination, and general support for the group's public-facing activities. Would Thursday at 2 PM work for you?”

Yoo Jimin. Holy shit. She actually did it. Your head is spinning. This has to be a prank. But the voice on the other end sounds far too official, far too… SM.

“Uh, yes! Yes, Thursday at 2 PM is… perfect,” you stammer, your mind racing a mile a minute. Junior PR liaison. For aespa. Working with Jimin. This is insane.

“Excellent. We’ll send a confirmation email with the details and address. Please bring a physical copy of your resume. We look forward to meeting you.”

“Thank you! I mean, yes, looking forward to it too!”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone, then at the annoyed customer, then back at your phone. Your first instinct is to call Jimin. You dial her number before you even consciously decide to, heart hammering against your ribs.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hey! What’s up?” Her voice is bright, cheerful.

“Jimin! You… you actually sent my resume to SM?” you blurt out, pacing behind the counter.

She laughs, that easy, musical sound. “Of course, I did. I told you I would, didn’t I? So, did they call you?” There’s a playful, knowing tone in her voice. She knew.

“They just called! I have an interview on Thursday! For a PR liaison role with Aespa! Jimin, this is… I don’t even know what to say. Thank you isn’t enough.”

“Hey, no need to thank me,” she says, her voice warm. “You’re qualified. You just needed a foot in the door. Now go ace that interview. I know you can.”

“But… SM? And working with your team? That’s… that’s insane.”

“Is it?” she teases. “Or is it fate? Again?” You can practically hear her smiling. “Just be yourself. They’ll love you. And hey,” her voice drops a little, becoming softer, more personal, “it would be pretty cool to see you around the office.”

“Yeah,” you manage, your voice a little breathless. “Yeah, it really would.”

—

Two days later, you’re standing in front of the imposing SM Entertainment building, dressed in your only decent suit, clutching your resume like they’re religious relics. The place is even more intimidating from the inside. Sleek, modern, buzzing with an undercurrent of focused energy. You see trainees rushing by, staff members with headsets, snippets of music drifting from behind closed doors. It’s a whole other world.

The interview itself is a blur. You meet with Ms. Kim from HR and a stern-faced senior manager from the Artist Relations department. They grill you on your PR experience (minimal, aside from college projects), your knowledge of the K-Pop industry (decent, from a fan perspective), and your ability to handle pressure (questionable, judging by the sweat currently soaking your palms). You try your best, channeling every ounce of professionalism you can muster, talking about your degree, your adaptability, your passion for creative communication. You highlight your international college experience, hoping it sounds impressive. You don’t mention Jimin, not directly, but you talk about your admiration for Aespa’s innovative concepts and global appeal.

When it’s over, you’re convinced you’ve blown it. You thank them, shake their hands, and walk out feeling a familiar wave of disappointment. Well, at least you got to see the inside of SM. That’s something, right?

You’re about to head for the exit, already composing a ‘thanks anyway’ text to Jimin, when you spot her. She’s further down the hallway, talking to someone who looks like a choreographer, dressed in stylish dance practice gear. Your heart does a nervous leap. You almost don’t approach her, but then she turns, her eyes meeting yours. A bright smile instantly lights up her face.

“Hey! How did it go?” she asks, excusing herself from the choreographer and walking towards you.

You can’t help but smile back, despite the lingering anxiety. “Hey. It was… an experience.”

She tilts her head, searching your face. “That doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.”

You sigh. “Honestly, Jimin, I think I tanked it. I was a nervous wreck. Pretty sure I forgot my own name at one point.”

Jimin just laughs, lightly punching your arm. “Oh, stop it. I’m sure you were great.” Then, her eyes sparkling with mischief, she asks, “So, did they offer you the job on the spot? Did they weep with joy at finding such a PR prodigy?”

“Hardly. They said they’d be in touch. Which is corporate speak for ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you, and by ‘we’ll call you,’ we mean never.’”

Just as you say it, your phone buzzes. You glance down. It’s Ms. Kim from SM. Your blood runs cold. Jimin peers at your screen, her eyes widening. “Well? Answer it!”

With trembling fingers, you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

“Hello,” Ms. Kim’s voice says. “We were very impressed with your interview. The team feels your background and enthusiasm would be a great asset. We’d like to offer you the Junior PR and Communications Liaison position for Aespa. Congratulations.”

You actually sway on your feet. Jimin grabs your arm, her eyes wide and questioning. You just stare at her, speechless, a slow, disbelieving grin spreading across your face. You manage to stammer out a “Thank you, I accept!” to Ms. Kim, who tells you HR will be in touch with the contract and start date details.

As soon as you hang up, Jimin is practically bouncing. “You got it?! You actually got the job?!”

You nod, still in shock, then burst out laughing. “I got the job! Holy shit, Jimin, I actually got the job!”

“I told you!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around you in a spontaneous, ecstatic hug. You hug her back, lifting her off the ground slightly, both of you laughing like idiots in the middle of an SM Entertainment hallway. When you finally set her down, you look at her, your heart full. “Thank you, Jimin. Seriously. This… this is because of you. I owe you big time.”

She waves her hand dismissively, but her smile is radiant. “You owed me for that time I covered for you when you broke Mrs. Lee’s prize-winning bonsai tree in fifth grade. Now we’re even.” She winks. “Besides, it’s going to be awesome having you here. Just try not to be too starstruck all the time, okay?”

“No promises,” you say, still grinning like a fool. Working at SM. With Jimin. This is actually happening.

—

Your first day is a whirlwind. You’re officially part of Aespa’s core PR team. The office is a hive of activity, a stark contrast to the quiet desperation of your job hunt. You meet your direct supervisor, a sharp, no-nonsense woman named Ms. Park, who walks you through your responsibilities: drafting social media posts, liaising with journalists (under strict supervision, of course), helping coordinate schedules for interviews and appearances, and generally being an all-hands-on-deck support for the group’s public image. It’s a lot to take in, but it’s exciting. You’re actually doing PR, not just theorizing about it in a classroom. And the best part? Your desk is in the same wing as Aespa’s dedicated team rooms. You can hear snippets of their music, see them occasionally passing in the hallways. It’s surreal.

During a much-needed lunch break, you’re trying to decipher the SM cafeteria menu when Jimin appears at your elbow, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Lost, newbie?” she teases.

“Completely,” you admit. “This place is a maze. And I think I accidentally ordered fermented skate for lunch.”

Jimin laughs, shaking her head. “Rookie mistake. Come on, I’ll show you the good stuff. And then there are some people I want you to meet.”

She leads you through the bustling cafeteria to a slightly quieter corner where three other girls are already seated, chatting animatedly. Your breath catches. Ningning. Giselle. Winter. The Aespa. In the flesh. Eating bibimbap.

Jimin grins, pulling you forward. “Girls, here he is. He’s the new PR liaison for our team. And also my super old, super dorky childhood friend.”

All three of them look up, their expressions ranging from curious to friendly.

Ningning, with bright, expressive eyes, offers a wide smile. “Oh, you’re the friend Jimin’s been talking about! Welcome to the chaos! I’m Ning Yizhuo.” Her energy is infectious.

Giselle, looking effortlessly chic even in casual clothes, gives you a cool, appraising nod. “Hey. Aeri Uchinaga. Or Giselle, whichever you prefer. Nice to finally meet you. Jimin’s been… enthusiastic about you joining.”

Winter, with her softer, almost ethereal beauty, offers a shy smile. “Hi. I’m Kim Minjeong. It’s nice to have you on the team.”

You manage to stammer out hellos, feeling completely out of your depth. You’re shaking hands with idols, people you’ve seen on giant screens and in glossy magazines. And they’re just… eating lunch. Talking. Laughing. It’s the most normal, yet utterly abnormal, situation you’ve ever been in.

The conversation is surprisingly easy. They ask you about yourself, where you’re from, how you know Jimin. You keep your answers vague about the ‘how you know Jimin’ part, sticking to the ‘childhood friends’ line. They talk about their upcoming schedule, a new music video concept, the usual idol banter. They’re all incredibly nice, welcoming, and you find yourself relaxing, actually enjoying their company. It’s still hard to reconcile these friendly, down-to-earth girls with the powerhouse performers they are on stage.

After lunch, as you’re heading back to your desk, Jimin falls into step beside you.

“So? What did you think?” she asks. “They’re pretty cool, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, still a little dazed. “They’re… amazing. And this whole thing is still kind of blowing my mind, to be honest. Working here, meeting them, seeing you…”

She bumps your shoulder playfully. “See? Told you it would be fun. It’s really good to have you here. Like, really good.” There’s an undercurrent to her words, a warmth that makes your chest feel tight.

“It’s good to be here, Jimin,” you reply. You look at her, and her presence so close to you makes you feel a mix of strange sensations; your childhood friend, now a global superstar, who somehow pulled strings to get you a job at one of the biggest entertainment companies in the world, just so you could be close. The thought is overwhelming, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once.

The dynamic between you is already shifting, the old, forgotten feelings bubbling closer to the surface now that you’re in her orbit again. And as you walk back to your new desk, you wonder if she is also feeling the same way as you.

—

It’s been a couple of weeks since you officially became Junior PR and Communications Liaison for Aespa, and that initial feeling (the one that hit you walking back to your desk after Jimin’s introduction to her members, that premonition of everything changing) hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s intensified.

You try to shove it down, to compartmentalize. You’re here to work, to prove Ms. Park, your sharp-as-a-tack supervisor, right for hiring you (even if Jimin’s recommendation was the battering ram that got your resume through the door). You spend your days buried in spreadsheets tracking social media engagement, drafting press release snippets that get dissected and reassembled ten times over, and fetching coffee more often than you’d care to admit. It’s grunt work, mostly, the bottom rung of the PR ladder, but it’s real. You’re in the game. And every so often, you catch a glimpse of the glittering prize: a quick, positive comment from Ms. Park on a draft, a nod of approval from the senior team members, the quiet satisfaction of a task completed efficiently.

Your attempts to maintain an air of cool professionalism around Jimin are… a work in progress. A fucking daily battle, if you’re being honest with yourself. She, on the other hand, seems to have no such internal conflict. Jimin is clearly, unequivocally, incandescently happy you’re there. It’s in the way her eyes light up when she spots you across the bustling open-plan office, the way she makes a beeline for your desk pretending to need a paperclip or ask about a non-existent email, her shoulder brushing yours a little too long as she leans in. It’s in the extra-bright "Morning!" that cuts through the general office murmur, often accompanied by a smuggled pastry from some high-end bakery she “just happened to pass.”

You try to reciprocate with a polite, colleague-appropriate smile and a "Morning, Jimin-ssi," emphasizing the honorific, a subtle reminder of the professional context. Sometimes. Other times, when she winks, or her smile is just for you, that old, familiar warmth floods your chest, and "Jimin-ah" slips out before you can catch it, a relic from a time before honorifics and idol personas mattered between you two. Her answering grin on those occasions is like a shot of pure sunshine, potent and dangerously addictive.

The other Aespa members are great. Ningning often swings by your desk to ask about some new Western slang she’s heard or to show you funny videos on her phone. She’s easy to talk to, her curiosity genuine, and you find yourself quickly falling into a comfortable banter with her. Giselle is cooler, more reserved initially, but possesses a dry wit that catches you off guard and makes you laugh out loud. She’s sharp, observant, and you get the feeling not much gets past her. Winter is quieter, often observing with a gentle smile, but when she does speak, it’s thoughtful and kind. You make a point of being equally friendly and professional with all of them, mindful of your role. You’re part of their team, here to support them, not to be a distraction or play favorites.

It's during one of these interactions with Ningning, about a week into your third week, that you notice it for the first time. You’re both hunched over your monitor, Ningning giggling as you try to explain the nuances of a particularly baffling English meme that’s gone viral. You’re leaning back in your chair, pointing at the screen, and she’s close, peering over your shoulder, her hair tickling your ear. It's an innocent, work-adjacent moment.

"Ah! So that's what it means!" Ningning exclaims, clapping her hands together. "Okay, okay, I get it now. You have a future as an official idol translator."

You chuckle. "Modesty aside, I am really well versed in the nuances of the English language, especially when it comes to memes."

"Apparently!”

The weeks bleed into a month, then two. You’re no longer the wide-eyed newbie fumbling with the coffee machine or getting lost on the way to the third-floor dance studios. You’ve found your rhythm in the relentless pulse of SM Entertainment. Your PR drafts for Aespa are getting fewer red marks from Ms. Park, you’ve memorized the building’s labyrinthine layout (mostly), and you actually feel like you’re contributing something more than just an extra body in meetings. You’ve even started to differentiate between the dozen slightly different shades of black that seem to constitute 90% of the staff’s wardrobe.

The other members of Aespa have become familiar, friendly faces. You’re careful, always. Professionalism is your mantra. You’re staff. They’re idols. But in those stolen moments, the casual chats in the quieter corners of the building, a genuine camaraderie is forming.

Jimin, though… Jimin is another story. She’s undeniably, overtly thrilled to have you around. Her smiles are brighter when directed at you, her laughter louder. She seeks you out for “work-related questions” that could have easily been answered by anyone else, her hand lingering a fraction too long on your arm when she makes a point. She brings you your favorite coffee "just because she was passing by the good place." While a part of you, the part that still remembers sweaty palms and a racing heart from your teenage years, basks in that focused attention, the professional, adult part of you is on high alert.

You’ve seen the glances. The whispers that die down when you approach a group of staff members. The subtle, almost imperceptible raising of eyebrows from some of the senior managers when Jimin’s interactions with you are a little too familiar, a little too warm for a global superstar and a junior PR guy. Idols, especially female idols at the top of their game, aren’t supposed to be this close, this visibly chummy, with male staff. It’s a dangerous line, and you’re terrified she’s either blissfully unaware of it or, worse, doesn't care. You try to dial back your own responses, keeping things friendly but more reserved, adding the honorific "Jimin-ssi" more consistently, hoping she’ll take the hint. Sometimes she does, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before her professional mask slips on. Other times, she just bulldozes past it with that radiant grin, leaving you feeling like you’re walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers.

Her thing with the other members… that’s new. And it’s weird, kinda unsettling if you’re being honest with yourself. It’s never anything, like, obvious. She never says anything. But you see it.

Or you think you do.

It’s in the little things. Like when you’re cracking up with Ningning, sharing some stupid meme, and you catch a glimpse of Karina out of the corner of your eye. There’s a flicker of something in her expression, a barely-there tightening around her mouth before it smooths out into a small, polite smile. It’s so fast you question if you even saw it.

Or when Giselle gets all close, leaning into your space to show you a video on her phone, and Karina’s eyes just seem to… stick. They linger on you for a beat too long, her gaze heavy in a way you can’t quite decipher before she blinks and looks away, suddenly engrossed in her own phone.

Maybe you’re just making it up, projecting or something. But then she’ll walk over when you and Winter are in the middle of a conversation, laughing and vibing, and it’s like the temperature drops a few degrees. Her posture shifts, just a fraction, but she seems

One late afternoon, you find yourself in one of the smaller, less-used lounges on Aespa’s floor. It’s a comfortable space, rarely occupied, with a couple of plush sofas, a low table littered with old magazines, and a window overlooking a surprisingly green courtyard. You’d ducked in to escape the main office buzz for a few minutes, intending to just scroll through your phone and decompress. Ningning had found you first, plopping down beside you to complain good-naturedly about a particularly grueling choreography session. Soon after, Giselle and Winter had wandered in, drawn by Ningning’s animated voice, and the three of them were now comfortably arrayed on the sofas opposite you.

You’re in the middle of recounting a truly disastrous blind date your college roommate had dragged you on years ago (a story involving a mistaken identity, an escaped ferret, and a very public argument with a mime). You’re hamming it up, using voices, expansive gestures, and the girls are in stitches. Ningning is practically falling off the sofa, tears of laughter streaming down her face. Giselle, usually so composed, is clutching her stomach, her shoulders shaking. Even Winter keeps asking you for more details about the story, and for a moment, you forget the pressures of the job, the complexities of your situation with Jimin, everything. You’re just a guy, shooting the shit with friends.

"...so then the mime starts gesturing wildly, right? And my roommate, bless his clueless heart, thinks the ferret belongs to the mime and is trying to give it back!" you say, trying to catch your breath between laughs. "And the mime is getting more and more agitated because, apparently, he's deathly afraid of rodents..."

Ningning lets out another shriek of laughter. "No! Oh my god, a mime afraid of ferrets! That’s too much!"

Giselle wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. "Okay, that’s actually the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. Poor ferret, though. And poor mime!"

"The ferret was fine!" you assure them, grinning. "Made a clean getaway into a nearby bakery. The mime needed therapy, probably."

Winter shakes her head, still chuckling softly. "You always have the craziest stories."

"It's a gift," you say with a mock bow, eliciting another round of giggles. "Or a curse. Depends on whether you're the one living through it or just hearing about it."

It’s at this moment, surrounded by their genuine laughter, that the door to the lounge creaks open. You don’t even register it at first, too caught up in the shared mirth. But then a shadow falls across the room, and a new voice, cool and distinct, cuts through the air.

"Having fun?"

Your laughter catches in your throat. The shift in atmosphere is instantaneous, like a cold front rolling in. Ningning, Giselle, and Winter all visibly react; their smiles falter, their postures subtly stiffen. You turn, your heart giving a sudden, uncomfortable thump against your ribs.

Jimin is standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorframe. She’s dressed in sleek black leggings and an oversized hoodie, her practice gear, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Her expression is unreadable, a carefully blank mask, but her eyes… her eyes are fixed on you, sharp and intense. There’s no smile, no warmth, just that unwavering, assessing stare.

You scramble to your feet, a little too quickly. "Oh, hey, Jimin-ssi. We were just, uh..."

Ningning, recovering first, offers a slightly strained smile. "Jimin-unnie! We were just listening to his hilarious story."

"Yeah, unnie," Giselle adds, her voice a little less effusive than it was moments before. "He was telling us about his old roommate’s disastrous date."

Jimin’s gaze doesn’t leave yours. She takes a slow step into the room, her presence suddenly dominating the small space.

"A disastrous date?" Jimin repeats, her voice still devoid of any discernible emotion. Her eyes finally flick towards the other girls, then back to you. "Sounds captivating. You seem to have them quite entertained."

There’s an edge to her words, a subtle accusation. You can feel a prickle of sweat on your palms. This is exactly the kind of situation you’ve been dreading, her finding you in a moment of unguarded ease with her members, their laughter clearly for you, excluding her.

Winter shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, her earlier smile completely gone. Ningning is fiddling with the drawstrings of her hoodie, avoiding eye contact. Giselle maintains a neutral expression, but her eyes dart between you and Jimin. You feel like you're under a fucking microscope, and Jimin is the one holding the lens, her gaze burning into you, searching for… something.

"Well," you begin, clearing your throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. You force a casualness you don't feel, gesturing vaguely towards the door. "I should probably, uh, get going. Got that report Ms. Park wanted… needs finishing." It’s a flimsy excuse; the report isn’t due until tomorrow afternoon, but escape is paramount.

You offer a quick, slightly strained smile to the other girls, who are still looking like they wish the floor would swallow them. "Was fun chatting, though. See you guys later."

Ningning manages a small, "Bye." Giselle gives a curt nod, her eyes still flickering towards Jimin. Winter offers a tiny, almost imperceptible wave.

As you turn to leave, Jimin’s voice stops you again. "I'll walk with you."

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Your mind screams No, absolutely fucking not, bad idea, abort mission! but your mouth, like a traitor, says, "Oh. Uh, sure. Okay." Because what else can you say? Arguing would only make it worse, draw more attention, confirm whatever suspicions are brewing in her mind.

The walk from the lounge down the hallway towards the main office area feels like miles. The silence stretches between you, taut and uncomfortable. You can feel her presence beside you, a subtle tension in the air that wasn't there before. You risk a quick glance at her. Her expression is still set, jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead. You can practically hear the gears turning in her head. You brace yourself.

Finally, as you round a corner into a less populated corridor, she speaks, her voice low.

"You and the others seem to be getting along really well."

It’s a neutral observation on the surface, but you hear the undercurrent. You try to keep your own tone light, even. "Yeah, they’re great. Easy to talk to." You pause, then add, trying to steer the conversation onto safer ground, "Isn't that good? They're your members, your friends. I'm your friend, working with your team. It’s good that we all… you know, get along."

Jimin doesn’t look at you. Her gaze remains fixed on some indeterminate point down the hallway. "It depends."

"Depends on what?" you ask, afraid of what will come next.

"Depends if you start ditching me for them," she says. "Because lately, it feels like you’re avoiding me."

Your step falters for a split second. "Avoiding you? Jimin, that’s… that’s not true." The denial is automatic, but even as you say it, a flash of guilt hits you. You have been more reserved, more careful.

She finally turns her head, her eyes, dark and intense, meeting yours. There’s a flicker of hurt in them that makes your chest ache. "Isn't it? What about yesterday, in the cafeteria? I waved, you just nodded and hurried off with your tray. And Monday, when I asked if you wanted to grab a coffee after that marketing meeting, you said you were swamped. I saw you five minutes later scrolling through your phone at your desk." Her voice isn't accusatory now; it's quieter, tinged with a genuine bewilderment and that raw hurt. She remembers specific instances, and fuck, she’s not wrong. You were being short, deliberately creating distance.

Your throat feels tight. You glance quickly up and down the corridor. It’s relatively empty, just a couple of junior staffers disappearing around a distant corner. This isn't a conversation for public consumption. You stop, turning to face her more directly, lowering your own voice.

"Okay, look," you begin, trying to choose your words carefully. "Can we just… can we be real for a second?"

She watches you, waiting, her arms crossed over her chest now, a defensive posture.

"Jimin," you say, your voice earnest, "you know I’m happy to be here. And I’m happy you’re here, obviously. But you have to understand… this isn't like before. You’re Karina. You’re one of the biggest idols in the world. I’m… just a guy who works for the company. Your PR guy, technically."

Her brow furrows slightly, a hint of confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with it," you insist. "Don’t you see how it looks? How we look? You being so… openly friendly with me, all the time? The little extra things, the way you seek me out? People notice that stuff, Jimin. Staff talk. Hell, fans would lose their minds if they saw half of it. This industry… it’s brutal. One wrong rumor, one misinterpreted photo, and it could be disastrous. For you, especially. For Aespa."

You run a hand through your hair, feeling the stress of it all. "I haven’t been avoiding you, Jimin. I’ve been trying to be careful. Trying to protect you. Trying to protect us from… from that. From the bullshit that could come from it. When I seem distant, or 'short' as you put it, it's not because I want to be. It's because I’m trying to keep a professional boundary in public, for both our sakes. I’m worried about your career, about you getting dragged into some stupid scandal because people misunderstand."

You let out a breath, the words tumbling out, a weight lifting slightly now that it’s said. You search her face, hoping she understands, hoping she doesn’t see it as a rejection.

Jimin stares at you, her expression slowly shifting as your words sink in. The defensiveness in her posture softens. The intensity in her eyes dims, then something akin to… embarrassment. Her gaze drops from yours to the floor, a faint blush creeping up her neck, painting the apples of her cheeks. She uncrosses her arms, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie.

When she finally looks up, her eyes are wide, a little watery, and full of a vulnerability that punches you right in the gut.

"Oh," she says. "Oh my god. You’re… you’re right." She winces, biting her lip. "I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking about it like that. At all." She shakes her head, looking genuinely mortified. "I'm so sorry. I’ve been… God, I’ve been acting like such an idiot. Paranoid." She lets out a shaky little laugh that has no humor in it. "I don’t even know why I’ve been like this. So… clingy or weird. It’s just…" She trails off, looking lost.

Seeing her like this, so exposed and contrite, melts away any lingering frustration you felt. All you want to do is reassure her.

"Hey," you say softly, taking a hesitant step closer. "It’s okay. Seriously. Don't beat yourself up about it." You offer a small, gentle smile. "It’s a weird situation for both of us, right? We’re figuring it out."

You pause, then add, you add, your tone surprisingly gentle, imbued with all the sincerity you feel, "And for what it’s worth, Jimin… you know how much I like having you around. How much I like you. Being near you, talking to you… it’s the best part of this whole crazy thing. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you. I haven’t forgotten that. Not for a second."

Her eyes, still glistening, meet yours. The blush on her cheeks deepens, but there’s a flicker of relief, of gratitude, in her gaze now. "Thank you," she murmurs. "For… for saying that. And for being honest. And for, you know, looking out for me even when I’m being a dumbass."

"Always," you say, and the word feels solid, true.

A comfortable silence settles between you for a moment. "So," you say, breaking the quiet gently, "how about this? To make up for my perceived avoidance, and your… non-dumbass-ness…" You grin, and she lets out a small, watery chuckle. "Later this week, or whenever you’re free from practice and schedules, we do something. Properly. Just you and me. No work, no office, no other members. Like old times, but… new times."

Her face lights up, a genuine, brilliant smile chasing away the last of her embarrassment. It’s the Jimin you remember, the one whose happiness is infectious. "Just us?"

"Just us," you confirm, your own heart feeling a little lighter, a hopeful anticipation bubbling up.

"I’d really like that," she says. "A lot." She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes sparkling again, this time not with suspicion, but with something that looks a lot like the excitement you’re suddenly feeling too.

—

The relief that flooded you after that honest, vulnerable conversation with Jimin in the hallway lingers for days. It’s like a heavy weight you didn’t even realize you were carrying has been lifted. There’s a new lightness in your interactions, a shared understanding that makes the stolen glances and brief smiles across the busy office feel less fraught with anxiety and more like thrilling little secrets.

True to her word, before you part ways that day, Jimin’s eyes sparkle with that familiar mischief.

"So, about that 'just us' time," she says, leaning against the wall, a playful smirk on her lips. "My place. Dinner. I’ll cook. Don’t look so surprised, I can actually make more than instant ramen."

You raise an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. "Oh really? Color me intrigued. Are we talking a five-star gourmet experience or something that might involve a fire extinguisher?"

She swats your arm playfully. "Hey! I’ll have you know my kimchi jjigae is legendary. Or, at least, edible. You in?"

The thought of it: Jimin, cooking for you, in her apartment, away from the relentless scrutiny of SM, it feels intimate, a significant step. "Absolutely in," you say. "When?"

She pulls out her phone, already scrolling through her calendar app, a frown of concentration on her face. "Hmm, schedule’s insane next week… What about… Friday? A week from today? I think I have that evening clear. For now, anyway."

"Friday it is," you confirm, a grin spreading across your face. "I’ll even bring dessert. To, you know, potentially counteract the legendary kimchi jjigae."

"You wound me! But deal." She winks, then with a quick, "Gotta run, practice!" she’s off, leaving you feeling a ridiculous sense of anticipation for a dinner that’s still a full week away.

The following days pass in a blur of work, punctuated by those small, shared moments with Jimin. A quick coffee break where you actually sit together for ten minutes, talking about nothing and everything. Her dropping by your desk with a new song recommendation, leaning in close so you can share an earbud, her hair brushing your cheek. The professional boundaries are still there, especially when others are around, but the fear and awkwardness have been replaced by a conspiratorial warmth. You’re both more careful, more aware, but the connection feels stronger, deeper.

Friday arrives, and you spend most of the day in a state of low-level excitement, replaying your outfit choices in your head, wondering what her apartment is like, what it will feel like to just be with her, without the roles of "idol" and "staff." You even bought an expensive cake from that fancy bakery she likes.

Then, around 3 PM, your work phone buzzes with a message from Jimin:

NOOOO! I’m SOOOO sorry! Next week's photoshoot was brought forward to today. I'll be tied up until late. They just told us. I was really looking forward to it. Stupid schedules. Can we reschedule? Please say yes!

Disappointment settles in your chest, but you push it down. This is idol life. This is what you signed up for, being in her orbit.

You text: Of course. No worries at all, totally understand. We’ll find another night. Good luck with the shoot! You’ll kill it.

You’re the best. Raincheck for sure!!! Next week? I’ll make it up to you!

But "next week" turns into a series of near misses. An unexpected variety show filming crops up for her. A last-minute fan sign event gets added. You have a late night at the office handling a minor PR flare-up for another group. The universe, it seems, is conspiring against your private dinner. The expensive cake sits in your fridge, a sad, delicious monument to your thwarted plans.

And as the days turn into another week, something else starts to creep into your awareness, a subtle, unwelcome shift in your own internal landscape. You’re part of aespa’s PR team, which means you’re privy to schedules, collaborations, and the general buzz around them. You see Jimin interacting with other people in the company, naturally. She’s the leader, charismatic and friendly. It’s her job, her personality.

But it’s her interactions with some of the male idols that start to… prickle.

It begins subtly. You’re in a meeting discussing upcoming cross-promotional content, and one of the senior members from a popular SM boy group, a guy known for his sharp looks and easy charm, casually mentions how he and Jimin were just laughing about a shared embarrassing trainee story the other day in the practice rooms. A tiny, almost imperceptible muscle tightens in your jaw. They just happened to be in the practice rooms? Laughing? You tell yourself it’s nothing. Colleagues. Friends.

Then, a few days later, you’re walking past one of the recording studios and you see Jimin through the soundproof glass, headphones on, talking animatedly with a well-known producer, also male, also handsome. He leans in close to adjust something on the mixing board, his hand brushing hers. She throws her head back and laughs at something he says, a bright, unrestrained sound. The knot in your stomach tightens a little more. You find yourself lingering a second too long, watching them, a sour taste creeping into your mouth. You force yourself to walk away, chiding yourself internally. She’s working. He’s a producer. This is normal. Get a grip.

The worst is when you’re scrolling through internal staff memos or even semi-public social media feeds from other idols. A candid behind-the-scenes shot from a music show, and there’s Jimin in the background, deep in conversation with a member of a rival boy group, both of them smiling. A congratulatory post from another male idol for am Aespa’s latest achievement, with a throwback photo of him and Jimin making silly faces from some past event. Each instance is like a small papercut, insignificant on its own, but collectively, they start to bleed.

You start to question yourself, this ugly feeling coiling in your gut. Am I actually… jealous? The thought is mortifying. You have no right. You’re her friend, her colleague. You buried that teenage crush years ago, didn’t you? This is different. This is… possessiveness. It’s irrational, and you hate it. You tell yourself it’s just protectiveness, the same kind you talked to her about, you’re worried about her image. But who are you kidding? That’s bullshit. This isn’t about her image. This is about that tight, angry clench in your chest when you see another guy make her laugh that specific way, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners. The way she only laughs with you. Or so you thought.

You try to subdue it, to crush the feeling down with logic. She’s an idol. Her circle is full of other idols, producers, industry people. Male, female, it doesn’t matter. She’s allowed to have friends. You are being a fucking psycho. You try to focus on your work, burying yourself in spreadsheets and press drafts, but your gaze keeps drifting, your ears straining for any mention of her name, your mind replaying those brief, observed moments, dissecting them, looking for… you don’t even know what. Reassurance? Confirmation of your fears?

This slow burn of jealousy is exhausting. It simmers beneath the surface of your carefully constructed professionalism, a toxic undercurrent poisoning your thoughts. You haven’t said anything to Jimin. You haven’t changed your outward behavior towards her, not in any way she’d notice, you hope. You’re still friendly, still supportive, still the guy she relies on. But inside, you’re a mess, increasingly tangled in a knot of feelings you don’t want and can’t seem to shake, this unwelcome, undeniable jealousy taking root, growing stronger with each passing day, with each shared smile she gives to someone who isn’t you.

—

Most of the nine-to-fivers have already made their escape, and even the usual thrum of idol activity has quieted to a muted pulse. You’re tucked away in a small, blessedly empty meeting room on one of the upper floors, nursing a lukewarm cup of instant coffee. You’re supposed to be reviewing social media analytics (riveting stuff, truly) but mostly you’re just staring out the window at the sprawling grey expanse of Seoul, lost in the delightful internal monologue of your own burgeoning, and entirely irrational, jealousy. It’s becoming quite the hobby, this mental self-flagellation.

The click of the door opening barely registers until a familiar, melodic voice cuts through your brooding.

"Hiding out?"

You nearly jump out of your skin, sloshing coffee onto a stack of decidedly unimportant papers. Turning, you see Jimin leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile playing on her lips. And just like that, the carefully constructed wall of your professional cynicism crumbles into pathetic, lovestruck dust.

She’s not in practice gear today. She’s wearing a simple, cream-colored knit sweater that looks ridiculously soft and some dark, well-fitted jeans. Her hair is down, cascading over her shoulders in those perfect, effortless waves that probably take a team of stylists two hours to achieve. Her makeup is minimal, making her look younger, softer, more like the Jimin you knew before she became Karina, global phenomenon and recurring star of your anxiety dreams.

"Hey," you manage, trying for nonchalant and probably landing somewhere near 'startled chipmunk.' "Didn't hear you come in."

She pushes off the doorframe and ambles further into the room, her presence instantly making the generic corporate space feel… smaller, somehow. More charged. "Sorry to interrupt your very important… paper-staring session."

"It's a critical part of my process," you say, attempting a dry wit that she, thankfully, seems to appreciate with a small laugh. "Deep contemplation of spreadsheet ergonomics."

"Right." She perches on the edge of the ridiculously oversized conference table, her legs crossed casually. "Look, I just wanted to say sorry if I’ve been a bit MIA the last few days. Schedules have been… well, you know. Insane."

"Ah, the glamorous life," you quip, though the relief at her explanation is a palpable thing easing the tension in your shoulders. So, it wasn’t you. Or, not just you. Probably. "No worries. Figured you were off conquering another continent or something equally mundane."

She smiles, a genuine, tired-around-the-edges smile. "Something like that. Endless meetings about tour logistics, new endorsement shoots, trying to learn choreography when every muscle in your body screams for rest." She sighs, then her gaze softens as it meets yours. "It’s just… been a lot. Haven't had much chance to just… breathe. Or talk."

"I get it," you say, and you do. The pace here is relentless. "You look…" You pause, searching for the right word, because 'good' feels like an insult to whatever cosmic alignment is happening with her features right now. "You look beautiful today, Jimin." The words are out before you can second-guess them, honest and a little too raw. You quickly try to backtrack, to lessen the impact, lest you sound like a complete lovesick fool (which, of course, you are). "I mean, you always look beautiful, obviously. It’s kind of your brand. But today… there’s something. Extra. You’re glowing. Or maybe it’s just the cheap office lighting playing tricks on my caffeine-addled eyes."

A delicate blush, the color of a summer peach, rises on her cheeks. She ducks her head for a moment, a shy gesture that feels impossibly endearing. "Thank you," she says softly, looking up at you through her lashes. The directness of her gaze, coupled with that blush. "That’s… really nice to hear. Especially today."

You should probably say something about those analytics. Or the weather. Anything but stare at her like she’s the only source of oxygen in the room.

Then, her expression shifts. A wistful, almost faraway look enters her eyes. "Hey," she says, her tone quieter now, thoughtful. "Do you remember… do you remember that time, we must have been, what, thirteen? When we biked all the way out to old Haeundae beach, even though our parents would have skinned us alive if they knew?"

The question catches you off guard. The sudden shift to such a specific, distant memory throws you. But of course, you remember. How could you forget? Your mind immediately conjures the scene: the reckless thrill of that forbidden adventure, the salty spray on your faces, the cheap, borrowed bikes threatening to fall apart beneath you.

"Yeah," you say, a slow smile spreading across your face as the details flood back. "With those ridiculously ancient bikes we 'borrowed' from your uncle’s shed? The ones where the brakes only worked if you prayed really, really hard?"

Her answering smile is luminous. "Exactly! And then that insane storm blew in out of nowhere. One minute it was sunny, the next it was like the sky just… cracked open."

"Torrential," you agree, a chuckle escaping you. "We were soaked to the bone in about ten seconds. I thought my sneakers would never dry out."

"And we found that tiny, busted-up old bus stop shelter way up on the coastal road," she continues, her eyes sparkling with the recollection, lost in the memory with you. "It was leaking, there were probably spiders the size of my fist in there, but it felt like a palace."

"We were freezing," you remember, "shivering like crazy. And all we had to eat was that one squashed packet of stale crackers I’d forgotten in my backpack."

Jimin laughs. "And we split it, didn’t we? Crouched in that damp, smelly shelter, rain hammering down outside, sharing those awful crackers like it was a feast." She looks at you then. "We talked for hours, waiting for it to stop. About everything. Stupid stuff, serious stuff."

"Our grand plans to escape our boring town," you supply, the memory so vivid now it feels like you could reach out and touch it. "Your dreams of being famous, my dreams of… well, probably something equally ridiculous I’ve thankfully forgotten."

"It wasn't ridiculous," she says softly, her gaze holding yours. "It was just… us. Just talking. It felt like we were the only two people in the world for a few hours."

You know what she means. It was more than just getting caught in the rain. It was a moment of unvarnished connection, of shared vulnerability, of feeling utterly, completely understood by another person, a feeling so rare and precious, especially at that tumultuous age. You remember the damp chill, yes, but more clearly, you remember the warmth of her shoulder pressed against yours as you huddled together, the easy rhythm of your conversation, the feeling that, for a little while, all the complexities of the world had fallen away, leaving just the two of you and the roaring storm.

"I still think about that day sometimes," Jimin says, her eyes still locked on yours, searching, questioning. "A lot, actually."

Your carefully constructed composure, already teetering, threatens to shatter. All the air seems to have been sucked out of the small room. The irony isn't lost on you; here you are, a grown man, unraveled by a shared memory of stale crackers and a rainstorm from over a decade ago. Pathetic, really.

"Why?" The question slips out, hushed, almost involuntary. Your mind is racing. Why now? Why bring this up? What does it mean?

Jimin holds your gaze for another long moment, and you can see a universe of unspoken emotions swirling in the depths of her dark eyes. Then, she looks away, her gaze drifting towards the window, towards the distant, indifferent city. A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips.

"Actually, I don't know," she says, so quietly you almost miss it. "I really don't know."

It's an answer that's not an answer, a perfectly crafted piece of ambiguity designed, it seems, to send your already overthinking brain into a full-blown spiral. You watch her, this enigma you’ve known your whole life, and feel a familiar, frustrating helplessness. All those years, all that shared history, and she can still reduce you to a state of dumbfounded confusion with three little words.

She pushes herself off the conference table, the movement fluid and graceful. "Well," she says, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual brightness, though her eyes still hold that distant, thoughtful quality. "Maybe it’s better if I go. Don’t want to keep bothering you with… ancient history. And I actually do have that choreography meeting. Can't keep the dance monster waiting."

She turns and walks towards the door, each step feeling like a countdown timer on your chance to say something, anything, to pierce through this sudden, unbearable tension.

She reaches the door, her hand on the knob. It’s now or never, brainiac.

"Jimin," you call out.

She pauses, her back still to you, hand frozen on the doorknob. This is it. Your moment to say something profound, something that clarifies everything, something that bridges the gap of years and fame and unspoken feelings. Your mind races, a frantic slideshow of possibilities. 'What did you mean?' 'Do you feel it too?' 'That day meant something to me too, you know.'

And then, like a cold splash of reality, the internal killjoy (the one that pays the bills and reminds you of your precarious position) pipes up: She’s an idol, you idiot. Global superstar. You’re staff. This is how you lose your job and become a cautionary tale. Don’t be a walking, talking HR violation.

The grand, sweeping declaration dies on your lips, replaced by a pathetic little puff of air. When she finally turns her head slightly, looking back at you with a questioning gaze, all that comes out is a lame, "It's… uh… nothing. Never mind.”

A small, enigmatic smile plays on her lips. It’s impossible to tell if it’s knowing, amused, or just polite. With Jimin, it could be all three. "Okay," she says softly. "See you around."

And then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her with a gentle finality, leaving you alone once more with your lukewarm coffee, your useless analytics, and the fresh, agonizing weight of all the things you didn't say.

Hours later, the office has thinned out almost completely. You’re packing up your bag, ready to call it a day and go home to stare meaningfully at your ceiling, when Ningning bounces over to your desk.

"Heading out?" she asks, perching on the corner of your desk like an overgrown, incredibly cheerful pixie.

"Yep. Day is done. My brain feels like overcooked jjigae."

She giggles. "Mine too! We had vocal training for three hours straight. My throat is screaming." She leans in a little. "So, work stuff aside… how are things?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Things? Vague. But… okay, I guess? Survived another day in the K-Pop trenches. You?"

"Good, good!" she says, then her eyes get that tell-tale sparkle of curiosity you’re beginning to recognize all too well. "Actually… I was wondering. About, you know…" She gestures vaguely between herself and an imaginary Jimin. "You two."

Ah. Here we go. The subtle interrogation phase. You try to keep your expression neutral, a Herculean effort. "Us two? Do you mean Jimin? We’re… old friends. Colleagues. As previously established in multiple official and unofficial briefings."

Ningning tilts her head, her smile a little too knowing. "Riiight. Old friends. But, like… how old? What’s the real story there? Unnie can be… a little selective with details sometimes."

Before you can even begin to formulate a suitably evasive yet charmingly informative answer, footsteps approach. Giselle and Winter appear, looking equally ready to bolt for the day.

"What are you two whispering about over here?" Giselle asks. Winter offers a quiet smile from beside her.

Ningning beams at them. "Perfect timing! I was just asking about him," she points a thumb at you, "and our dear leader. The true story."

Giselle’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches. "Oh? The origin story? Spill it. We’ve only heard Jimin-unnie’s version, which, let's be honest, is probably heavily romanticized."

Winter chuckles softly. "She did mention something about a very dramatic rainstorm once."

Now all three of them are looking at you, expectant and clearly ready for some prime gossip, or at least, your side of the folklore. You’re surrounded. There’s no escape.

"Okay, okay," you say, raising your hands in mock surrender, trying to buy yourself some thinking time. "There’s nothing really interesting in our story. Mostly just a lot of questionable teenage fashion choices and an unhealthy obsession with the same five boy bands."

"Details, details!" Ningning urges, leaning forward. "What were you like in school? Was she always… Karina-like? Or was she a secret dork?"

"Definitely a secret dork," you say, a genuine smile touching your lips as you think back.

This gets a laugh from all of them.

"And you?" Giselle prompts. "What was your role in this dynamic duo?"

"Chief instigator of dumb ideas, probably," you admit. "And expert in procuring illicit snacks for movie marathons. We spent a ridiculous amount of time watching terrible action movies and critiquing them like we were seasoned film critics." You share a few more harmless anecdotes: the time you both tried to bake a cake that ended up looking like a volcanic eruption, the disastrous school play where you both forgot your lines, the endless summers spent biking around the city, dreaming of bigger things. It’s easy to talk about the past, the safe, sepia-toned memories. It makes the present, with all its unspoken tensions and Jimin’s idol status, feel momentarily distant.

As you’re talking, weaving these tales of your shared youth, you see your opening. It’s a long shot, and your attempt at casualness will probably be about as convincing as a politician's promise, but you have to try.

"Speaking of Jimin," you say, aiming for a nonchalant tone that you’re pretty sure misses the mark by a country mile, "she’s, you know, so busy and in the public eye all the time. Must be tough to… have a personal life. Is she… seeing anyone? Or, you know, hanging out with anyone in particular? Just curious, as a friend. Worried about her, you know. Safety, happiness, all that good stuff."

You try to make it sound like a casual afterthought, a fleeting concern from a dear old platonic pal. You think you almost pulled it off, right up until you see the looks on their faces.

Ningning’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and she exchanges a lightning-fast glance with Giselle. Giselle’s lips twitch, a smirk threatening to break free. Winter just smiles like she knows what's going on in your head. Oh, you are so transparent. They see right through your flimsy "concerned friend" charade.

"Hmm, 'seeing anyone'?" Giselle repeats slowly, drawing out the words. "Nope. Can't say that she is. Unnie's pretty much married to her work these days. And us, of course."

"Yeah," Ningning chimes in, a little too brightly. "No mysterious romantic entanglements that we know of! Our leader is a free agent!"

"Why do you ask?" Winter asks her gaze lifting to meet yours.

"Oh, you know," you say, waving a dismissive hand, trying to project an air of breezy indifference. "Just… she’s an old friend. You worry about your friends, right? Want them to be happy, not get mixed up with… undesirables. Standard friend protocol."

The three of them share another look. This one is longer, more laden with unspoken understanding. It’s the kind of look that says, “Oh, honey, you are so delightfully screwed.”

"Right," Giselle says. "Undesirables. Of course."

Ningning nods vigorously. "Totally. Friend protocol. We get it."

"So," Giselle starts, "all these shared memories, the dorky school days… was there ever, you know, anything more? Between you two back then?"

You can feel the heat rising up your neck. Your brain is frantically sifting through a thousand possible deflections, each one more unconvincing than the last. This is where your PR training truly shines, in the art of saying absolutely nothing while appearing to consider something deeply. A true masterclass in verbal evasion is about to unfold, you can just feel it.

"I mean, the bond between you two is… remarkable," Ningning adds, helpfully twisting the knife. "Unnie was so, so excited when she found out you were coming to work here. Like, beyond normal 'old friend joining the company' excited. More like 'rare Pokémon spotted in the wild' excited."

Giselle snorts delicately. "Eloquent, Ningning. But she’s right. There’s definitely… a vibe."

Just as you’re about to launch into what would undoubtedly be a completely disastrous attempt at a nonchalant denial, a voice cuts through the charged atmosphere.

"There you guys are! I’ve been looking all over for you."

Jimin. Of course. Her timing is, as always, impeccably dramatic. She steps into the lounge, her gaze sweeping over her members, then landing on you, a slight question in her eyes. She’s still in her practice clothes, a light sheen of perspiration on her forehead, making her look both ethereal and remarkably real. The girls, bless their meddling, gossipy hearts, snap into action with the practiced ease of seasoned operatives.

"Oh, hey, Unnie!" Ningning chirps. "We were just… talking."

"About what?" Jimin asks, stepping further into the room, her gaze lingering on you for a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary. Or maybe you’re just imagining that part. Your imagination has been working overtime lately, particularly where she’s concerned.

"Nothing major," Giselle says smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. "Silly things. Random office gossip. You know how it is." She stands, stretching languidly. "Actually, we should probably head out. It’s getting seriously late.”

"Yeah, same," Ningning agrees, bouncing to her feet. Winter nods, already halfway to the door. "My everything aches."

You seize the opportunity, a drowning man grasping at a life raft made of convenient excuses. "Me too, actually. Long day. Lots of… spreadsheets." You try for a weary, put-upon sigh. You’re not sure it lands.

The girls offer quick goodbyes, a chorus of "See ya!" and "Night, Unnie!" and then they’re gone, leaving you and Jimin standing in the sudden quiet of the empty lounge. She turns to you. "They keeping you entertained?"

"They’re… a force of nature," you admit. "Never a dull moment."

"Tell me about it," she says with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand schedules. "Well, I guess I should let you escape too." She gestures towards the door. "I’m heading out as well. Want to walk?"

And just like that, you’re accompanying her again, the two of you falling into step as you navigate the increasingly deserted corridors of SM Entertainment. You find yourself acutely aware of the space between you, of the subtle scent of her perfume, of the way her hair catches the low evening light filtering through the hallway windows. It’s all terribly poetic and deeply unhelpful for your already addled state of mind.

As you approach the main lobby, her voice, soft and a little melancholic, breaks the quiet. "Have you ever wondered," she begins, not looking at you, her gaze fixed on the gleaming marble floor, "what might have happened? If… if things had been different? If I hadn’t gone into training when I did, if you hadn’t gone off to study in another country? If we hadn't… you know, gone our separate ways back then?"

The question, so similar to the one that started your recent emotional tailspin with her, catches you off guard. It’s a "what if" laden with years of distance and change, a path untaken, a story unwritten. You glance at her profile, the perfect line of her jaw, the slight furrow in her brow. She looks so much like the fierce, determined girl you knew, yet also like someone entirely new, someone shaped by experiences you can only guess at.

"I don't know," you say honestly, the words feeling inadequate but true. It’s your go-to answer for her profound, soul-searching question, apparently. "It’s… hard to predict those kinds of things, isn’t it? One tiny change back then could have led to a million different todays." You try for a philosophical shrug, as if you ponder alternate timelines on a regular basis. You mostly ponder what to have for dinner.

She nods slowly, still not meeting your eyes. "You’re right. It’s impossible to know." A beat of silence, then she adds, almost to herself, "Still. Sometimes I wonder."

Before you can overthink it, before your internal HR department can issue a cease-and-desist, you find yourself saying, "But, Jimin… whatever those other million todays might have looked like, this one? This is the one where we’re both here. You, me, in this crazy building, against some pretty insane odds when you think about it." You meet her gaze then, hoping she sees the sincerity in yours. "That’s got to be worth something, right?"

A slow smile spreads across her face, a genuine, heart-stoppingly beautiful smile that reaches her eyes and chases away some of the weariness you saw there earlier. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I think it is." She finally looks directly at you, and there's a warmth there, a shared acknowledgement of the strange, unlikely thread that still connects you.

"Thank you for saying that."

"Just stating the facts," you reply, though your heart is doing a fair impression of a hummingbird’s wings. You pause, then, emboldened by the moment, you ask, "Are you okay, though? You seem… a little tired." A masterful understatement, considering the grueling life she leads.

She lets out a soft sigh. "Yeah, I’m okay. Just… tired is my default setting these days, I think." She manages a wry smile. "This week has been particularly brutal. But it’s okay. It’s part of it."

"I’ve been seeing it up close, you know," you say, your tone earnest. "You, the girls… the amount of work you all put in, the sheer dedication… it’s actually insane. I had no idea, not really, before I started working here. It’s… genuinely incredible. You’re all amazing." You hesitate, then add, "Just… don’t overdo it, okay? Take care of yourself. Seriously."

Her smile widens, softens. The appreciation in her eyes is unmistakable, and it makes you feel ridiculously warm inside. "Thank you," she says again. "That means a lot. I will. I promise."

You reach the main exit, the cool night air of Seoul beckoning from beyond the glass doors. This feels like another one of those moments, a pause before the story shifts again.

"Well," you say, "my chariot awaits. Or, you know, the subway."

She laughs, a light, easy sound. "Same here. My manager’s probably already sent out a search party." She turns to you, and for a moment, it feels like there’s something more she wants to say, something hovering on the edge of her words. But then she just smiles that enigmatic smile again. "Good night. And… thanks. For the walk. And the concern."

"Anytime," you reply. "Goodnight, Jimin."

And with that, she’s gone, disappearing into the waiting black van that always seems to materialize out of nowhere. You watch her go, a strange mix of hope and confusion and that ever-present, damnably persistent affection swirling inside you.

—

The weekend arrives with all the fanfare of a damp squib. You spend Saturday mostly alternating between staring blankly at your laptop screen, pretending to job-hunt for something that isn’t your current, emotionally hazardous employment, and replaying every single micro-expression Jimin has made in your vicinity for the past two weeks. It’s a productive, well-adjusted way to live, you tell yourself with a hefty dose of irony. You’re bored, tired of your own internal monologue, and a little bit adrift.

You’re cleaning your room, contemplating mentally the profound existential question of whether to order jjajangmyeon or just eat cereal for dinner for the third night in a row, when your phone buzzes on the coffee table. You almost ignore it, expecting another spam text about a crypto scam or a discount on air fryers. But then it buzzes again, insistent. With a groan, you reach for it.

It’s a message. From Jimin.

Hey! Are you by any chance, miraculously, incredibly, unbelievably… free tonight? My schedule just cleared up like magic (don’t ask, it’s a K-Pop miracle). That dinner we talked about… still interested? My legendary kimchi jjigae awaits its challenger! Let me know! Fingers crossed! ✨🍜🤞

You stare at the message, reading it once, twice, a third time just to make sure your sleep-deprived brain isn’t hallucinating. Her schedule cleared? She’s asking tonight? After all the cancellations, all the near-misses? A slow grin, a genuine, uncomplicated, shit-eating grin, spreads across your face. All the weariness, the boredom, the overthinking from the past few days, evaporates like morning mist.

You type back, your thumbs flying across the screen, a surge of adrenaline making your hands shake slightly.

Tonight? Miracles do happen! Yes, absolutely, 100% still interested. My taste buds are primed and ready for legendary status. Send me the address. I’ll even brave rush hour for this.

Her reply is almost instantaneous. A string of happy emojis, followed by her address and a time.

It’s set. It’s actually, finally, set.

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, loud and unrestrained in the quiet of your small apartment. Suddenly, your weekend isn’t looking so bleak. Suddenly, you’re not tired at all. Suddenly, the only thing that matters is that in a few short hours, you’re going to Jimin’s apartment for dinner. Just the two of you.

—

The hours leading up to your dinner with Jimin are a masterclass in controlled chaos, existing primarily within the confines of your own skull. You tell yourself, with the stern authority of someone trying to wrangle a particularly unruly toddler, not to overthink it. It’s just dinner. A casual meal between old friends. One of whom just happens to be a globally recognized K-Pop sensation who occupies a significant, and frankly unhealthy, amount of your daily thought processes.

Yes, perfectly normal.

Your attempt not to overthink manifests as a meticulous, hour-long deconstruction of your entire wardrobe, a frantic search for an outfit that screams "effortlessly cool and put-together" while simultaneously whispering "I definitely didn't try too hard, but please notice I tried a little." You settle on dark jeans that actually fit well and a soft, unassuming button-down shirt (casual, yet hinting at the possibility that you own an iron).

On your way to her neighborhood, a sudden pang of "don't show up empty-handed, you heathen" strikes you. You duck into a small, upscale market, ostensibly for a bottle of wine or some trendy artisanal sparkling water. As you’re Browse, your eyes snag on a particular brand of imported Swiss chocolate, a rich, dark hazelnut bar. It’s a lightning bolt from the past. Jimin used to be absolutely obsessed with this exact chocolate back in your school days. She’d save up her allowance for it, savoring each square like it was a precious jewel. It’s a ridiculous, sentimental impulse, but you grab it, along with a respectable bottle of white wine that looks like it knows what it’s doing. The chocolate feels like a small, secret handshake with the past, a nod to the girl she was… a girl you knew before the world did.

Her apartment building is sleek and modern, nestled in a quiet, affluent part of Seoul. You buzz her apartment number, your voice sounding surprisingly steady through the intercom when you announce your arrival. A moment later, the lock clicks, and you’re granted access to the inner sanctum. So far, so good. No alarms triggered.

Standing outside her actual apartment door, a fresh wave of nerves – oh, hello again, old friend – washes over you. You perform the sacred pre-door-knock ritual: a quick, surreptitious sniff of your own breath (minty, check), a frantic adjustment of your shirt cuffs, and a final, desperate smooth-down of your hair. You take a deep breath, then you knock.

The door swings open, and there she is. And just like that, your carefully constructed composure evaporates. Jimin. Even in simple, dark lounge pants and a ridiculously soft-looking, oversized grey sweater that swallows her frame, she looks… breathtaking. Her hair is tied up in a loose, messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face. Her makeup is so light it’s almost non-existent, just a hint of color on her lips and a subtle definition to her incredible eyes, making her appear more close to you, more vulnerable, more… Jimin. The effect is devastatingly beautiful, far more so than any stage costume or red-carpet glamour. This is her, unvarnished, in her own space.

You just sort of… stare for a beat, your brain temporarily short-circuiting. She offers a small, slightly shy smile. "Hey. You made it."

"Yeah," you manage. "Traffic was… surprisingly cooperative. For once." You then remember the social contract requires more than just grunting acknowledgment. "You, uh… you look amazing, Jimin. Really." There, you said it. Not as smooth as you’d hoped, but honest.

Her smile widens, a genuine, pleased crinkle around her eyes. "Thanks. You clean up pretty nice yourself." She steps back, holding the door open wider. "Come on in. Don’t mind the mess, I was literally in the middle of a creative explosion in the kitchen."

You step inside, and as you do, you present your offerings. "Brought some wine," you say, handing her the bottle. "And, uh, this." You pull out the chocolate bar. "Not sure if you still… but I remembered."

Her eyes widen when she sees the familiar wrapper, a gasp of pure, unadulterated delight escaping her. "Oh my god!" she exclaims, taking the chocolate from you with an almost reverent care. "This! I haven’t had this in ages! How did you even remember?" Her face is alight with genuine happiness. "This is… this is the best. Thank you." That she’s happier about the relatively cheap chocolate bar than the expensive wine says everything. It’s a direct hit to the heart, that shared memory made tangible.

"My memory retains crucial information," you say, trying for a light, teasing tone to cover the sudden thickness in your throat.

She laughs, clutching the chocolate bar like a long-lost treasure. "Apparently so." She gestures around. "Well, this is it. Karina's home. Or, you know, Jimin’s slightly-less-glamorous-than-you’d-expect-for-an-idol-but-still-pretty-nice apartment."

You take a proper look around as she leads you further in. It is beautiful. Definitely what you’d expect for someone of her status – spacious, with high ceilings, large windows offering a glittering panorama of the Seoul skyline. The furniture is modern and stylish, a palette of soft neutrals and rich textures. But threaded throughout the obvious expense are unmistakable touches of her. A shelf overflowing with books, a worn acoustic guitar propped in a corner, a collection of quirky art prints that are more charming than high-concept, a ridiculously fluffy throw blanket draped over a plush sofa that just begs for someone to curl up on it. It’s a home, not just a showpiece. It’s… Jimin. And you’re in it.

The aroma filling Jimin’s apartment is genuinely incredible, a rich, spicy, and deeply comforting scent that immediately makes your stomach rumble in anticipation. She’s bustling between the small, open-plan kitchen counter and the dining table as she places steaming bowls and an array of colourful banchan (pickled radish, seasoned spinach, glistening myeolchi bokkeum) onto the table. You try to offer help, a classic "can I do anything?" gesture, but she waves you off with a smile, directing you to simply take a seat.

"Guest of honor tonight," she declares, "your only job is to eat and, hopefully, not require medical attention afterwards." It's a joke, but there's a hint of nervous pride in her eyes as she surveys her culinary efforts. It's endearing, this glimpse of her outside the polished perfection of Karina, the idol. This is Jimin, hoping you like her cooking.

You settle into a chair at the intimate wooden table, which is perfectly sized for two and positioned to offer a breathtaking view of the city lights beginning to ignite the deepening twilight outside. She slides a bowl of rice in front of you, then the centerpiece: a bubbling, vibrant red earthenware pot of kimchi jjigae, the steam carrying its potent, delicious fragrance. She serves herself, then gestures for you to dig in. "Well," she says, a little breathlessly, "moment of truth."

You pick up your chopsticks, you take a careful spoonful of the jjigae, the rich broth warming your tongue, the tender pork and tangy kimchi a perfect balance. It’s not just edible; it’s genuinely, profoundly good. Your eyes widen in honest surprise.

"Jimin," you say, after a moment of appreciative silence, letting the warmth spread through you. "This is… seriously incredible. You weren't kidding about the legendary status. This is restaurant-quality stuff." You’re not just being polite; it’s the best kimchi jjigae you’ve had in a long, long time. Maybe ever.

A pleased, slightly flustered blush colors her cheeks. She ducks her head, stirring her own bowl a little too intently. "Oh, stop," she says, but her smile is radiant. "It’s just an old family recipe. My grandmother taught me. I don’t get to make it that often, so… I’m glad it turned out okay." She takes a tentative bite herself, then nods, a little surprised. "Huh. Not bad, if I do say so myself."

You both eat in a comfortable, almost reverent silence for a few minutes. You try some of the banchan she gestures towards, a crisp, spicy cucumber salad, some savory pan-fried tofu. Everything is meticulously prepared, bursting with flavor. It's clear she put a lot of effort into this, and that knowledge warms you even more than the jjigae.

It's as you’re both reaching for the water glasses at the same time, your fingers brushing for a fleeting, electric instant, that the full weight of the situation seems to properly land. You pull your hand back a little too quickly, a jolt going up your arm. You look up, and she’s looking at you, her eyes wide, a similar awareness dawning in them. Here you are. Alone. In her apartment, a space few outside her closest circle probably ever see. Sharing a home-cooked meal. It’s not uncomfortable, not exactly, but it’s undeniably there: a potent mix of history and the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of your lives having converged like this again.

A small, nervous chuckle escapes her lips, a delicate, airy sound. Almost instantly, a similar laugh bubbles up from your own chest; a little shaky, a little breathless, but a genuine release of the mounting tension. It’s a shared acknowledgment of the elephant.

"Okay," she says, setting down her chopsticks and picking up her water glass. "This is… this is a little bit weird, isn't it?" She takes a sip of water, her gaze still holding yours over the rim of the glass. "Not bad-weird," she clarifies quickly, perhaps sensing your own internal monologue already composing a list of polite escape routes, "definitely good-weird. But still… wonderfully, ridiculously weird."

"Good-weird is my favorite kind of weird," you manage. The shared laughter, the naming of the awkwardness, has somehow made it less… awkward. "And yes, 'wonderfully, ridiculously weird' pretty much sums up my entire existence since moving to Seoul and, you know," you gesture vaguely to encompass her, the apartment, the situation, "all of this." You take another mouthful of jjigae, savoring the spice, buying yourself a moment. "Honestly, if you’d told fourteen-year-old me, the one convinced that high fashion was wearing a band t-shirt without holes in it, that one day I'd be having homemade kimchi jjigae in global K-Pop superstar Karina's apartment…" You shake your head, a wry smile playing on your lips. "Well, let's just say his tiny, angst-ridden brain would have imploded. He probably would have assumed it was a very elaborate prank involving hidden cameras."

Jimin laughs, a bright, clear sound that seems to chase away some of the shadows in the room. "Oh, please. Fourteen-year-old you was far too cynical for hidden camera pranks. You’d have assumed it was a stress-induced hallucination brought on by too many all-night gaming sessions." She pauses, her smile softening into something more reflective as she looks around her living space, then back at you, her dinner guest, the boy from her past sitting so improbably in her present. "But look at us now, huh? Actually sitting here, eating dinner, in my own place. Talking about nothing relevant… and just being. Like two reasonably functioning adults who manage to feed themselves without burning the building down." She takes a slow, deliberate bite of rice, her gaze drifting towards the window, towards the vast, glittering expanse of Seoul spread out below them. "Who would have thought any of this was possible back then?" She turns back to you, a wistful, almost tender smile on her lips. "Time flies, doesn’t it? Feels like a lifetime ago, and yesterday, all at once.”

There's a shared melancholy in the air, a sweet ache for the irretrievable past, but it's also undercut by the sheer, vibrating improbability of your present. You nod slowly, swirling the last of the spicy jjigae broth in your bowl, the warmth of it seeping into you, mirroring the warmth spreading through your chest from just… being here, with her.

"It really does," you agree. "One minute you're plotting how to get out of gym class, the next you're… well, you're an international icon, and I'm marveling at your exceptional kimchi jjigae skills and wondering if adulting comes with a manual they forgot to give me." You offer a small, self-deprecating smile, which she returns with a knowing one of her own.

"Tell me about it," she sighs, pushing her empty bowl away slightly. "Sometimes I look in the mirror and I'm still half expecting to see that gangly teenager with the terrible bangs staring back, wondering how on earth I’m supposed to lead a group and remember lyrics in different languages." She pauses, then a playful spark ignites in her eyes, chasing away the momentary wistfulness. "Speaking of adulting… that wine you brought isn't going to drink itself, is it?”

"An excellent point."

"Yeah," she says, already rising from the table. "Let me just wash these dishes and then we can relocate. My couch is significantly more comfortable for serious wine contemplation than these dining chairs. And you haven't even seen my prized collection of questionable drama movies yet, a true adult indulgence."

She begins clearing the table with an efficient grace, and you quickly stand to help, gathering bowls and chopsticks. "Questionable dramas, huh? I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Oh, you should be. We're talking peak early 2000s angst."

While she rinses the dishes (a task you offer to do but are again cheerfully waved off from) you retrieve the bottle of white wine from the counter where you’d left it. You find a corkscrew in a drawer after a brief, the satisfying pop of the cork feels like a small, official commencement of the evening’s next, less formal, chapter. Jimin reappears with two elegant, long-stemmed wine glasses.

Soon, you're both settled on her ridiculously plush sofa. It’s U-shaped, large enough that you’re not exactly pressed against each other, but close enough that you’re acutely aware of her presence, the subtle scent of her shampoo, the way the soft lamplight catches the curve of her cheek. She curls her legs up beneath her, looking impossibly small and cozy, and takes a grateful sip from her wine glass.

"Mmm," she hums, her eyes closing for a moment. "Okay, this is good. Way better than the soju bombs from our trainee day survival kits, that’s for sure."

You take a sip yourself. The wine is crisp and cool, a pleasant counterpoint to the lingering spice of the jjigae. "Glad it meets the approval of your sophisticated palate," you tease, settling back into the cushions. The sofa really is incredibly comfortable. Dangerously so. "Though I have a feeling even drain cleaner would taste good after some of the trainee stories I’ve heard."

She laughs, a full, unrestrained sound this time, and the warmth of it, combined with the wine already beginning to hum pleasantly in your veins, makes you feel… good. Really good. Relaxed in a way you haven’t been in weeks, maybe months.

"You have no idea," she says, shaking her head, a smile still playing on her lips. "There was this one time, during our first evaluation prep, we were all so stressed and sleep-deprived, Ningning tried to microwave a banana. The whole banana. Peel and all."

You snort with laughter, nearly choking on your wine. "No! What happened?"

"Let’s just say the dorm smelled like radioactive fruit for a week, and we were banned from unsupervised microwave usage," Jimin recounts, her eyes sparkling with shared amusement. "Our manager almost had a conniption. Good times. Peak adulting, right there."

The wine flows easily, and with it, the conversation. You find yourselves reminiscing more about those "good old days," the stories becoming funnier, sillier, with each glass. You remind her of the time she tried to dye her own hair blue using a questionable internet tutorial and ended up with three distinctly different shades of swamp green. She counters with the story of your spectacularly failed attempt to build a skateboard ramp in your backyard, which resulted in more bruises than airtime. The laughter comes more frequently now, less self-conscious, more open. There's a comfortable intimacy in revisiting these shared embarrassments.

With the second glass of wine, a subtle shift occurs. The silliness is still there, but it’s becoming tinged with a more playful, flirtatious edge. Maybe it’s the alcohol lowering inhibitions, or maybe it’s the cozy proximity on the sofa, or maybe it’s just the inevitable result of two people with a mountain of buried feelings finally being in a private, relaxed space together. You find yourself watching the way her lips curve when she smiles, the way she gestures animatedly when she’s telling a particularly outrageous story, the way her eyes seem to catch and hold yours for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

"You know," she says, swirling the wine in her glass, her gaze a little unfocused, a little dreamy, "you were always surprisingly good at listening. Even when I was rambling about the most ridiculous, angsty teenage dramas. You’d just sit there and nod, like it was the most profound stuff you’d ever heard."

"Hey, your angst was top-tier," you reply. "It deserved a captive audience. Besides, someone had to make sure you didn't actually follow through on your threat to run away and join the circus after that disastrous school talent show audition." You lean a little closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "Though, for the record, I still think your interpretive dance to that heavy metal song was… creatively ambitious."

She throws her head back and laughs, a genuine, unrestrained peal that makes your chest ache with a strange, sweet tenderness. When she sobers, she lightly punches your arm. "Oh, shut up! That was performance art! You just didn't understand my vision!" Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed from the wine and the laughter, and she’s looking at you with an open, unguarded expression that makes your breath catch. "But seriously," she adds, "you were a good friend. Still are."

The compliment, simple as it is, lands with surprising weight. "You too, Jimin," you say, your voice equally soft, meeting her gaze. "Always."

Her eyes search yours, and you feel like she can see right through your carefully constructed facade, right down to the terrified, hopeful teenager still lurking somewhere inside. The wine has definitely done its job; the world feels a little softer around the edges, your inhibitions are pleasantly fuzzy, and the desire to just reach out, to bridge that small remaining distance on the couch, is becoming overwhelmingly, dangerously strong.

The wine, crisp and cool, continues its delightful work, unspooling the tightly wound threads of formality and apprehension that had clung to the early evening. Each sip seems to loosen your tongue a little more, and Jimin’s too. The comfortable U-shaped sofa, initially a vast expanse, feels like it’s subtly shrinking, or perhaps you’re both just… gravitating. Her laughter, when you recount another particularly embarrassing anecdote from your shared school days, is no longer just a polite chuckle. It’s a full-bodied, unrestrained peal of mirth that makes her lean back against the cushions, her eyes squeezed shut, one hand playfully batting at your arm.

You find yourself grinning like an idiot, the warmth spreading through your chest having very little to do with the alcohol content of the wine and everything to do with the sound of her unbridled joy.

"It’s funny, isn’t it? All those little things we obsessed over back then, thinking they were the most important things in the world." She swirls the wine in her glass, watching the pale liquid catch the light. "Who you sat with at lunch, whether you got picked for the team, if that one person looked at you in the hallway…"

Her voice trails off on that last phrase, and there’s a subtle shift in her tone, a new layer of something… emerging from beneath the playful banter. She takes a breath, then turns to you, her eyes, luminous in the dim light, searching yours. The playful glint is gone.

"Can I… can I tell you something? Something really stupid I used to think back then?"

Your heart gives a little thump. "Of course," you say. "My lips are sealed. And my capacity for judging stupid teenage thoughts is, believe me, at an all-time low, considering my own track record."

She offers a small, grateful smile, then her gaze drops to her wine glass, her fingers tracing the rim. "Okay, well… don’t laugh." A pause, then, so softly you almost miss it, "I… I used to have the biggest crush on you."

Your brain, already pleasantly fuzzy from the wine, seems to stall for a moment, trying to process. Jimin. Had a crush. On you. The fourteen-year-old version of you, the one with the questionable sense of humor and the complete inability to talk to girls he actually liked without sounding like a malfunctioning robot, would have spontaneously combusted from sheer disbelief and elation. Even now, the adult, slightly-more-composed version of you is struggling to keep his jaw from hitting the floor.

She peeks up at you through her lashes, a nervous blush creeping up her neck. "See? Stupid, right? I was so sure you just saw me as, like, your annoying little sister’s best friend, or just… Jimin, the dork who was always around. I used to spend hours overthinking every single thing you said to me, trying to decipher if there was some hidden meaning." She lets out a shaky little laugh. "God, it was exhausting."

You stare at her, a slow, incredulous smile starting to spread across your face. The irony, oh, the beautiful, painful irony of it all. All those years of your own silent, all-consuming crush, your own agonizing over every shared glance, every casual word, thinking she was completely oblivious, completely out of reach.

"Jimin," you begin. You clear your throat. "That’s… wow." You shake your head, a laugh bubbling up, a laugh of pure, unadulterated shock and a strange, retroactive relief. "The only thing 'stupid' about that is that I was doing the exact same goddamn thing."

Her head snaps up, her eyes widening, the blush on her cheeks deepening to a vibrant crimson.

"What?" she breathes. "You… you did? With… with me?"

"With you?" you echo, a wide, disbelieving grin plastered on your face. "Are you kidding? You were all I thought about. I was hopelessly, pathetically gone on you. I just… I figured you were way out of my league. That you only tolerated my presence because we were stuck in the same school and our families knew each other." The confession tumbles out, easy now, liberating, fueled by the wine and the sudden revelation of her own past feelings. It’s like a dam has broken, years of unspoken emotion finally finding their release.

She just stares at you, speechless for a long moment, her wine glass forgotten in her hand. Then, a tiny, incredulous laugh escapes her. "No. Way." She shakes her head slowly, as if trying to rearrange the entire narrative of her teenage years. "All that time? We were both…?"

"Apparently," you confirm, still grinning. "Two oblivious idiots, crushing on each other in silence. We could have written a really angsty, badly plotted teen drama."

She finally lets out a full laugh, leaning back against the sofa, looking utterly flabbergasted but also… lighter. "This is insane. I can’t believe it." Her eyes are shining, and not just from the wine anymore. "You know," she says, her voice regaining some of its earlier playful lilt, though it’s softer now, more intimate, "I used to get so jealous. Back then. If I saw you talking to… to other girls. Especially if they were, you know, prettier, or cooler." She makes a face, a little embarrassed. "It sounds so silly now, but it was true. I’d be all smiles on the outside, but inside, I’d be like, 'How dare she laugh at his stupid jokes? I’m the one who’s supposed to laugh at his stupid jokes!'"

You reach out, without really thinking, and gently touch her arm. "Hey. It wasn't silly. Or if it was, then I was just as silly."

Her gaze meets yours, and there's a warmth, a connection in that look that feels more real, more profound, than anything you've shared in years. She holds your gaze for a long moment, then a shadow crosses her face, her voice drops again, hesitant. "It’s funny… or, not funny, but… I kind of felt that way again. Recently." She looks down at her lap, tracing patterns on her pants with a fingertip. "When I saw you talking with Ning and the others that day in the lounge."

Your heart clenches. You remember that day, her sudden appearance, the tension.

"You all looked like you were having so much fun," she continues, "And they’re all so… bright, and funny, and talented. And for a second, this stupid thought just popped into my head, like… what if you ditch me for them? What if they’re more entertaining, or cooler to be around now? What if… what if I’m not that interesting anymore, compared to them?" She lets out a little, self-deprecating huff of air. "It sounds even dumber saying it out loud."

You gently cup her chin, tilting her face up so she has to look at you.

"Jimin," you say. "Listen to me. There is no one, no one, who could ever make me ditch you. And there is absolutely no one, not Ning, not Giselle, not Winter, not anyone on this entire planet, who is 'cooler' or 'more entertaining' or 'more interesting' than you are to me." You search her eyes, willing her to believe you. "And no one," you add, "no one makes me feel the way I feel when I’m with you. Not then. And definitely not now."

Her eyes search yours, wide and luminous, and you can see the emotions warring within them: surprise, disbelief, and then, slowly, a dawning, fragile hope. A single tear escapes and traces a path down her cheek, and you reach up, your thumb gently brushing it away, your touch lingering on her soft skin for just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

"When… when we met again," she begins, so fragile you have to lean in slightly to catch it. "That day on the street? All those… those old feelings…" She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to her hands, now twisting in her lap. "They just… they came rushing back. All of them. And I thought… I really thought I was over it. Over you." She attempts a small, shaky laugh that doesn't quite land. "So stupid. I’m a grown woman, a K-Pop idol, for crying out loud. I shouldn’t be… I shouldn’t be feeling like a confused teenager all over again just because my childhood crush reappeared."

She tries to continue, her lips parting, but the words seem to catch in her throat. Her brow furrows in frustration, and she shakes her head, a gesture of helpless self-reproach. "I… I can’t even…" Another aborted attempt. She looks up at you, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, a look of utter bewilderment on her face. "I'm sorry," she blurts out. "I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. It must be the wine. It’s making me all… emotional and stupid." She gestures vaguely, a hand fluttering near her chest. "I’m probably ruining everything, aren't I? Just… ignore me. I’m being ridiculous." She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, as if trying to physically block out her own chaotic emotions.

And in that instant, watching her so raw, so vulnerable, so utterly terrified of her own feelings (feelings that mirror your own chaotic internal landscape so perfectly) something inside you just… snaps. All the overthinking, all the caution, all the years of unspoken longing, converge into a single, undeniable impulse. The wine, the dim lights, the confessions, her tear-streaked face so close to yours… it’s a perfect storm, and you’re right in the eye of it. To hell with professionalism, to hell with the risks, to hell with everything but the raw, undeniable truth thrumming between you.

Before you can second-guess it, before your internal HR department can scream bloody murder, you lean forward and kiss her.

It’s not a gentle, tentative kiss. It’s clumsy, desperate, fueled by years of pent-up emotion and too much wine. Your lips meet hers, and for a split second, she’s completely still, a statue beneath your sudden onslaught. Her eyes fly open, wide and startled, pupils blown huge in the dim light, reflecting a pure, unadulterated shock. You feel the soft, unexpected give of her lips, the faint taste of wine and something uniquely Jimin, a taste you realize, with a jolt, you’ve been subconsciously craving for more than half your life.

For a horrifying moment, you think you’ve made a monumental mistake. Idiot! You absolute, unmitigated idiot! your brain screams. You’ve broken her! You’ve ruined everything! The irony of her exact words now applying to your actions is not lost on you, even in your panic.

But then, just as you’re about to pull away, to stammer out a mortified apology, something shifts. Her eyelids flutter closed. A tiny, almost inaudible sigh escapes her, a breath she seems to have been holding for a lifetime. And then, slowly, tentatively, she gives in. Her lips soften against yours, responding with a hesitant pressure that builds, her body relaxing slightly against the sofa cushions. The kiss deepens, still a little clumsy, still a little desperate, but now with an undeniable mutuality, a shared exploration of a boundary crossed together.

When you finally, breathlessly, pull apart, the silence in the room is deafening. You stare at her, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Her eyes are still closed for a moment, her lashes dark against her flushed cheeks. Then they slowly open, and she just… stares back at you, her expression unreadable, dazed, her lips slightly swollen and glistening. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can only watch her, bracing for the fallout.

And then, her face crumples. Her lower lip trembles, and her carefully constructed composure shatters completely. A choked sob escapes her, and fat, silent tears begin to stream down her cheeks, unheeded. It’s not the reaction you were hoping for. It’s definitely not the reaction you were hoping for.

"Oh, god, Jimin, I…" Panic, cold and sharp, seizes you. You have ruined it. "I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have… I just… I’m an idiot. Please, don’t cry. I’m so, so sorry." The words tumble out, a frantic, jumbled apology.

She shakes her head, swiping at her tears with the back of her hand, though more quickly follow. "No," she whispers. "No, it’s… it’s okay." And then, to your utter astonishment, she launches herself at you, her arms wrapping around your neck, burying her face in your shoulder, her body trembling with silent sobs. You instinctively wrap your arms around her, holding her close, your mind reeling.

"I… I liked it," she mumbles into your shirt, her voice muffled but audible. "I really did." She pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes red-rimmed but shining with a confusing mix of emotions. "It’s just… it’s all… it’s a lot. Everything. All at once. Coming back. I feel… I feel kind of weird." She lets out another shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Overwhelmed, I guess."

Fuck. She liked it. She actually liked it. You haven't irrevocably destroyed your friendship, your job, and your chances of ever experiencing joy again. Small victories. You gently shift on the plush sofa, pulling her more fully into your embrace until she’s settled somewhat in your lap, her side tucked against your chest. It feels incredibly intimate, yet also profoundly comforting. You rest your cheek against the top of her head, her hair soft against your skin, smelling faintly of her shampoo. After a few long minutes, her trembling stops. She lets out a deep, shuddering sigh and slowly lifts her head from your shoulder. Her eyes are still puffy, her cheeks tear-stained, but there’s a new calmness in her expression, a fragile sort of peace. She looks at you, her gaze soft and searching.

Then, a small, watery smile touches her lips. She reaches up, her hand, so small and delicate, coming to rest on your cheek. Her thumb gently strokes your skin.

"You know," she whispers. "for someone who claims to be an idiot…" Her smile widens, a genuine, almost dazzling Jimin-smile breaking through the tear-stained landscape of her face. "You’re not always wrong."

And then, before you can even process that, before you can form a coherent thought or even remember how to breathe properly, she leans in, her eyes fluttering closed, and kisses you.

This time, there’s no surprise, no hesitation. It’s a kiss that is both a question and an answer, a culmination and a beginning. It’s soft, tender, yet filled with an undercurrent of all those years of unspoken feelings, of rediscovered emotions, of the undeniable, terrifying, exhilarating truth that is thrumming between you. It’s a kiss that tastes of wine, and tears, and a hope so potent it makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her eyes are galaxies, dark and swirling with emotion, a universe you’re only just beginning to navigate. A delighted, slightly breathless giggle escapes her, then you’re laughing too, a shared, giddy sound that bounces off the walls of her apartment.

"Wow," she whispers, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "This… this really happened, didn't it?" Her eyes search yours, looking for confirmation in a world that suddenly feels wonderfully, terrifyingly new.

"It really, really did," you affirm. The air between you is no longer just charged; it’s practically incandescent, thrumming with a potent energy that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. The earlier nervousness hasn’t vanished, but it’s been transmuted into something else. She leans her forehead against yours for a moment, just breathing, then pulls back slightly, her eyes alight.

Her fingers, still feather-light against your skin, drift down from your jaw to the collar of your shirt. She toys with the fabric, a slow, deliberate movement, her gaze fixed on yours. The city lights outside paint her in hues of gold and shadow, making her look even more ethereal, more achingly beautiful.

"You know," she says, "you haven't, uh… you haven't seen my room yet." Her eyes flick towards a hallway leading off the main living area, then back to yours.

Your own breath hitches. You try to swallow, your throat suddenly dry. "No, I haven't," you manage. You search her eyes, needing to be absolutely sure. "Would you… would you like to show me?"

A slow, devastatingly beautiful smile spreads across her face. It’s a smile of pure, unadulterated desire, mixed with a touch of that endearing shyness that still clings to her, even now. "Yes," she breathes. "Yes, I really would."

That’s all the confirmation you need. In one fluid movement you lean forward, sliding one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back. You lift her effortlessly from the sofa, her gasp of surprise quickly turning into a delighted laugh as she instinctively wraps her arms around your neck, her legs around your waist. She feels impossibly light, yet incredibly solid in your arms, a perfect, intoxicating weight. And then you’re kissing her again, deeply, hungrily, the earlier tenderness now ignited with a fiercer, more demanding passion.

"Which way?" you murmur against her mouth, your lips still brushing hers.

"That way," she whispers, gesturing with a slight tilt of her head down the hallway, never breaking the kiss, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer.

You carry her through the apartment, your steps sure and steady despite the roaring in your ears and the way your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. Each step feels monumental, a journey into uncharted territory. She guides you with soft murmurs and the pressure of her body against yours, her kisses becoming more urgent, more demanding, her breath coming in soft, quick gasps against your skin.

Her bedroom is at the end of the hall. She reaches out a hand, fumbling for the doorknob, then pushes it open. You step inside, and the world seems to tilt again. The room is bathed in a soft, ambient glow from the city outside, filtered through sheer curtains, creating an atmosphere that is both intimate and dreamlike. It’s perfect.

You carry her over to the bed, your lips still locked with hers, a desperate, continuous kiss that speaks of years of unspoken longing. Gently, reverently, you lower her onto the soft duvet, following her down, bracing yourself on your hands on either side of her head. You break the kiss, just for a moment, to gaze down at her. Her eyes are dark and dilated, her lips swollen and flushed from your kisses, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

"God, Jimin," you breathe. You lower your head, burying your face in the soft skin of her neck, inhaling her scent, feeling the frantic pulse throbbing beneath your lips. "You are so unbelievably beautiful." You kiss the delicate curve where her neck meets her shoulder, then trail a line of slow, deliberate kisses up towards her ear. "The most beautiful girl in the world," you whisper, your lips brushing her earlobe. "You always have been. Always."

A soft, shuddering moan escapes her as you continue your exploration, your lips and tongue tracing patterns on her sensitive skin, tasting the salt and sweetness of her. Her breathing becomes more irregular, deeper, her fingers tightening in your hair, her hips starting to shift restlessly beneath you. You feel her arch into your touch, a silent plea for more.

Your hands, which have been resting on the bed beside her, begin their own exploration. They find the hem of her soft, oversized sweater, your fingers brushing against the warm, pale skin of her stomach beneath it. Her skin is like silk, radiating a heat that sets your own nerves on fire. You tug at the sweater gently, slowly, agonizingly, your eyes locked on hers, watching her reaction. Her eyelids are heavy, her lips parted, a look of pure, unadulterated anticipation on her face. With a final, deliberate pull, you slide the sweater up and over her head, tossing it carelessly aside.

And there they are.

Her breasts, even constrained by the delicate lace of her bra, are undeniably magnificent. Full, heavy, spilling slightly from the cups, their pale, creamy expanse a stark, breathtaking contrast to the dark fabric. You can see the gentle slope, the promise of their weight. Your own breath hitches in your throat. This is the reality of Karina, of Jimin, laid bare before you, a sight you’ve only dared to dream of in your most secret, most forbidden fantasies.

You take off your shoes, kicking them aside, never taking your eyes off her. As you reach for the hem of your own shirt, your fingers fumbling with the buttons in your haste, you see her hands move to her back. With a deft, practiced movement, she unhooks her bra. She holds it in place for a moment longer, her gaze locking with yours, a shy, almost vulnerable smile playing on her lips.

"I… I hope you like them," she whispers.

Then, with a deep breath, she lets the bra fall away.

Your world stops. Absolutely, irrevocably stops. Her breasts are… perfect. More than perfect. They are everything you've ever imagined, and so much more. They are large, gloriously full, spilling into her hands as she cups them for a moment, as if presenting a sacred offering. The skin is so pale it seems almost luminous in the dim light, smooth and flawless, save for the faint blue veins tracing delicate patterns just beneath the surface, hinting at the life and warmth within. Her areolas are a dusky rose, wide and perfectly formed, and at their centers, her nipples, a deeper, more insistent pink, are already hard and erect, puckered tight, practically begging for your touch, for your mouth. They look so incredibly soft, so utterly… juicy, for lack of a better, more reverent word.

You’re mesmerized, completely transfixed, your throat dry, your mind blissfully, wonderfully blank save for the overwhelming, primal need to touch, to taste, to worship. After what feels like an eternity, but is probably only a few seconds, you slowly reach out a trembling hand. Your fingers make contact with the warm, yielding softness of her right breast. She gasps softly as you cup its weight, your thumb brushing over the taut, sensitive peak of her nipple. So warm. So unbelievably soft. You gently squeeze, a possessive, reverent pressure, and a low moan rumbles in her chest, vibrating against your palm.

She lies back fully on the bed then, her arms stretching above her head, her body an open, trusting invitation. You quickly shed your shirt, your movements urgent, driven by a desire that is rapidly consuming every last shred of your self-control. You climb onto the bed, positioning yourself above her, your knees on either side of her hips, your gaze still fixed on the breathtaking sight of her bare, beautiful breasts.

And then, you lower your head and take one of those perfect, pink nipples into your mouth.

She cries out, a sharp, breathless sound that is pure, unadulterated pleasure, her back arching off the bed, her fingers digging into your shoulders. Her breast fills your mouth, the taste of her skin, salty and sweet, intoxicating. You suck gently at first, then more strongly, your tongue laving, teasing, drawing the hardened peak deeper. She is melting beneath you, writhing, her hips starting to buck a little, a silent plea for more.

"Oh, god," she gasps. "Yes… fuck, yes… right there… they’re so… so sensitive…" Her words are broken, punctuated by moans and sharp intakes of breath. "Please… don’t stop… keep going… it’s… it’s making me so fucking horny…"

You shift your attention to her other breast, giving it the same devoted worship, laving, sucking, gently nipping, while your hand continues to squeeze and caress the one you just abandoned, ensuring both are bathed in sensation. You can feel the frantic thrumming of her heart against your chest, the heat radiating from her skin, the way her entire body is trembling, on the verge of completely unraveling. You lift your head for a moment, just to look at her, at the sight of her, utterly consumed by lust, her eyes half-closed, her lips parted, her beautiful breasts flushed and glistening from your attention. This is Jimin. This is Karina. And she is yours, in this moment, completely and utterly yours to worship, to pleasure, to drive absolutely insane.

You continue your worship of her breasts, alternating between them, lavishing each with an equal, fervent devotion. One hand cradles the breast you’re not currently feasting on, your thumb flicking, teasing the already hard nipple, while your mouth works its magic on its twin. You suck strongly, drawing the peak deep, feeling the responsive tug in her body, the way her hips tilt upwards, seeking a friction that isn’t there yet.

"Fuck, yes," she pants, her fingers still tangled in your hair, now gripping, almost painfully tight, but you welcome the anchor in the storm of sensation you’re both caught in. "They’re so… oh god… so good… your mouth…"

You lift your head for a moment, your lips slick, your gaze devouring the sight of her: her chest flushed a deep rose, her nipples impossibly tight, glistening with your saliva, already looking delightfully, beautifully ravaged.

"Yours are the best, Jimin," you growl. "Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. I could suck on these gorgeous tits all night."

A choked laugh, half sob, half pure ecstasy, bubbles from her throat. "Please do… God, yes… you suck so fucking well…"

You dive back in, attacking her nipples with renewed ferocity, sucking, licking, nipping gently with your teeth, drawing out her moans. You leave your marks, faint red circles blooming on her pale skin where your lips have been. Her breasts are indeed glistening, slick with your drool and her own faint sheen of sweat. She’s thrashing beneath you now, no longer trying to control her reactions, her head tossing from side to side on the pillows, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. Each pull of your mouth seems to send shivers racking through her entire frame.

Slowly, reluctantly, you drag your mouth away from her sensitive breasts, leaving them flushed, swollen, and thoroughly worshipped. Her soft whimper of protest is cut short as you begin to trail a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down the center of her torso, over the subtle curve of her ribcage, across the quivering expanse of her flat, pale stomach. Each kiss is deliberate, lingering, your tongue flicking out to taste her skin. You feel the muscles in her abdomen clench and flutter beneath your lips.

"Don’t stop," she whispers, her hands now gripping the bedsheets on either side of her. "Please… whatever you’re doing… just… more."

You continue your downward pilgrimage, your lips brushing against the waistband of her lounge pants. They’re soft, loose-fitting, and offer little resistance as your fingers find the drawstring. With a deft tug, you loosen it, then slowly, agonizingly slowly, begin to slide the fabric down her hips, revealing the delicate curve of her hipbone, the smooth, pale skin of her thighs. Your hands skim down her legs, pushing the pants further, until they’re pooled around her ankles. You kick them impatiently off the end of the bed, your gaze fixed on the prize they were concealing.

Her panties. A tiny scrap of pale pink lace, stretched taut across the apex of her thighs, already dark with her wetness. Her thighs, usually so strong and toned from years of dancing, are trembling uncontrollably now, a fine sheen of moisture glistening on their pale inner surfaces. The musky scent of her arousal is stronger here. You can practically feel the heat radiating from between her legs.

"Look at you," you murmur as you trail your fingers along the damp lace, feeling the heat and moisture seeping through. "So wet for me already, aren’t you, babe? Fucking dripping."

A broken sob escapes her. "Yes… oh god, yes… please… I need…" She can’t even finish the sentence, her body arching, her hips instinctively grinding against the mattress.

You pull the panties down, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, revealing her to your hungry gaze.

And she is, as you knew she would be, perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. Her shaved pussy is nestled between her thighs, a delicate, swollen mound. The outer lips are plump, flushed a deep, inviting pink, already glistening with her slick, arousal-heavy dew. They part slightly as you watch, revealing the even pinker, more tender flesh within, and the glint of her clit, a tiny, perfect pearl peeking out, already engorged and throbbing. This is the core of her, the secret, hidden place you’ve only ever dreamed of, now laid bare for your worship.

You shift your position, moving from beside her to kneel between her parted thighs. They tremble slightly as you settle there, and she lets out a shaky breath, her eyes, dark and wide, fixed on yours. There’s a beautiful, terrifying vulnerability in her gaze, a silent plea that makes your cock ache with an almost painful intensity. But you’re not going to rush this. Oh no. This moment, this offering, is too precious, too long-awaited. She needs to feel every second of this descent into pleasure, every nuance of her own burgeoning, desperate need. You’re going to make her burn for it. You’re going to make her beg.

"You are so fucking beautiful, Jimin," you murmur. Your gaze drops from her eyes to the glistening treasure nestled between her thighs, then deliberately, slowly, travels to the pale, trembling skin of her inner thigh. "So incredibly, exquisitely responsive."

Instead of diving straight for her pussy, as every instinct screams at you to do, you lean down and press a soft, lingering kiss to the delicate skin high on her inner left thigh, just inches from that wet, waiting heat. She gasps, her whole body jerking, her thighs instinctively trying to clench together, but you gently hold them apart, your hands firm but gentle on her hips.

"Easy now," you whisper against her skin, your breath hot. "Don't want to miss any of this, do we?"

You trail another kiss, then another, working your way in a slow, agonizing circle around that central, beckoning core, never quite touching it, but always promising it. Your tongue darts out, tasting the faint saltiness of her skin, the faintest hint of her arousal that has already slicked even this far out. With each kiss, each lick against her thigh, you feel her tremors intensify. Her fingers are fisted in the bedsheets, her knuckles white.

"What… what are you doing?" she pants. "Please… you’re… you’re driving me crazy."

"Am I, babe?" you purr, your lips brushing the impossibly soft skin just beside one of her swollen, pink outer lips. You can smell her now, that rich, musky, uniquely feminine scent of pure, unadulterated horniness, and it’s making you lightheaded, drunk on her desire. "Driving you crazy how? Tell me." You dip your tongue out again, this time lapping up a stray droplet of her slick wetness that has trickled onto her thigh. Her taste… fuck, it’s even better than you imagined. Sweet, tangy, utterly addictive. You groan softly into her skin. "Oh, you taste so fucking good right here… just a hint of what’s waiting for me."

"Please…" she begs. "Don’t… don’t tease me like this. I can’t… I can’t take it." Her hips are starting to move now, a small, involuntary rocking motion, trying to seek out the pressure of your mouth.

"Can't take what, Jimin?" you ask. You drag your open mouth slowly up her inner thigh, leaving a wet trail, then switch to the other, lavishing it with the same agonizingly slow attention. You can feel the heat pouring off her in waves. "You need to tell me what you want. Use your words, baby. You want me to stop?" You deliberately pull back a fraction of an inch, letting the cool air hit her heated skin, and she whimpers, a raw, frustrated sound.

"No! No, don’t stop, please, whatever you do, don’t stop," she cries. "I want… I want your mouth. There. Please. I need it. I’m so wet for you, can’t you feel it? Can’t you taste it?" Her words are a torrent now, the carefully constructed composure of Karina completely shattered, leaving only the raw, needy core of Jimin. "I’m aching… I’m fucking aching for your tongue, please… just… just eat me out. Suck my clit. Please, I’m begging you."

Her plea is music to your ears. She’s so close, so desperate. But you’re not quite done with her yet. You want her utterly, completely undone.

"Beg me how, sweet girl?" you murmur, your lips now hovering directly over her glistening, swollen clit, your hot breath fanning the sensitive nub. She gasps, her whole body seizing. "Tell me how badly you need it. Tell me what a good girl you’ll be if I finally give you what you’re craving. Convince me." The strategic irony here is that you're already convinced, already harder than you've ever been in your life, but the game, the sight of her unraveling at your command, It's the best feeling in the world.

"I’ll be so good," she sobs, her thighs trembling violently now, threatening to clamp shut around your head. "So fucking good for you. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Just please… please put your mouth on me. I’m dying here. I need to feel your tongue… I need you to make me cum… I’m so close… Please, babe, suck me… suck me like you mean it…"

Her words, that broken, desperate plea to be eaten out, are the only permission you need. You lower your head, your hair brushing against the pale skin of her inner thighs, and finally, finally, you give in. You press your mouth fully against her, parting her slick, swollen lips with your own, and your tongue finds her clit. A sound is torn from her throat, a high, sharp keen that’s half shock and half pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her entire body jolts as if struck by lightning, her hips slamming upwards into your face in a single, convulsive movement. The taste of her floods your senses, and it's everything. It’s not just the sweet, tangy flavor of her arousal you'd already sampled from her thighs; it's deeper, muskier, the very essence of her, and it's intoxicating.

You're instantly, hopelessly addicted. You begin slowly, a reverent worship. Your tongue is soft, exploratory, lapping at her gently, learning the landscape of her. You trace the delicate shape of her outer lips, then dip inside to swirl around the plump, sensitive inner folds before focusing on that hardened pearl of her clit.

"Oh, god..." she breathes, her hands flying up to tangle in your hair, not pulling, just holding on as if she might float away. "Yes... that's..."

You hum against her, a low, deep vibration that you feel travel through her entire body. She lets out another soft cry. Her muscles are still coiled with tension, but it's the tension of overwhelming sensation, not desperation. She is melting, and you are the cause.

"Just relax for me, baby," you murmur against her slick flesh. "Just let me taste you. You're so perfect."

You settle in, continuing the slow, deliberate worship. For long minutes, this is all that exists: the sound of your mouth against her, her soft, breathy moans, and the rich, intoxicating taste of her on your tongue. Her hips are no longer bucking but have settled into a slow, swaying rhythm, rocking against your mouth in time with the gentle lapping of your tongue. She has given you control, and you intend to savor it. You can feel the change when her body becomes fully accustomed to the pleasure, when the slow worship is no longer enough. Her gentle sways become more insistent, her breath hitches with a new need, and her fingers tighten in your hair, this time with a subtle, pleading tug. She wants more. And you are going to make her beg for it.

You shift your technique, beginning the torture. You pull your mouth away from her clit, trailing your tongue down along the slick valley between her labia. She whimpers in protest, her hips pushing up, seeking the focused pressure you just denied her.

"Shhh," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to one of her swollen inner lips. "So much to taste here. Can't rush."

You proceed to lavish attention on every other part of her, everywhere but the one place she is dying for you to be. You lick the plump flesh of her lips, suck gently on the inner folds, your tongue darting out to trace the rim of her opening, dipping just the very tip inside before pulling away. With every near-miss, a frustrated cry is torn from her throat.

"Please..." she pants, her hips rocking more frantically now. "Please... you're... you're driving me crazy. My clit... I need you there."

"Here?" you ask. You flick your tongue directly over the sensitive nub one time, fast and hard. She yelps, her whole body convulsing. Then you pull away again, moving to trace lazy circles on the sensitive skin around her. "You liked that, didn't you? Tell me how much you liked it."

"Yes! Fuck, yes, I loved it," she sobs. "Please, do it again. Don't tease me... I can't take it. Just... just suck it, please."

"Beg me," you command softly, your hot breath ghosting over her clit, making her shiver. "Tell me exactly what you want my mouth to do to you. I want to hear how desperate you are for it."

She’s a mess, completely undone by your teasing. "I'm so desperate for you," she cries, her words tumbling over each other. "I need your tongue on my clit. I need you to suck on it, hard. Lick me until I can't think. Please, I'm begging you. I'll do anything. Just go back there. I feel like I'm going to die if you don't."

Her plea is everything you wanted. You slide your mouth back over her, but instead of the hard pressure she's begging for, you give her the opposite. You open your mouth wide, your tongue flat, and you just... lick. Long, slow, deliberate strokes from the base of her mound, up over her clit, all the way to her perineum, and back down again. It’s a broad, wet, agonizingly gentle sensation.

"No..." she groans, a sound of pure frustration. "Harder... please, you have to do it harder."

"I don't have to do anything, baby," you murmur, continuing the slow, torturous laps. "I'm in control here. You'll take it how I give it to you. And right now, I want to feel you squirm."

She thrashes beneath you, so close to the edge but held back by your deliberate restraint. Her nails are digging into your scalp now, not painfully, but with a frantic urgency. It’s time to escalate. It's time to break her completely. While continuing the slow, steady rhythm of your tongue, you slide one hand down between her thighs. Her skin is flushed and hot to the touch. Your fingers find her entrance, already slick and gaping, practically weeping with need. You slide one finger inside her.

She screams, a raw, ragged sound, as the new sensation of being filled sends a fresh shockwave through her system. She’s so tight, so hot, clenching around your finger instantly. You push your finger deeper, feeling the texture of her inner walls, the way she convulses around you.

"That's it, Jimin," you praise, your voice muffled against her. "Take my finger. Feel how wet you are? Fucking dripping for me."

Now you change the rhythm of your tongue, finally giving her the focused attention she craved. You suck her clit into your mouth, your tongue working fast and hard, while your finger inside her establishes a steady in-and-out rhythm. The dual sensations are too much. She is completely lost.

"Fuck! Yes, both..." she gasps. "It's… it's too much… I'm going to…"

You add a second finger, stretching her, filling her more completely. She cries out again, her back arching so high off the bed it's a perfect, strained bow. Her pussy milks your fingers, slick and greedy. You can feel the muscles deep inside her starting to flutter, the tell-tale sign that her orgasm is gathering strength.

"You feel that, baby?" you ask, curling your fingers inside her, rubbing them against the nub of her g-spot. "My tongue on your clit, my fingers deep in your cunt. Does that feel good?"

"So good!" she screams. "It feels so fucking good! I'm so close, don't stop, please, please don't stop!"

You are her entire world now. She is aware of nothing but your mouth and your fingers, driving her towards the abyss. You increase the pace of everything. Your tongue is a frantic engine on her clit, sucking, flicking, laving. Your fingers pump in and out of her relentlessly. You can feel the final tension coiling in her body, a string stretched to its breaking point. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and her moans have become a single, continuous, high-pitched keen.

"I'm going to make you come so hard, Jimin," you growl into her. "You're going to scream my name. Get ready."

You feel it start, the first deep, internal clench around your fingers. Her entire body goes rigid.

"I'm cumming! Oh fuck, I'm cumming! I'm cummmmming!"

Her scream is primal as her orgasm rips through her, a violent, world-shattering release. Her body convulses, her hips slamming up against your mouth in a desperate, uncontrollable rhythm. Her juices gush out of her, hot and thick, flooding your mouth with the sweet, musky taste of her release. You swallow greedily, catching every single drop as her body is wracked by wave after wave of intense pleasure. You don't stop your ministrations, gentling your touch now, your tongue soothing her hypersensitive clit, your fingers massaging her inner walls as the aftershocks ripple through her.

Slowly, her body goes limp, collapsing back onto the mattress. She’s trembling from head to toe, her chest rising and falling in deep, ragged pants. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners, her face flushed a deep crimson. You finally lift your head, your chin and lips slick with her, and look at the masterpiece of your work.

You lean down, capturing her mouth in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s a stark contrast to the hungry, desperate kisses you shared before. This one is tender. She moans softly into your mouth, and you taste it: the lingering, musky sweetness of her own climax. She tastes it too, a jolt going through her body as she recognizes herself on your tongue. A faint blush rises on her already flushed cheeks, a mix of shy embarrassment and burgeoning arousal.

You pull back just enough to gaze down at her. Her hair is a wild halo around her head, her lips are swollen, her eyes are still dazed and beautifully unfocused. She is the most magnificent thing you have ever seen.

"You look so beautiful like this," you say. "Completely undone for me."

"You're an asshole," she whispers, but there’s no heat in it, only a deep, lingering pleasure. "Don't you ever tease me like that again." As she says it, she shifts, leaning up just enough to press her teeth against the side of your neck in a playful, possessive bite. It’s not hard, just a firm pressure.

You chuckle, then pepper her cheeks with soft kisses. "I'm sorry," you say, not sounding sorry at all. "I couldn't help it." You lean in close, your lips brushing her ear. "Hearing you beg for me, Jimin… hearing you lose control and tell me how much you needed it… it makes me fucking crazy. It’s addictive. I don't think I'll ever get enough of it."

Her breath hitches. Your words, your confession that her submission drives you wild, are exactly what she needs to hear. As you pull back, her eyes, now clear and focused, glitter with a new, dangerous kind of light. Her hand slides from your cheek, down your chest, over your stomach, coming to rest directly on the hard ridge of your cock through the denim of your jeans. Her fingers close around you, a firm, knowing grip that makes you hiss through your teeth. She squeezes, feeling the full, thick length of your cock straining against the fabric.

A slow, devastatingly confident smile spreads across her face. "Addictive, huh?" she purrs, her voice regaining its strength. "I can beg for a lot more than that." Her gaze drops from your eyes to your crotch, then back up, her expression pure, unadulterated hunger. "And right now," she says, her grip tightening, "I really, really want your cock."

Her words are a command and a plea all in one. Without another word, you pull away from her, getting off the bed. Her eyes are wide, tracking your every move as you reach for the button on your jeans. You undo it, the sound loud in the quiet room, then slowly pull down the zipper. You never break eye contact. You hook your thumbs into the waistband and push the jeans down over your hips, kicking them off impatiently.

Now you stand before her in just your dark boxer briefs. The fabric does little to hide the truth, straining to contain the thick, heavy bulge of your erection. You see her eyes fixate on it, her lips parting slightly. A sharp intake of breath is the only sound she makes. She is, as you suspected, absolutely captivated.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. "You wanted this, remember?" you ask. You drag the fabric down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until your cock springs free, heavy and thick in the dim light.

Jimin lets out a long, shuddering sigh. It’s a sound of pure awe. Your cock is fully hard, glistening with a bead of clear, slick precum. It’s big, bigger than she probably imagined, and her eyes trace its length, from the heavy weight of your balls to the thick shaft and the promising, wet tip.

You don't give her too long to just look. You move back to the bed, climbing on and positioning yourself between her parted legs. They tremble slightly as you settle in, her thighs falling open to grant you full access. She's still so beautifully wrecked, so open and waiting for you. You take your cock in your hand, stroking it slowly, the pre-cum making your skin slick. You want her to watch. You want her to see exactly what is about to fill that empty, aching space inside her.

"Wait," you say. The thought hits you, a brief flash of real-world responsibility in this haze of lust. "Condoms. We should..."

"No," she says immediately, her voice firm, cutting you off. She shakes her head, her eyes blazing with a fierce, undeniable need. "No. I don't care about that right now. I need to feel you. All of you. I just want to feel your dick inside me. Now."

You hesitate, searching her face. "Jimin, are you sure?"

"Yes," she moans. Her hips arch off the bed, a desperate, silent invitation. "Please. I'm on birth control. Just… please, I need it. Don't make me wait anymore."

That's all you need. Her certainty, her raw need, erases any doubt. But you’re not going to let her off that easy. The teasing isn't over yet. You lean forward, bracing your hands on either side of her head, and lower your body until the tip of your cock is pressed against her. She gasps as the heat of you makes contact with her slick, swollen folds. She is unbelievably wet, her juices from her earlier orgasm making a perfect lubricant.

"So wet for me," you murmur, grinding the head of your cock against her clit. "You want this cock so badly, don't you?"

"Yes! Please, just put it in," she begs, her hands fisted in the bedsheets.

You ignore her plea, continuing the agonizing tease. You slide the head of your cock up and down her slit, gliding through her slickness, letting her feel your thickness, your hardness, but denying her the entry she craves. With every pass, she whimpers, her body straining, trying to force you inside her.

"Look at you," you whisper. "Trying to impale yourself on my cock. You can't wait, can you?"

"I can't," she sobs. "It feels so good… just the tip… please, I need to feel all of it. I need you to stretch me. Fill me up."

"Then you know what you have to do," you say, pausing your movements, holding the head of your cock right at her entrance, a promise and a threat. "Beg for it. Beg me to fuck your tight, wet pussy. Tell me how much you need this cock inside you."

"Please," she cries. "Please fuck me. I'm begging you. I need your cock. I need it inside my pussy right now. Please, I'll be so good for you, just fuck me!"

Her desperate, broken plea is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. "Good girl," you praise.

And then you give her what she's begged for. You shift your hips, aiming the thick head of your cock at her entrance.

You push.

The feeling is indescribable. You stop, buried deep inside her, and the world just… ceases to exist. There is only this. The sensation is overwhelming, a sensory overload that shorts out every coherent thought in your brain. Her pussy is a revelation. It’s impossibly tight, a velvet clench around your entire length, gripping you with an intimate pressure that’s both demanding and welcoming. It’s slick, her juices coating your cock in a hot, wet sheen that makes every tiny shift an act of pure friction and pleasure. And it’s so, so hot, a deep, internal heat that feels like it’s seeping right into your bones.

Jimin lets out a choked, shuddering gasp, her eyes squeezed shut as her body tries to process the feeling of being so completely and utterly filled like this. Her inner walls pulse and clench around you, an involuntary, welcoming spasm that nearly makes you come right then and there. You have to clench every muscle in your body to hold back.

"Fuck, Jimin..." you groan. "You feel... I don't even have words. You feel so fucking perfect."

"You're so big," she whispers, her voice trembling. Her hands come up to rest on your chest, her fingers pressing into your skin. "You... you fill me up completely. I can feel you all the way inside me."

"I want to feel every inch of you," you say. You begin to move, but not in the hard, fast way you're both craving. Not yet. You pull back, agonizingly slowly, until just the thick head of your cock is inside her. She whimpers, a raw sound of protest at the loss, her hips lifting instinctively to follow you. Then, just as slowly, you push back in, letting her feel the full length of you sliding home once more.

"Oh, god," she moans, her head tossing on the pillows. "That... that feels..."

"I know," you say, continuing the slow, torturous rhythm. In and out. A deep, deliberate friction that is designed to let both of you savor every millimeter of contact. "I want you to feel all of it. Every time I slide into your tight, wet pussy. I want you to remember this feeling forever."

You do this for what feels like an eternity, just fucking her slowly, deeply, letting the tension build to a fever pitch. Her initial awe begins to melt away, replaced by a raw, hungry lust. Her hips are no longer just receiving you; she’s starting to push back, meeting your slow thrusts with an eagerness that makes your blood run hot. She’s ready.

"Okay, baby," you rasp, grabbing her hips firmly, your thumbs digging into the soft flesh above her hipbones. "You wanted this. Now you're going to get it."

You change the rhythm. Your thrusts become hard, deep, and punishing. You slam into her, your cock slapping against her wet folds, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing in the quiet room. You fuck her with a desperate, pent-up energy, each thrust driving you deeper, stretching her, filling her completely.

And she loves it. She cries out with every powerful slam of your hips, her legs wrapping around your waist to pull you even deeper. Her head is thrown back, her neck arched, a long, continuous moan spilling from her parted lips. This is what you’ve both been waiting for.

You watch her as you fuck her, your gaze devouring the sight of her. And her breasts… fuck, her breasts are perfect. With every hard thrust, they bounce, a heavy, hypnotic jiggle that mesmerizes you. They are large and full, their weight made obvious by the way they sway and tremble with the force of your fucking. Her nipples, still hard and puckered from your earlier attention, are a deep, flushed pink, pointing right at you as if in offering.

"Look at them," you pant, your voice strained with effort and lust. "Look at your perfect tits bouncing for me. Every time I fuck you."

She glances down, a dazed, lust-filled smile spreading across her face as she watches the motion. "Fuck..." she breathes. "They're… they're so heavy…"

"I love how they move," you say, never breaking your rhythm. "I want to see them bounce harder."

You increase your pace, pounding into her with a relentless, frantic energy. You’re lost in it now, lost in the feeling of her tight, wet heat, the sight of her beautiful body taking you, the sound of her cries filling the air.

"More!" she screams. "Please, don't stop! Fuck me harder! I need it harder!"

"Like this, baby?" you growl, slamming into her with as much force as you can muster. "You want your pussy fucked like this?"

"Yes! Oh god, yes!" she cries, her nails digging into your back, leaving fiery trails on your skin. "Your cock… it feels so fucking good inside me! It's hitting everything! Please… don't ever stop!"

You are both drenched in sweat, your bodies slick, moving together as one. You lean down, fucking her senseless, and she is taking every inch, begging for more. You press her deeper into the soft mattress, your combined weight creating a perfect hollow of heat and friction. You are buried inside her, a seamless join of wet, hot flesh, and yet you crave more. You need to consume her, to taste her, to feel her surrender in every way possible. You capture her lips, crashing your mouth against hers again. It’s not a tender kiss; it’s a rough, hungry claiming. It’s the kiss of two people who have starved for years and just found a feast.

She kisses you back with an equal, startling fervor. This isn’t a passive acceptance; it’s a demand. Her tongue pushes against yours, her hands leaving your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your mouth harder against hers. You are both lost in it, fucking and kissing, a closed circuit of overwhelming sensation. The deep, rhythmic plunge of your cock into her pussy is punctuated by the wet slap of your mouths, the soft, desperate moans she makes when you deepen the kiss, the guttural groans you can’t hold back when she sucks your tongue into her mouth. It’s filthy, it’s perfect, and it’s driving you both insane.

But it’s still not enough. You break the kiss, leaving her panting and breathless, her lips swollen and glistening. You look down at her, at the magnificent sight of her breasts, flushed and trembling with each powerful thrust of your hips. You need to taste them again. While maintaining the relentless, pounding rhythm of your fucking, you lower your head. Her skin is slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and it tastes salty and sweet as you lick a path from her collarbone down to the valley between her breasts.

"God, you're so beautiful," you rasp, your lips moving against her skin. "So fucking perfect."

You reach the peak of her right breast and take the nipple into your mouth. She screams, a high, sharp sound of pure ecstasy. The dual stimulation; the deep, stretching fullness of your cock filling her pussy while your mouth works its magic on her sensitive nipple: is too much for her nervous system to handle. Her back arches violently off the bed, trying to push herself deeper onto your cock and, somehow, press her breast harder into your mouth at the same time. You suck strongly, laving the hardened peak with your tongue, nipping gently with your teeth. Her moans change, deepening from pleasured cries into long, keening wails.

"Fuck! Oh, fuck, yes!" she gashes. "That… your mouth… while you're… inside me… it's too much! I can't…"

You switch to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, refusing to let either feel neglected. You feel the frantic thrumming of her heart against your chest, the way her entire body is trembling on the verge of completely unraveling. You continue to fuck her hard and fast, your hips a relentless engine of pleasure, your mouth a vortex of sensation on her breast. She is being attacked from all sides, besieged by a pleasure so intense it’s a breath away from pain.

"Please," she sobs. "Please, I need to… I need to cum. You have to let me."

You lift your head from her breast, your lips slick, and look her in the eyes. Her gaze is wild, unfocused, pupils blown wide. "You want to cum for me, baby?" you ask, not slowing your pace for a second. You drive into her, hard, and she cries out. "You want to feel my cock deep inside your pussy when you come?"

"Yes! Yes, please, I'm begging you!" she cries, her hips bucking wildly, trying to match your frantic rhythm. "I can't hold on anymore. It's so good… it's too good. Please, make me cum. Fuck me until I cum."

This is it. This is the surrender you crave, the sound you are addicted to. Her begging is the sweetest music you’ve ever heard. You lean in close, your mouth right next to her ear, your hot breath ghosting over her skin. You can feel the fine hairs on her neck stand on end.

"You're so close, aren't you?" you whisper. You feel her shiver violently. "I can feel your pussy clenching around my cock. It's getting tighter. You're about to fall apart for me."

"I am," she whimpers, turning her head, trying to capture your mouth with hers, but you deny her, wanting her to focus on your words, on your cock filling her. "Please… let me. Let me go."

"Then go," you command, grabbing her hips, lifting them slightly to change the angle, driving your cock into a spot deep inside her that makes her see stars. She lets out a sound you’ve never heard before, a raw, animalistic cry of pure sensation. "Let go for me, Jimin. Come for me. I want to feel you come all over my cock. I want to feel your pussy milk me while you scream my name. Cum for me now!"

The command, the raw filth of your words, combined with the relentless, punishing fucking, is what finally does it. You feel the first tremor deep inside her, the unmistakable sign that she's tipping over the edge.

"I'm gonna cum!” she screams, the sound exploding right next to your ear, a hot, vibrating wave of pure ecstasy. "OH FUCK, I’M CUMMING!!”

Her orgasm is a violent, beautiful storm. Her body convulses around you, her inner walls clenching and pulsing on your cock in a frantic, unstoppable rhythm. She throws her head back and screams, a long, ragged sound of pure, untethered release. Her hips slam against you, no longer in rhythm, just wild, spasmodic movements as the pleasure rips through her. You don't stop fucking her; you match her intensity, pounding into her as she comes, driving her deeper into her climax. You feel her hot juices flood her cunt, coating your cock in her release.

After what feels like an eternity, the violent convulsions begin to subside, replaced by deep, shuddering tremors. She collapses back onto the mattress, completely spent, a string of breathless, broken sobs escaping her lips. You slow your thrusts, moving in and out of her gently now, letting her ride the last waves of her pleasure. You pull out slowly, your cock slick and dripping with her essence, and collapse beside her, pulling her sweat-drenched body against yours. You are both trembling, both breathless, both utterly, completely undone.

You hold her, your bodies slick with sweat, tangled together in the rumpled sheets. You can feel the frantic, rabbit-fast beat of her heart starting to slow against your chest, her ragged pants gradually deepening into something more controlled. For a long moment, you just lie there, listening to the sound of your own breathing mingling with hers, feeling the aftershocks of her powerful orgasm tremble through her body. You press a soft kiss to her damp forehead, your thumb gently stroking her back.

After a few minutes, she stirs, letting out a long, contented sigh. She lifts her head from your chest, her hair a wild, beautiful mess, her face flushed and glowing.

"Hey," you whisper. "How are you feeling?"

She looks at you, her eyes still a little dazed, but shining with a bright, clear light. A slow, languid smile spreads across her face. "Great," she pants, the word a soft puff of air. She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at you. "No, that's… that's not the right word." She shakes her head, as if searching for a better one. "I've never… ever felt that good in my entire life. I feel… obliterated. In the best possible way." She reaches out, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "You made me cum so hard. I think my soul left my body for a minute."

"Good. That's what I was going for." You love seeing her like this, so completely sated, so open and unguarded. "So, I guess that answers my next question," you tease, your hand sliding down her back to cup her ass, squeezing gently. "Or do you think you can take any more?"

You expect her to laugh, to say she needs a break, to maybe curl up and fall asleep. But the look in her eye changes.

"More?" she says. She lets out a soft, throaty laugh. "Of course I can."

Before you can react, she moves with a sudden, surprising strength. She grabs your shoulders, pushing you firmly onto your back. You go willingly, sinking into the mattress, intrigued by this sudden shift in energy. She straddles your chest, her knees on either side of your head, and leans down, her face just inches from yours.

"But," she whispers, her hair falling around you like a dark curtain, "it's my turn now."

She pulls you up by your hands, maneuvering you until you're sitting up, then pushes you back down again until you're lying flat on your back in the center of the bed. She crawls over you, her movements fluid and deliberate. She settles over your hips, straddling you, her knees planted firmly on the mattress on either side of your body. The view is breathtaking. You look up at her, at the perfect, heavy swell of her breasts, the soft curve of her stomach, her pink, swollen pussy still slick with her juices.

She reaches down, her fingers wrapping around your still-hard cock. You hiss as her cool fingers touch your hot, sensitive skin. She strokes you slowly, once, twice, watching your reaction, her eyes glittering with newfound power.

"You liked making me beg, didn't you?" she asks. "You liked hearing how much I needed you." She leans down, her lips brushing against yours. "Well, now it's your turn to feel what it's like. To just lie there and take it."

She positions herself, guiding the thick, slick head of your cock to her entrance. You can see the muscles in her thighs tense as she prepares to take you. She lowers herself with agonizing slowness, her eyes locked on yours. You watch her face as she takes you in, her expression a mixture of intense concentration and dawning pleasure. Her lips part, a soft hiss escaping as the head of your cock slides past her wet folds. She sinks down, inch by excruciating inch, her tight, hot pussy swallowing you whole.

The feeling of her taking you, of her being in complete control, is a whole new kind of ecstasy. When she has taken your entire length, she sits still for a moment, letting you both get used to the feeling of being joined again in this new configuration.

Then, she begins to move. It’s not the hard, frantic fucking from before. This is different. This is pure, sensual control. She starts with a slow, deep grind, her hips rolling in a lazy, circular motion. You groan, your hands coming up to grip her hips, but she just smiles, placing her hands on top of yours, stilling them. "No," she whispers. "My turn, remember? Just lie back and enjoy the ride."

She moves with an innate, hypnotic rhythm, her hips swaying, rotating, grinding your cock against all of her most sensitive inner walls. You can do nothing but lie there, completely at her mercy, as she plays your body like an instrument. She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, her breasts dangling just inches from your face. She picks up the pace slightly, her slow grinds transitioning into a steady, sensual bounce. She rises up on your shaft, then sinks back down, her movements fluid and graceful. With every downward slide, she lets out a soft, contented sigh, her head falling back, her eyes closing in bliss. This is Jimin in her element, a performer, a dancer, and right now, you are her stage, and she is giving the performance of a lifetime, her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles, grinding your cock against her deepest, most sensitive walls.

Each rotation sends a wave of exquisite friction through you, a pleasure so profound it’s almost agonizing. You can do nothing but lie there, a willing captive to her rhythm, your hands gripping the sheets at your sides to keep from grabbing her, from disrupting the perfect, hypnotic control she has established. Her head is thrown back, her eyes closed, a single, continuous, breathy moan spilling from her lips. She is completely lost in the sensation of filling herself with you, of being in total command.

It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing you have ever witnessed. The soft light from the window traces the elegant curve of her spine, the subtle flex of the muscles in her back and stomach as she moves. Her breasts, full and heavy, sway with each languid motion, their own mesmerizing dance. You watch, transfixed, as she smiles, a slow, secret smile of pure, selfish pleasure.

You can’t resist any longer. Your hands leave the sheets and come up to her, not to her hips to control her, but to her breasts. You cup their weight, your thumbs finding her still-puckered nipples. Her flesh is soft and warm, yielding to your touch. You squeeze gently, and her eyes fly open, locking with yours. Her moan deepens, becoming a throaty, guttural sound, and her hips grind down on you harder, a clear, unmistakable response. She likes it. She likes you touching her, worshiping her, even as she controls the fucking.

You continue to knead her breasts gently as she rides you, your thumbs flicking over her nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through her that you can feel in the way her pussy clenches around your cock. The combination of watching her, touching her, and feeling her move on you is an intoxicating cocktail of sensations.

She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, bringing her face close to yours. Her eyes are dark, swirling with a mixture of lust, power, and something else, something playful.

"Have you ever," she whispers as she continues her slow, steady bounce on your cock, "imagined this? Fucking a K-Pop idol? Having Karina from Aespa ride your dick like this?"

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound half disbelief, half pure awe. "Never," you say. "Not in my wildest, most fucked-up dreams, Jimin. I never thought I'd even speak to you again, let alone… this." You gesture vaguely to the impossible reality of your bodies being joined. "This is… beyond anything I could have ever imagined." You reach up, your hand leaving her breast to cup her cheek. "You are so unbelievably beautiful right now. On top of me. Taking my cock. I can't… I can't even process how beautiful you are."

She leans into your touch, her hips never ceasing their hypnotic, sensual movement.

"I think…" she says, so soft you have to strain to hear it over the wet sounds of your fucking. "I think this is where I belong." She searches your eyes, a desperate need for validation in her gaze. "On your cock. Like this. It feels… right."

"You do," you say. "You're right. This is exactly where you belong, Jimin. You're mine."

Your words are the final permission she needs. It’s as if you’ve unlocked the last cage, unleashing the wild, untamed creature she keeps hidden from the world. The shift is instantaneous. The slow, sensual grind vanishes. She picks up the pace, her hips slamming down on your cock with a force that drives you deep into the mattress. She starts riding you with a frantic, desperate energy, no longer teasing or exploring, but fucking. She is fucking you with everything she has.

Her hair whips around her face, her body is drenched in sweat, and a stream of filthy, broken moans pours from her lips. She moves with a startling, intuitive skill, her hips tilting, rotating, grinding in a way that she knows, that her body inherently understands, will maximize your pleasure. She’s hitting hard with every downward slam, dragging the head of your cock along all the right walls. Her breasts are no longer swaying gently; they are bouncing wildly, a beautiful, chaotic jiggle that mirrors the abandoned rhythm of her hips. You are completely at her mercy, pinned beneath her, as she rides you with a single-minded goal: to drive you absolutely insane.

"Fuck, you're so hot," she pants. "Your body… I can't believe this is real. I can't believe I'm actually doing this, that I'm riding you." She shakes her head, a look of genuine, wondrous disbelief on her face. "I feel like I'm going to wake up."

You want to anchor her to this reality, to prove to her that this is not a dream. You lift your hands from her tits and reach for hers, the one still braced on your chest and the other tangled in the sheets beside you. You capture them, your fingers intertwining with hers, your grip firm and steady. She gasps, her eyes locking with yours. You squeeze her hands, a silent message passing between you. I'm real. This is real. We are real.

The gesture works. A new wave of confidence washes over her, the last vestiges of her disbelief burned away by the simple, grounding touch of your hands locked with hers. A fierce, determined look enters her eyes. She picks up the pace again, her bounces becoming higher, harder, each downward slam of her hips punctuated by a shared grunt of effort and pleasure. You can feel the tension coiling in your own body, the familiar pressure building deep in your balls. You’re getting close, and she can feel it too. The way your hips have started to buck up to meet her thrusts, the way your breath is catching in your throat—she knows.

She leans down, her face close to yours, her expression a perfect mixture of seductive confidence and genuine curiosity. "You're close, aren't you?" she asks. "I can feel you twitching inside me. You're going to come for me soon." She grinds her hips down, a slow, deliberate circle that makes you groan her name. "Tell me where you want it. Where do you want to cum?"

The question is so direct, so filthy, so utterly her in this new, empowered state, that a raw laugh escapes you. "Guess," you manage to rasp.

A wicked, knowing giggle bubbles from her lips. She doesn't even have to think about it. "On my breasts," she says immediately, full of certainty. "You want to cover my tits with your cum, don't you?"

"Is it that obvious?" you ask, your hips thrusting up involuntarily.

"A little," she teases, a wide, beautiful smile lighting up her face. "You're such a pervert."

"Can you blame me?" you groan, your gaze dropping to her magnificent, bouncing breasts. "They're perfect. I've been thinking about doing this since the moment you took off your sweater."

"I know," she says, and the way she says it, so full of pride and satisfaction, makes your cock throb inside her. "They're all yours." She leans in again. "But you have to make a good mess. I want you to cover them completely. Get them all sticky and hot with your cum. Promise me."

"Fuck, Jimin," you gasp, your body trembling. "Don't say things like that unless you mean it."

"Oh, I mean it," she says, her hips beginning to move in a final, frantic assault. She’s bouncing on your cock with a wild, desperate energy, trying to wring every last drop of pleasure from you. "I want it all. I want you to empty your balls for me. Cum for me, baby. Come on my tits now!"

"I'm going to!" you shout, the words ripped from you. "Karina, I'm going to cum!"

Without a word, she breaks the connection, sliding her body off your cock with a wet, sucking sound that echoes the hollowness you now feel. Before you can even question it, she moves with a dancer's deliberate grace, crawling to the edge of the bed and sinking to her knees on the soft rug below. She looks up at you from the floor.

You follow her lead, your mind reeling, your body acting on pure instinct. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand before her. The world has tilted on its axis. The sight of Jimin, your childhood best friend, Karina, a global icon, the woman whose face adorns billboards and magazines, kneeling at your feet is so surreal, so intensely erotic, it feels like a fever dream. Her hair is a tangled mess around her shoulders, her face is flushed with exertion, her lips are swollen and parted, and her eyes… her eyes are fixed on your cock with a look of devotional worship.

She is waiting.

You take your cock in your hand, the skin slick with her juices and your own precum. The head is swollen, twitching with need. You start stroking yourself, a slow, steady rhythm, your gaze locked with hers. You want her to watch. You want to see her expression as you bring yourself to the edge for her.

Your hand moves on your cock, a slick, frantic motion, but it's almost unnecessary. Her gaze, her posture, her very existence in this moment is all the stimulation you need. She squeezes her breasts together, pushing them up, the pale, heavy flesh forming a perfect canvas, a perfect target. The nipples are hard, dark points in the soft mounds, practically begging to be decorated.

"Please," she whimpers. "Look at them. They're waiting for you. I want to feel your hot cum all over them. I need it. Please, baby, give it to me. Drench me." She shifts on her knees, her eyes wide and pleading. "I want to be your good, filthy whore. I want you to paint my tits."

Her words are a lit match to a barrel of gasoline. A deep, primal roar tears itself from your throat, a sound of pure, untethered release. Your hips snap forward, your eyes roll back into your head, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot flash of sensation.

"Fuck! Jimin!" you scream as the first torrent of your orgasm erupts from the tip of your cock.

It's a powerful, shockingly thick shot that arcs through the air with surprising force, splattering directly in the center of her chest, in the deep valley created by her hands squeezing her breasts together. A thick, pearlescent glob lands with an audible smack against her hot skin.

She gasps, a sharp, shuddering intake of breath, her whole body jolting as if you’d touched her with a live wire. "Yes!" she cries out, her eyes fluttering shut. "Oh god, it's so hot... so warm..."

But you're just getting started. Your body is a machine now, completely outside of your conscious control. You grip your cock, your knuckles white, and with another guttural groan, a second, then a third powerful spurt are unleashed. These ones are ropes, thick and heavy, that land higher, one splattering across her right breast, covering the dark, puckered areola completely, the other hitting her delicate collarbone and starting to drip slowly down her neck.

"More!" she pants, her eyes still closed, lost in the sensation of being covered by you. "Give me all of it! Don't hold back!"

You obey her command, your hips continuing their involuntary bucking motion. Spurt after spurt flies from you, a relentless, massive load that you didn't even know you were holding. You paint her with your release, a chaotic, beautiful masterpiece of pure lust. A thick shot coats her left breast, another lands on her shoulder. You see a long, thick strand connect from your cock to her chin for a split second before it falls, adding to the growing mess on her chest. She is taking it all, not flinching, not shying away, only sighing and shivering as each hot, wet impact makes contact with her skin.

Even as the initial, powerful torrents begin to subside, you don't stop. You wrap your hand firmly around the base of your shaft and start to stroke, determined to give her everything. "Every last drop is for you, Jimin," you manage to gasp out. You milk your cock, forcing out the last, thickest globs of your semen, adding them to the already considerable mess. Your cum is everywhere. It’s pooled in the hollow of her throat, it’s dripping in thick, slow trails between and under her breasts, it has completely coated her chest and neck in a sticky, glistening layer.

Finally, your orgasm spends itself completely. You sway on your feet, your knees weak, your body utterly drained. You stare down at the scene, your breathing coming in ragged, harsh pants.

Karina stays kneeling for a long moment, her chest rising and falling heavily beneath the cooling, sticky evidence of your pleasure. Then, slowly, she opens her eyes. She looks down at herself, a look of pure, unadulterated awe on her face.

"Wow," she whispers. She looks up at you, her eyes shining. "Look what you did to me. You came so much."

Then, she does something that makes your already overloaded brain short-circuit again. She dips the index finger of her right hand into the thickest pool of your cum between her breasts. She lifts it, watching the thick, white strand stretch and then snap. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across her face. She uses her finger to swirl the cum around, drawing lazy circles and patterns on her own skin.

"It's so sticky," she says with a giggle, completely devoid of shame, full of nothing but a raw, playful joy. She dips the fingers of her other hand in, spreading the mess further, connecting the splatters, ensuring every inch of her chest and the full, heavy curves of her breasts are coated in a uniform, glistening layer of you. "Am I pretty like this?" she asks, looking up at you through her lashes, her face a picture of filthy innocence. "All covered in your hot cum?"

You can only nod, completely speechless.

She sees your state and her smile widens. She leans forward, takes the now-sensitive, post-orgasm head of your cock into her mouth, and gently, reverently, sucks you clean. Her tongue is soft and methodical, a soothing, incredible sensation that makes your knees threaten to buckle.

When she's done, she pulls back and looks up at you again, her own masterpiece complete. "All clean," she says softly. She gestures down at her chest. "All of it is on me now. Just like I wanted."

You finally find your voice. "You're… perfect," you say. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

You sink to your knees in front of her, your strength completely gone. You cup her face, your thumbs wiping away a stray drip of your own cum from her chin. You look at her, this incredible woman, your childhood friend, your idol, your lover, covered in your filth at her own request. And then you kiss her, a deep, soul-searing kiss that tastes of salt, and sweat, and sex.

—

You crack an eye open, the morning light filtering through a gap in Jimin’s bedroom curtains, painting stripes across the far wall. The space beside you in the massive bed is empty, though the sheets are still rumpled, still faintly radiating her warmth and her unique, intoxicating scent. You’re sprawled on your stomach, clad only in your boxer briefs. You push yourself up, wincing slightly as your muscles protest, and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

The apartment is quiet, save for the distant, comforting clatter of something in the kitchen. Coffee. The thought alone is enough to make you move. You pad out of the bedroom, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor, still feeling the pleasant, lingering ache in your groin, a happy souvenir from the night’s activities.

And there she is.

Jimin is standing at the kitchen counter, her back to you, humming softly to herself as she expertly works her fancy espresso machine. And she’s wearing your shirt. Your button-down from last night, the one you’d discarded so carelessly on her bedroom floor. It’s ridiculously oversized on her frame, the sleeves rolled up multiple times, the hem falling to her mid-thighs, offering tantalizing glimpses of her long, pale legs. Her hair is piled on top of her head in another one of those effortlessly perfect messy buns, a few errant strands escaping to kiss the nape of her neck.

It’s such an incredibly domestic scene, but the irony isn't lost on you: one minute she’s a K-pop idol, the next she’s your childhood crush confessing feelings, then she’s a screaming, cum-covered goddess, and now… now she’s just Jimin, making coffee in your shirt in her sun-drenched kitchen. Your head is still trying to catch up with the whiplash.

You lean against the doorframe just watching her for a moment. She moves with an easy grace, even when she’s just reaching for a mug, a quiet confidence in her posture that wasn’t there when you first reconnected. She turns then, two steaming mugs in her hands, and her own smile, soft and a little shy, blooms when she sees you.

"Oh, good morning," a slight blush creeps up her cheeks, but her eyes are warm. "I wasn’t sure when you’d surface. Or if you’d even remember where you were."

"Morning," you reply, your own speech still a little rough from sleep. You push off the doorframe and walk towards her, your gaze lingering on the way your shirt drapes over her. "And trust me, last night is pretty… unforgettable. Slept like a fucking log, though. Best sleep I’ve had in ages."

"Me too," she admits, her blush deepening slightly as she hands you one of the mugs. The rich, dark aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills your senses, a welcome antidote to the lingering haze of your hangover. "Black, two sugars, right? Or has your sophisticated palate evolved since our high school instant coffee days?"

You chuckle, taking a grateful sip. Perfect. "Still remember, huh? Impressive. And no, some things are sacred. This is… this is exactly what I needed." You take another long, appreciative gulp. "So, are you feeling the after-effects of that wine as much as I am?" you ask, gesturing vaguely to your head. "My skull feels like it's been crushed by a baseball bat."

She laughs, a light, airy sound. "Tell me about it. Definitely a two-aspirin, one-gallon-of-water kind of morning for me too." She sips her own coffee, her eyes meeting yours over the rim of the mug, a comfortable, knowing silence settling between you for a moment. "So," she begins, her gaze dropping to her mug for a second before returning to yours, a hint of that earlier vulnerability creeping back in. "Last night… that was… " She trails off, searching for the words.

"Amazing," you supply, your own words soft but firm, leaving no room for doubt. "It was fucking amazing, Jimin. All of it."

A relieved, almost dazzling smile breaks across her face. "Yeah," she breathes, her shoulders relaxing visibly. "Yeah, it really, really was." She takes another sip of coffee, then, almost as if she can’t help herself, she adds, "You… you really know how to make a girl feel good. Like, really good."

"Just returning the favor," you say, a teasing glint in your eyes. "You weren't exactly holding back yourself." The memory of her, riding you with such wild abandon, her cries echoing in the room, makes a heat rise through your body, making your cock give a responsive throb in your boxers. You discreetly shift your weight. This domestic morning-after scene is lovely, but your body clearly hasn't forgotten the main event.

A comfortable lull settles as you both sip your coffee, the shared memories of the night before a warm, unspoken presence. But then, you see a flicker of something in Jimin’s eyes, a subtle shift in her expression. She sets her mug down on the counter, her fingers tracing the rim. The tension, which had dissipated, slowly begins to creep back into the room. Here it comes. The inevitable "what now?"

"So…" she begins, her gaze fixed on her coffee cup, her words careful, almost tentative. "What… what happens now? With us?" She finally looks up at you, her eyes wide and searching. "Was last night just… you know… a one-time thing? Because of the wine, and the confessions, and… everything?"

You set your own mug down, your heart giving a familiar, uncomfortable thump.

This is it. The moment of truth.

"A one-time thing?" you repeat. You let out a short, humorless chuckle, running a hand through your already messy hair. "Jimin, after last night… after you… do you honestly think I could just… walk away from that? Pretend it didn't happen?" You meet her gaze, your own expression deadly serious now. "I really, really like you. More than like you, if I’m being completely honest. And… and I don’t think I can be the same around you anymore. Not after yesterday." You take a deep breath. "I think… fuck, I know… I need you. Like it’s oxygen. And that terrifies the absolute shit out of me, but it’s the goddamn truth."

The silence that follows is deafening. For a heart-stopping moment, you think you’ve said too much, gone too far, laid yourself too bare.

Then, slowly, miraculously, a smile begins to spread across her face. It’s not just any smile. It’s a Jimin-smile, a radiant, all-encompassing beam of pure, unadulterated happiness that lights up her entire being, that chases away every last shadow of doubt and fear in the room. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Without a word, she pushes herself off the counter, closes the small distance between you in two quick steps, and then her arms are around your neck, her body pressing against yours, and she’s kissing you. It’s a kiss that tastes of coffee, and relief. It’s a kiss that seals the deal, a kiss that says everything you both needed to hear. And as you kiss her back, your own arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer, feeling the soft warmth of her body clad only in your shirt against your bare chest, You suddenly remember that Jimin, your Jimin, is no longer just yours, is no longer just Jimin, your dork childhood friend.

You pull back slightly, your gaze searching hers. "Jimin," you begin, "this is… this is incredible. You’re incredible. Last night was… beyond anything." Her smile softens, her eyes shining with affection, but you press on. "But… what the hell do we do now? I meant what I said, about needing you, about all of it. But us… like this…" You gesture vaguely between the two of you, encompassing the intimacy, the secret now hanging palpably in the air of her sunlit kitchen. "You know what your life is like. The spotlight, the fans, the company… SM isn’t exactly known for its progressive stance on its idols having, well, this." Your irony here is bitter, a defense mechanism against the very real fear clenching your heart. "This could be… dangerous for you. For your career. I don’t want to be the one who…"

Jimin’s fingers gently press against your lips, silencing you. Her expression is soft, understanding, but there’s a new firmness there too, a resolute calm that wasn’t present during her earlier, more vulnerable moments.

"Shhh," she murmurs, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "Don't. Don't do that. Don't spiral." She leans in, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to your mouth, then another to your cheek, then your forehead. Her touch is like a balm, soothing the sharp edges of your anxiety. "I know all of that. Believe me, I live it every single day. But right now," she continues, her eyes holding yours, clear and unwavering, "right now, I don’t want to think about any of it. Not SM, not the fans, not the potential fallout. Not yet."

She pulls back just enough to look you squarely in the eyes, her hands now resting on your shoulders. "What happened last night, what’s happening right now," she says, "this is real. And it’s ours." Her lips curve into a small, almost conspiratorial smile. "No one needs to know about this. Not now, anyway. It’ll be our secret, okay? Just for us."

Her words, her confidence, the delicious, illicit thrill of a shared secret with her: it’s an intoxicating, dangerous combination.

"Our secret, huh?" you echo, an eyebrow quirking upwards. "You know, that’s… that’s actually kind of fucking sexy, Jimin. The danger of it all… it’s a little exciting, isn't it?" You can't help the way your own words deepen, the way your gaze drops to her lips.

She lets out a delighted, throaty chuckle. "See? I knew you’d get it." She leans in again, her lips brushing yours, a silent promise of more to come. "Danger is always more exciting." Her breath is warm against your skin, her proximity reigniting the embers of last night’s events.

Between feather-light kisses that dance along your jawline, your neck, she murmurs, "But, speaking of not wanting things to get… complicated… or, you know, result in tiny, K-pop-superstar-related accidents…" She pulls back slightly, her expression turning a little more practical, though the sultry glint in her eyes remains. "I think it might be a very, very good idea for you to acquire some condoms. Like, a lot of them. A truly impressive, perhaps even alarming, quantity." A playful smirk dances on her lips. "We can’t exactly keep pushing our luck like last night, as… memorable as it was."

"Duly noted. I’ll arrange for a strategic acquisition of latex-based defenses. Consider me on a mission."

"Good," she purrs, pressing a final, lingering kiss to your mouth. Then, her hand, which had been resting on your shoulder, slides down your chest, a slow, deliberate trail of fire, down, down, until it reaches the front of your boxer briefs. Her fingers close around your already-hardening cock, her touch light but possessive, sending a jolt straight through you. You gasp, your hips giving an involuntary twitch.

She looks up at you through her lashes, her smile turning wicked, utterly predatory. "Because," she whispers, her breath hot against your lips, her fingers giving you a slow, deliberate squeeze that makes your knees weak, "while we wait for those… reinforcements… there is something I can do for you right now. Something that definitely doesn't require a condom."

And with a final, devastatingly innocent flutter of her eyelashes, she slides from your embrace, her hand never leaving your groin, and slowly, gracefully, sinks to her knees on the kitchen floor in front of you. The morning, it seems, is far from over.

In fact, this is just the beginning.

[atlantis-just-drowned]

Not to sound like your grammar corrector but I think at this point you should start putting an s at the word "trauma"

[todays-xkcd]

It's important to learn the moves that take you into the vortex, but it's best not to study vortex itself too closely. Even grandmasters who have built up a tolerance lose the ability to play for a few hours after studying it.

Chess Position [Explained]

Transcript

[In the first panel, Cueball is walking in from the left, while talking to Ponytail.] Cueball: Something odd happened to me last week in a game at the chess club.

[Cueball is playing a game of chess against Knit Cap.] [Caption above frame:] I moved, then instantly realized I'd blundered. But my opponent didn't notice and made a weird move. I got rattled and moved almost randomly, then I think we both panicked and made a couple of nonsensical moves, rapid-fire.

[Zoomed in on Cueball, with three question marks above his head] I don't know how it happened, but suddenly I realized I was staring at an indescribably strange board position.

[Cueball is talking to Ponytail.] Cueball: I've never seen anything like it. It seemed like every move attacked every piece, yet every piece was also protected. Pieces refracted through crystalline pawn structures. Cueball: The game clock slowed and then stopped.

[Cueball and Knit Cap are floating in a complex five-fold symmetrical plant-like pattern of "game tree branches".] [Caption above the frame] It didn't even feel like we were playing chess. We had stumbled into a magical garden tucked away on a deep branch of the game tree.

[Cueball is talking to Ponytail.] Cueball: I don't remember how the game ended, if it did. Cueball: I don't remember how I got home. Cueball: It's all a blur.

[Close-up of Cueball's head.] Cueball: I've spent all week trying to reconstruct the position and can't. Cueball: It's consuming me. Cueball: I don't want to play chess. I just want to return to that garden. Cueball: Does... any of this make sense to you?

[Cueball is standing with hands on face surprised as Ponytail talks with him.] Ponytail: Yeah, that's the Kasparov Vortex Gambit. Common trap for new players. Cueball: What?! Ponytail: Once you recover I'll show you how to block it with the f pawn.

[jaxon-exe]

I’ve seen that future…

If you had told Danny that joining the justice league would mean getting up at the ass crack of dawn to go to some stupid meeting, he never would have joined. Well that not fully true but he might have agreed to have a Zata tube installed in Amity. Even with how much he hates those things it still seems like a better idea now that he is flying through space trying to catch up with this stupid satellite. He was already late thanks to Skulker, which means he missed his perfectly times window to catch the watchtower in orbit so now he’s here playing catch up.

He didn’t even bother to slow down from his Mach 20 pace when he reached it. Just turned intangible and shot through the window into the meeting room. He was expecting to get scolded for being late. Or for his dramatic entrance but he was not expecting the other members to not notice him at all on account of them arguing.

Taking the golden opportunity to get out of a scolding, (he did not want to be the victim of another bat glare) he kept he’s mouth shut and floated down to Hal. Who seemed to be sulking off to the side of the fight. “Dude, what’s gonna on?”

“Batman,” the name was spat like a curse. “Had plans on how to take us all out.” Hal waved to the screen before him, inviting Danny to look.

“Really?” He floated to the screen, seeing files with each leaguer’s name. After a moment of hesitation, he clicked on his own.

“Yeah! Can you fucking believe this?” Hal growled out. “He planned on how to kill us all and is now acting like we’re the unreasonable ones.” Danny would normally be shaken by Hal’s anger. The guy so rarely got truly anger that it startled Danny every time. In that moment however he couldn’t bring his attention way from the screen. It was a decent plan. Risky, unlikely to work but decent. The fact Batman did this at all though. “You think you know a guy, right? Phantom?” Hal asked when he saw the ghost wasn’t responding to him.

Before he could continue his questioning Phantom shot off across the room. All leaguers that could keep up with the ghost speed braces from a fight when they saw him heading straight for Batman. They were anger with him yeah but they didn’t want him dead. They all knew Phantom was physically capable of doing that and had only seen him fly this fast in battle.

Their concern turned to confusion however when Danny stopped dead still just before the dark knight. Looking the man over before reaching to the side, Danny’s hand disappearing into a green vortex that appeared out of thin air. When he pulled back, a small metal box, no bigger than a watch box, laid in his hand as he presented it to Batman.

“This is a blood blossom.” The soft words cut through the tense silence. “It is one of, no it is the only thing that can kill me. For good.” Batman looked at the box, then at the boy. Determination sat on his brows despite the tired sadness that coloured his eyes. “If I…” His eyes broke away from the white lenses. “If I go bad. Please. I understand you don’t want to kill. So please, give this to someone who will kill me.”

No one moved for a moment as they processed the request. Emotions shifting wildly in them all. Superman’s landing on anger. “Why would you give him that?!” He stepped forward. “He already plans to kill us all why would you give him that?!”

“Because I’ve seen that future.” The conference was stated plainly. Melancholy waiting down on the boy as he turn to the others. “The realms are different than here.” His trembled. “Time works differently. You can walk into tomorrow and run into yesterday. Every possibly future exists within the realms.”

He scanned each heroes face as his voice harden. “I’ve seen what happens. I know what happens if I turn.” Danny took a deep breath as he met superman’s eyes. Gazing at him with eyes that saw more than what was in front of him. “I killed you first Clark.” It was stated as fact. Non of them could bring themselves to doubt him. “Then Diana. Then Hal. One by one each one of you were killed… by me.”

His breath came out frosted, his emotions making it hard to keep from freezing the watchtower as he turned back to Batman. “You survived the longest. Out of everyone here you got the closest to stopping me. In that reality however, you didn’t know about ghost. Didn’t know how to fight me.” He held out the box again. “Please, I can’t let that future happen.”

Everyone was stunned. Watching in silent shock as the horror of what Phantom said sunk in. Batman recovers quickest, slowly reaching out to grab that box which he now identified as being made of lead.

“Thank you Phantom.” There was more to those words than what it may appear. A silent reassess that the ghost picked up on.

[mysumeow]

︵ ☆ Malleus NSFW Alphabet (from A to I) Pt. 1

ᓚᘏᗢ WARNINGS: AFAB body reader. ᓚᘏᗢ A/N: im feeling burned out from working on my thesis but since im almost done with them, i'll relax some days and obviously that means im going to write RAAAAAAAAHHHHG its not much but its honest work hahaha | ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎ . . . TWST MASTERLIST | NEXT

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

You lay in bed, disheveled and catching your breath after you’re done with each other. His first instinct upon seeing you like that is to trail his lips across the marks left on your neck, your shoulders, and more places you can’t bother to check. He caresses your cheek, his fingers tickling your tender skin. You mumble something about wanting to take a bath and he holds you to take you there, nerves still tingly as you walk.

He ascertains the water is to your liking before guiding you in with him, and you take your place between his legs, your back smooth against his chest.    

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Naturally, he likes his horns. They’re a symbol of status among the faes, unique to the draconic lineage. He takes great care of them as much as he does with his hair and the rest of his body.

When it comes to you…

Major arteries are in human’s necks, headlining them as one of the favored spots to attack for any predator. Yet, you let your defenses down enough to allow him access, not only to kiss it but also to bite. This is a display of trust sure to make his heart ache with devotion.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

It’s enough to fill up every crevice within you, and more. It drips down your thighs. There’s no way you couldn’t feel it. Malleus tries to maintain his wits while he’s rearranging your guts, but you don’t make that task easy, not when you cling to him like that. A vortex of longing and lust consumes him, and despite that effort to keep his possessive draconic instincts at bay, he concedes and pours inside of you every time.

Don’t let him see the way it trails outside of you; he’ll incline for a second round to make up for what slipped out of you.

D = Dirty secret (self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He likes it when you caress his horns, not only with your hands, but your lips, too.

It’s unbelievable how fast his cock hardens when you press your lips there, lovingly kissing them the way you would his lips. The pleasure shoots right to his dick, you could make him come just like that if you wanted to. The contrast between a feature meant to represent power being used to unravel him with your affection is the reason he keeps it a secret.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

A sheltered prince who spent most of his life in the comfort of a castle, surrounded by other faes who bent to his every whim but kept a distance because of fear or respect, it’s unlikely that he’s had that type of intimacy with someone before.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Mating press. Next question.

It starts with missionary, a classic position you can’t go wrong with and it’s practical. It’s ideal for him, he wants to witness your eyebrows crease from the pleasure, or when you bite your lip, throw your head back against the velvety pillows on his bed—he’s immersed in the sight.

By the time he notices, he’s already gripping under your knees and pushing them against your chest, or as far back as he can fold them. He’s tall and heavy against your physique, swallowing it with no effort.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

You may think his stern expression comes from a place of boredom, but it’s the contrary. He’s entranced by every wave of enjoyment, your pleasure his priority with each movement…Although he’s not one to crack a joke during sex, if he notices you’re in a more humored state, he can be a bit cheeky.

H = Hair (how well-groomed are they?)

Leaving his privates unattended means the hair down there will get out of control and it peeves him. He can’t help it, he was raised to adapt routines to make sure he’s presentable at most times and despite his pubes not being something that’ll be displayed to the public eye, they’ll be to yours. So, of course, he wants to be presentable to you in that way.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Malleus yearns for heartfelt intimacy. His view on sex isn’t limited to the carnal aspects, it means a lot more to him. You’re trusting your soft, squishy human body to his desire, unraveling your most sensitive parts to his ravenous need to prod and tease with his fangs and hands. Albeit the softness of his view, the way it canalizes into his actions…He embraces you, all the while he steals your breath away with the vigorous pounding he’s giving you.

[alchemistc]

As usual my idle thoughts have turned into another fic.

Saturday

"What are you doing Saturday?" he asks, even though Evan has been not-quite-yelling at him while Tommy tries to fly a fucking helicopter. He's been going for almost four minutes straight. Tommy's pretty certain he's listing off the things he never told Tommy he was pissed off about in reverse sequential order from "Thanks, it was fun." back. He's barely past "Basketball tickets, Tommy? Basketball? In six months, I played basketball badly with you once and then spent every Lakers game we watched elbow deep in a subreddit about moths or something!"

Evan pauses. Blinks at the question. It's the first moment Tommy's been able to hear the rotors working in at least nine and a half minutes, back before he started to argue back.

"I'm free," he says, and Tommy thinks of the first time he'd ever asked, nerves propelling him out the door with finger guns, the tapping foot all the way down the elevator while he ran the words back and forth in his head over and over again, the way he kept randomly smiling the entire drive home to grab his work bag. So you're free, he'd asked, and he hadn't understood the significance of Evan's response until days later, until he'd done his first of many runners, how I am free, meant so much more than available for dinner and a movie on Saturday at 8.

Tommy nods. Chances a look at Evan to see him glaring at Tommy while he sucks in his lips to try to hide the way the corners of his lips are upturned. "Pick you up at 8," he says, and thinks of bullet point number... thirteen in Evan's rant where he implied Tommy never actually told him how he was feeling at any point in time during the entirety of their relationship. Maybe he can explain how excruciatingly vulnerable he felt he was being with making it so fucking obvious he'd chewed over the conversation they'd had after their first kiss so long and so obsessively that he'd memorized it.

"Great," Evan says

"Fine," Tommy replies.

"Awesome."

"Copacetic."

This earns him an eye roll and a glance he'd call fond if it weren't for the anger still stirring behind Evans eyes.

He only thinks to regret the question days later when Saturday is taken up by a funeral procession.

---

"What are you doing Saturday?" Tommy asks, with Evan plastered to his side, working himself up to a snore.

He pats at some of the loose curls he's been obsessively rolling through his fingers, entranced by the way the moonlight bounces off of them, entranced by the wet heat of Evan's breath against his skin.

"More of exactly this," Evan says, and Tommy snorts.

"If I fiddle with your hair any more it might start falling out."

He's a loose-limbed weight against Tommy's side, and Tommy would like to roll himself into the space between his muscle and skin and just nestle there for the rest of time. "Y'like my hair to-," he swallows a yawn, "too much for that."

That's true, at least. He had a point in asking, but he's struggling to remember what it was.

"Waz haturday?" he gets, in a mumble around another yawn.

Tommy twirls another lock of hair between his fingers. "There's a new exhibit at the Getty. Thought you might wanna go."

"Museum, and this," Evan manages into Tommy's ribcage.

"It's a date," Tommy murmurs, and waits for the telltale snuffle of Evan passing the fuck out.

---

"What are you doing Saturday?" Tommy asks, tongue between his teeth as he backs his way towards the chopper. He has to yell, even though Evan is five feet away, and Evan grins back, eyeing Tommy's hair being kicked around by the vortex of the blades.

"Handbook!" Hen chirps over the noise, her shorthand for stop flirting in my general vicinity I'll kill you both.

Evan shoots her a challenging grin. Glances around long enough to notice a few eavesdropping firefighters from other stations lingering near enough to hear. Sighs, and mouths a silent "You" that's visible from space. Tommy's gonna get so much shit from Harbor when this makes it's rounds, but Evan was extra hot today and Tommy's pretty sure his brain chemistry has been irrevocably altered by getting to sleep in his bed multiple nights a week.

"Pick me up at 8," Tommy yells over the noise, and, mortifyingly, throws the fingers guns back into play a moment before he turns to leave. Why had Evan ever thought he was cool?

---

"What are you doing Saturday?" Evans asks, while Tommy balances his phone on a bin of protein powder before going back to digging in his junk drawer. "Also do you own a bandsaw."

Tommy glances up from the drawer. Takes in the sight of Evan, lounging on his pillows, looking indecent while he plays at innocence. Tommy wishes he was there, but he has way too much shit to do tomorrow to justify the drive, tonight.

"What the hell do you need a bandsaw for?"

Evan blinks. "You can find out Saturday if you bring it over."

"Evan, if you've been watching DIY videos to fall asleep again..."

"I get plenty of sleep, Tommy!"

Tommy begs to differ. If he's not around to point out Evan meant to be asleep an hour earlier, he's positive Evan loses at least three hours to YouTube and Twitter most nights.

Tommy sighs. "It's heavy as hell, Evan, and I'd have to jerry rig a pulley system to get it past the Impala while the engine's still out. Is this something we can do here?"

Evan contemplates. Nods.

"I'm assuming you need the truck, too."

"I can fit everything in the Jeep."

Tommy shoots him a look that does nothing to quell the shit-eating grin coming through the phone right now.

He bites back this particular sigh. "I'll pick you up."

"At 8."

Tommy shoots him a raised brow. Apparently Evan wants to piss off the neighbors.

"AM."

"Evan."

"I'll stop by that donut place early and get you that horrible pink drink you like."

Tommy's said 'no' to this man less times than he has drill sergeants. "You realize you're signing yourself up for the grumpiest boyfriend of all time?"

"I love grumpy Tommy," Evan says, and sounds like he means it.

---

"What are you doing Saturday?" Maddie asks, and Evan's gaze gets a little foggy for a moment.

His sister raises a brow at Tommy.

"Just a little inside joke," Tommy assures her, and can't hide his grin when Evan squeezes his knee under the table.

---

"What are you doing Saturday?" Tommy asks, and listens to Sal try to make excuses for a full minute and a half.

"...why do you ask," Sal finally asks after he runs dry.

"I'm moving. Thought I might bribe you with pizza and beer for some muscle."

Sal is quiet for longer than Tommy thinks he's ever managed. He ruins it by whistling his disbelief for at least fifteen seconds.

"Well, if it's that serious, Buckley better fucking be there so I can finally meet the kid who made you fucking crazy." He pauses. "Crazier," he amends. "What the fuck are you gonna do with the lift?"

"So I'll see you at my place at ten?"

"You're not freaking out. Why are you not freaking out?"

Tommy has a list of those reasons tucked behind a book Evan deemed 'the most boring thing I've ever let my eyes see' because he's still a little self conscious about the half-assed attempt at journaling he's been doing. He doesn't think Sal deserves a single one of those reasons.

"Bring extra packing tape," he shoots back, and hangs up before Sal can respond.

---

"What are you doing Saturday?" Eddie asks, and Tommy, irrationally, sort of wants to shoot him with lasers. Karen would probably let him borrow some.

He's not actually sure what Karen does in that lab of hers, but there has to be lasers, right?

Evan glances up from his perusal of the back of his beer label. "Um?" He darts his gaze to Tommy.

They haven't told anyone, and Tommy is pretending to be normal and chill and cool about that. He can keep a secret for another few days.

"If this is a sex thing you can keep it to yourself. I don't need another refresher on Tommy and Buck's sex life."

Tommy flickers between smug pleasure and exasperated annoyance. He settles somewhere in the middle, and spends the thirty seconds of eye contact and communicative facial expressions between Evan and Eddie thinking about what the weekend has in store for him.

"I mean, there's gonna be sex, but that's not, like, the point of the weekend."

Tommy raises a brow. "I never promised sex."

"It's a prerequisite for the other parts of the weekend."

"Oh look, I need a refill," Eddie says, already standing, holding up his mostly full bottle.

Evan kicks him under the table the moment Eddie's out of hearing range. "Stop freaking out. He's not the one who's getting a ring at the end of this trip."

Planning out their proposals together hadn't been something he ever thought he'd do, but once Evan had thrown it out there he'd gotten so lost in the sauce he'd forgoten it was weird. It's taken months to line this up and schedule it. They've talked it through so many times Tommy's pretty sure he could recite their itinerary from memory.

He's never gonna live down admitting he saw Eddie as competition. If it's not in Evan's proposal it might be in his vows.

"You didn't think I'd ditch you in a romantic cabin in the woods with a Jacuzzi tub that fits us both just because Eddie wanted to do something on Saturday, did you?"

No. But also yes. It's just his caveman brain shouting from behind the door Tommy locked it in when he finally understood exactly what he meant to Evan.

He's working on it.

"Just didn't want to spoil the surprise," he intones, and Evan narrows his eyes.

"Tommy."

Tommy slaps a hand on the table for Evan to grasp. "He's not the one getting a ring, Evan."

"Damn right. His hands are way too small. You ever notice he's got dainty fingers? That thing would fall off his thumb."

Tommy's dimples twitch, and Evan's grin is triumphant.

---

"What are you doing Saturday?" Tommy asks, and from halfway across the station he can hear a faint "Handbook!" in Hen's voice.

Evan rolls his eyes.

"I have to put on a tux and marry this dude," Evan says. "Why, you got something else in mind?"

Tommy shifts half an inch closer. "What a coincidence. I have to marry some dude this Saturday, too."

"Buck has work today, Thomas! And this is technically against the rules, you're not supposed to see each other!" Howie, this time, much closer to the bay doors than Hen was.

Tommy taps his knuckles against the hood of his truck. Leans into Evans space and steals a quick kiss. "See you Saturday?"

"See you tomorrow," Evan says, and ignores the peanut gallery to steal a lingering kiss of his own.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Multiverse Police

I've seen the idea that GIW is actually SCP foundation somewhere, and lately, I've been thinking a lot about Fenton Happy Ending, so I bring you this. Behold, GIW/SCP, Team Phantom, and Fentons are working all together, and the whole wide multiverse fears them.

So, a giant green Lazarus Pit that looks more like a vortex than an actual Pit randomly opens in, say, Ohio. Because I heard a lot of weird shit happens in Ohio. The world is worried, JL gets sent there, but they are not exactly sure of what to do with it. Nothing comes out of it, and, well, no one is volunteering to just jump inside it - Batman made everyone read his files on Lazarus Waters, and they are reasonably wary.

But then a thing appears literally out of thin air on top of it. It looks like a spaceship, kind of, but more sci-fi than what real spaceships look like. And before anyone says anything, a large green - Lazarus green - dome appears, effectively covering both the ship and the Pit and cutting the heroes off.

The heroes are Confused (tm). And worried. And no one has an idea of what the fuck is going on, for all they know it could be some kind of yet another alien invasion.

Then, two figures on the hoverboards - one read and one teal - come out of the ship, flying over the Pit. They are followed by drones, and they all look like they are... scanning the Pit? A few more people, wearing black visors and shiny white suits that look like they are packed with all kinds of tech, slide down on the ropes straight inside the Pit. It sure looks like they are very familiar with it and have a good idea of what they are doing, working as a team.

One of the figures on the hoverboard, the one in a teal suit, notices the heroes on the other side of the green dome. She - because both of them look feminine enough - slows down and flies down to the ground, landing in front of Superman and taking off her helmet. It reveals a rather young, no older than twenty years old girl with fiery red hair tied in a bun, with eyes the same color as her suit. She smiles at them.

"Hi, you must be the Justice League?" She asks politely, and as Superman gives her a nod just out of surprise at her friendly attitude, she touches her ear, "Mom, this is DC sector universe. Pretty sure it's not a dimension we've been before, though." She turns back to Superman, "You don't recognize any of this, do you?"

Batman intervenes before Supes has the time to answer, "Who are you?"

The girl nods and taps her ear again, "Yeah, they definitely don't know us. So mark it as either an unfamiliar dimension or an unfamiliar timeline." Then she turns to Batman and smiles.

"You can call us interdimensional police. And since all the Batmans we ever encountered never believed us, I'm going to send you a copy of the files your other versions complied all together, so you can read and add more if you feel like it."

She touches her wrist computer, and, a few moments later, Batman's comm comes online with Oracle's voice:

"B, I'm getting a shit ton of files on... Multiverse Law Enforcement?.. out of nowhere. What's going on?"

Now, JL is baffled. Some of them - Flashes and Bats, for example - knew there was a whole wide multiverse going on, but to learn the multiverse has police? That's new.

Meanwhile, the redhead continues:

"The green thing behind me is a natural portal to the Infinite Realms, the dimension between dimensions. Which is really not what is supposed to be happening, so we are in the process of fixing it. It will take from ten minutes to a few hours, depending on what's on the other side, but the portal will be gone soon, and then I'll have to ask you some questions."

"Questions about what?" Asks Flash, and the girl waves her hand in the air.

"Oh, well, about the portals? If one so big is opening up, it means a few smaller ones had to exist in this dimension already. Our tech is not picking them up if they are smaller than a certain size, but you must have seen them before. I believe in the DC sector, you call them Lazarus Pits? We can take care of them later, too."

The second hoverboarder flies closer to them and revs her engine.

"Jazz, talk to them later, Tucker and Agents are done. Fentons are about to get Dannies down, so you need to either come up or leave the shield."

The girl - Jazz - looks surprised.

"Dan, too?"

"Yeah, it's the Toothy Jungle on the other side. They wanted to ask Ember, but, eh, what's her guitar gonna do to plants, even if they are sentient?" The red hoverboarder shrugs, and Jazz tilts her head, looking back to the heroes.

"I think I'll stay with them. You know it gets violent when Dan goes down, so people get antsy about us. I don't want to give the wrong impression."

The other girl huffs, but doesn't argue.

"Okay. Get out of the shield, then, and for Ancients sake, keep your comm open. Danny has an aneurysm every time you turn it off." With that, she flies away, back to the ship, and Jazz taps her hoverboard so it folds down into a hexagon shape no bigger than a backpack. Then, she steps through the shield, joining the JL on the other side of it.

"Are you not scared we might take you hostage?" Asks Wonder Woman just out of curiosity, and Jazz smiles pleasantly at her.

"Don't judge a girl by her looks. I don't want to brag, but I did fist fight Superman once and won."

----------

So basically, after Amity Park got sucked into Infinite Realms, the whole town just kind of collectively decided they like it there. And somehow they reached a happily ever after with both Danny's reveal to his parents and GIW, and then Clockwork showed up and was like, you guys want human food supply, running water and electricity, right? Well, I can do that, and so much more, you can be the ultimate perfect town. And for the price? You gonna go on adventures from time to time and fix the multiverse when shit hits the fan in various dimensions and universes. Doesn't that sound like fun?

And Amity Park, who's seen so much weird stuff over the years that it greatly affected their idea of common sense, goes yeah, that does sound fun! Let's go, people!

So here they are, appearing in different universes and doing damage control. They are, like, the superheroes for superheroes.

I'm probably going to write a part 2 to it, I want to show off Danny and Dan and Dani too. Halfas on the loose, JL is mildly concerned and kind of scared, and Jazz is just like yeah, that's just another regular Tuesday :)

I love Jazz being a badass, yes. Also, if you didn't get it, the other one on the hoverboard is Val, the drones are controlled by Tucker, and the people on the ropes are GIW agents.

| next -> |

[mattsundaes]

it’s infuriating—the way oliver outright grabs the scruff of your neck.

“i don’t think so.”

(and it’s ridiculous, how much you like it.)

his palm is hot against your nape, and you can feel each point of pressure where the tips of his fingers grasp your skin.

loud, reverberating bass from the music inside leaks out the back door, trickling into a yard that’s lit by wayward string lights and littered with students. the air is thick with humidity, and you stare at the dark, glittering pool in front of you longingly.

there’s a pleasant buzz in your veins, one that wants you to lean further back into his touch.

your friends laugh and scream and splash and yell for you to jump in. the water is cold when it hits your ankles, a stark contrast to the solid mass of body heat currently standing behind you.

you feel sticky with sweat, and the guy you were just dancing with inside joins them in their cajoling. oliver scoffs.

“just because we happen to go to the same university, doesn’t mean you get to be the fun police when my brother’s not around,” you say, turning to look at him.

oliver’s already draping his linen button up shirt over your shoulders, your tank top left wet and discarded in a puddle after you threw it off on your way to the pool.

“you’re drunk,” he says evenly, not missing the way you decline to utilize any of the buttons on his shirt to hide your lacy bralette.

“buzzed,” you correct him, all at once trapped in a hazy, dangerous vortex of the scent of his cologne and the sight of his bare, shirtless chest.

“your brother would kill me if he knew i let you swim drunk in your underwear at a frat party,” he starts to steer you away from the pool, hand still cupping your neck, albeit in a softer way.

your friends yowl out a series of catcalls as oliver leads you back into the house, guiding you toward the kitchen as he mutters something under his breath while searching for a clean cup. he pushes a glass of water in your hands, folding his thick arms over his broad chest, and you nearly choke—

“can you please not die your first week here,” oliver groans, thumb wiping away the water spilling down your jaw.

it’s impossible to ignore the way your heart sighs at the gesture.

“you know being my big brother’s best friend doesn’t automatically mean you have to be responsible for me, oli.”

oliver’s quiet for a moment before he responds, “i’m aware.”

and you can practically feel the space between you shudder with that familiar wire of tension, the one that stretches taut whenever oliver’s gaze lingers on your lips a beat too long, that twists when his hand drifts to your lower back, that burns when he says your name—

“how am i supposed to have my era of questionable, messy university fuckboy sex if you’re standing in the corner glowering like that the whole time,” you gesture at him.

oliver’s eyebrow twitches. “are you insinuating i want to be your cuck?”

you step forward, into his space. every hair in your body feels like it’s standing on end, blood rushing in your veins at this proximity between his body and your own. oliver doesn’t so much as flinch.

“unless you want to be one of those questionable, messy decisions,” you smile sweetly. “you’ve already got the fuckboy part down pat, right?”

oliver’s suddenly even closer than he was before, eyes dark as he gazes at you. “you and i both know that’s not gonna happen, sweetheart.”

he reaches out, and your breath hitches in your throat—only to realize he’s just working the buttons of his shirt, which you’re still wearing, closed.

(cont.)

[letoasai]

Will work for food ~ part 2

Part 1 - Master list

Tim was anxious which wasn’t an emotion he often put into use. Even on a bad day he was calculating, overly prepared, and usually ran on caffeine. He was a young genius and a hell of a detective, but nerves probably didn’t care about his resume or personality quirks. 

He rubbed his thumb against the folded piece of paper kept hidden in his pocket. He’d examined it in the batcave but it held no clues of note. It was just a normal sheet of paper, and the ink could have been a pen from any local corner store. No DNA. No fingerprints. All the same, he kept it out of sight in public. 

Tim had been antsy about summoning Phantom, mostly because he felt like he was disrespectfully late. When he’d first laid eyes on the living form of the Ghost King, he’d felt a familiar ache. Neglect. He didn’t know if the king had neglected himself, or if the blame lay at someone else's feet, but he just couldn’t stand it. 

He’d offered food and company in an instant, the words popping out of his mouth before he could think them through. Despite that, he didn’t regret the offer. He could have done without the teasing from his siblings and teammates, but he didn’t regret the offer once. 

His only remorse was with the clean up efforts. The Infinite creature, Vortex, had left quite the destruction in his wake. Even with many extended members of the League assisting with clean up, it took ages. Search and rescues were active and humanitarian groups had arrived to offer aid but some things couldn’t be done in a weekend. 

The bats returning to Gotham didn’t offer much in the way of a break either. A Scarecrow outbreak with his fear toxin. Three different gangs in the middle of a turf war. A weapons smuggling ring being uncovered… It was one thing after another for a minute. 

When all was said and done it had been nearly two months before Tim had the opportunity to keep his promise. He was in his civvies, standing at the mouth of an alleyway across from a little italian place that looked cheap but was actually the best tasting, most authentic italian place in all of Gotham. Little hole in the wall places often were the best. 

The problem now was his ability to overthink things. Would he summon the king in a glow of green that would light up the street like a beacon? Would he arrive in his ghostly form, crown hovering above his hooded head? 

Phantom looked human enough but was he? Did he come from Earth originally? There were plenty of aliens that looked human. It would be rude to assume… 

What name did he use? Did he need to go full title? Why didn’t he ask more questions when he had the chance?

“King Phantom.” Tim muttered, deciding to just go for it. He still clutched the paper sigil out of sight. “Uh, Ghost King Phantom. King of the Infinite Realm. Um… Or was it High King…” 

“Just Phantom is fine.” 

Tim tensed, all of his hair standing on end at the voice directly behind him in the alley. He hadn’t made a sound but he needed to actively work to exhale and turn around to face his guest. There had been zero indication of his arrival, and he was thankfully, in his living form. 

He was in jeans and an over sized hoodie. Tim could just barely make out a faded NASA written in the front. That was a point in the direction of him possibly being a human from Earth. He wore shoes this time, beat up looking kicks that had seen better days. His hood was also drawn over his head, likely to hide his bony appearance. Tim did spy the tail of his braid over his shoulder though, his hair black to further prove he was in his living form. 

“You…scared the hell out of me.” Tim said, smiling after another hard exhale. “I am sorry it took so long, your Highness.” 

“Phantom.” He corrected, looking around the street and taking it all in. Tim could clock him making note of the turns down the street and the buildings with fire escapes even with his hood up. People just had certain body language when casing an area. “I figured it would be a while, if you summoned me at all. I was not going to hold you to a whim, Red Robin.” 

“I said i would…” Tim muttered. “Uh, it’s Tim, out of uniform. If you don’t mind.” 

“Tim.” He repeated. That softness to his voice remained, and honestly, Tim liked the cadence of it. He liked it as much as he was sure he never wanted to hear Phantom raise his voice. “I understand.” He hesitated only a beat. “You can call me Danny. Phantom is probably a silly thing to call someone in a city like this.” 

“Not if it’s your name.” 

“Danny is okay.” He said, and for whatever reason, Tim noticed now how he kept his hands in his pockets, likely to hide them too. Frail, skeletal looking hands would just frighten some people. “Food? For a favor?” 

“No favor involved. I invited you out.” Tim said. “I mean, maybe we can chat about stuff but you aren’t obligated to answer or anything.” 

Phantom…Danny nodded, shuffling for a moment and looking around again. The height of the buildings seemed to be a mild interest of his. “Where are we eating?” 

“Well, if you like Italian, we’re walking across the street.” He thought pasta and breads would be both filling and flavorful. It would also be something easily packed up for Danny to take with him. 

“I’ll eat anything.” Danny informed him. “I have no preferences after all this time.” He hesitated. “Or maybe i need to rediscover them, but anything will be fine.” 

“Let’s… let’s go then.” Tim said, walking with Danny at his side. He’d made a reservation which wasn’t strictly necessary at such a small place but it gave him the option of reserving a corner table to offer them a little more privacy. 

They walked in, the hostess greeting them with a smile before leading them to their table and leaving them with bread, water, and menus. There were a few other full tables but it wasn’t packed the way it would be in the evening. 

Danny kept his hood up, but it was Gotham and no one questioned the decision. They just left him in peace to not start a conflict with someone who wasn’t causing any trouble. He also kept his hands out of sight until the hostess had left. He sipped the water once and broke off only a little piece of the bread. He buttered it and ate on it while flipping open the menu. 

Tim didn’t know if he was reading the English or Italian parts of the menu but it didn’t matter. Being fluent in reading an Earth language was another check mark for this being his place of origin. 

“Can i…” Tim hummed, keeping in mind that he was speaking with royalty and act a little less like Bruce interrogating a suspect. “Can i ask a couple questions?” 

Danny looked up at him, Tim only barely able to make out some of his features passed the unnatural shadows his hood provided. “Sure.” 

Tim smiled, not even bothering with the menu since he knew what he was getting. “You’re the King of a realm, but was Earth your place of origin?” 

“Yes, but not this Earth.” 

Dimensions! Tim filed that away for later. “You can travel to any of them?” 

“Within reason. Yes. I’m old, but not that old yet. Only eight or nine decades.” He tore another small piece of bread to eat. Tim assumed he was pacing himself. “They call me a baby Ancient still.” 

“That’s cool…” Tim muttered. “Are there many other Earths?” 

“The answer to that would never satisfy you.” Danny said softly. “Trust me. I am the Ancient of Space and i’m hardly satisfied with it.” 

There was a new fact for Tim to latch on. “What’s the-” He stopped when the waitress appeared. Both of them ordered, and Tim was certain he’d end up ordering more halfway through the meal so Danny could take more home with him.  

When the menus were taken and the waitress left again, Tim continued. “What’s the difference between being an Ancient of Space and being the Ghost King.” 

“When i died, or half died, it was my fate to one day become the Ancient of Space. I am that regardless. I won the title of Ghost King.” 

Tim dragged a hand down his face. “That’s…. Endlessly fascinating. I have so many questions.” He didn’t even know how to touch ‘half died’ yet. 

Danny hummed once and fiddled with the end of his braid. “Do i get to ask questions too?” 

“Of course.” 

Danny leaned forward, sipping at his water again. “This Earth has super heroes. That’s interesting. Mine didn’t. How long have you been a hero?” 

Tim nodded, figuring that would be the direction the questions would have wandered towards. They were far enough away from everyone in the restaurant that he didn’t worry about being heard. The music playing in the background also helped a great deal. 

“Hero might be a debate depending on who you ask. In Gotham we’re considered vigilanties. I first suited up at thirteen but it was really more like fourteen after a great deal of training.” 

Danny was quiet for a moment. “And how old are you now? I have trouble telling ages these days…” 

“Eighteen.” Tim said. 

“Young.” Danny muttered. “I was young too. Fourteen when i became the bridge. Sixteen before i really understood what it meant.” 

“The bridge?” 

“Balance. The living and the dead.” 

Tim huffed softly. “You wear a lot of hats, don’t you?”  

Danny made a quiet noise, and it took Tim a beat longer than normal to realize he was laughing. “I do, i wish i didn’t most of the time. It’s fine though.” 

“Just fine?” Tim asked after a beat. He knew a little about expectations and high standards that could weigh you down–both his own standards and other peoples. 

Danny nodded, one of his hands resting on the other. “I’ve seen things. Good things. Bad things. Things that will never happen. Things that have. It’s better i have certain powers because i have no desire to use them.” 

Aah. Tim understood that. “People who want too much power are dangerous.” 

“Exactly.” 

“The power of ruling an entire realm…” 

“Exactly.” 

Tim heaved a sigh. “Damn.” Maybe he should ask something less intense. “Did you enjoy the food we gave you last time? It was just some fast food but there was some worry it wasn’t good enough.” 

“It was great.” Danny said and he sounded sincere. “Nostalgic. It took me a few days to eat all of it. I know the Infinite Realm’s reputation, and it is a warranted reputation, but i’m… hard to offend. Little things are just little things.” 

“I’ll put them at ease then.” 

Danny was quiet for a moment, the silence not an oppressive one. “What is the difference between a hero and a vigilante?” 

“How people perceive us, i guess. Superman will always be seen as a hero. Wholesome and valiant and all that. Things in Gotham are altogether… shadier. Being a vigilante isn’t exactly legal and while we have our boundaries, we break the law all the time.” Tim said. They covered their own tracks well but it was fortunate that no one looked too closely at their activities. 

It didn’t bother Tim when he knew his reasons were still good. 

Danny made a thoughtful kind of noise. “I’m willing to bet Superman’s business isn’t purely legal either. This seems like a nice Earth though, despite whatever troubles you have.” 

“Some hero work is sanctioned by the government so it’s a fine line. Any of it could be argued.” Tim explained, and that was something Danny seemed to find fascinating. 

They paused their conversation again when the waitress appeared with their food, and Tim put in a second order for them to take when they left. The eyes Tim could feel on him told him that Danny already knew what they were for. 

He could hear Danny softly inhale and exhale as he looked at the plate in front of him that came accompanied with salad. He likely wouldn’t be able to eat even a fraction of it but the way he looked at it…. made Tim realize that he could see Danny’s face more clearly. The shadows that obscured his face from his hood had receded. He was still gaunt, but he eyed the food with so much joy. 

The first bite of –non fast food– food nearly seemed to overwhelm him in a good way. 

“You know,” Tim swung hard to change subjects. “We can do a bit of a food tour every time i summon you for lunch. Pizza. Chinese. Barbeque. There’s a great taco truck. We could get something homemade.” 

“You cook?” 

“Haa. No.” Tim said seriously. “But Al… my grandpa is an amazing cook and he seemed to think trading food for world saving services was very sensible but he was appalled that we offered you cheap fries and burgers. He’d honestly love to cook for you.” 

Danny smiled, this shy little look that shouldn’t have fit someone with the title of Ghost King but it sure fit Danny. “That could be nice. Decent home cooked meals are kind of mythological to me.” 

Tim nodded once, and knew better than to ask directly. “I didn’t have a very cuddly upbringing either. There was a lot of take-out involved.” 

“Your food ever come back to life and try to eat you instead?” Danny asked and Tim just stared. 

“I can’t…tell if that’s a real question or if you’re messing with me.” 

Danny smiled and was that a hint of fangs? “Dead serious.” 

Time groaned. “No, no you are a king. You are not making puns.” 

“Thinking i’m too mature for puns is a grave mistake.” Danny said without hesitation. 

“Noo.” Tim groaned, lips upturned into a smile. His brothers could never know about this. Dick would start a pun off and Jason’s morbid sense of humor about his own death…. Ugh, it would be bad. 

It did bring up the interesting question of Danny’s age. He said he’d been alive for decades but how did he mature. Was he still a teenager? Did he age slowly? Asking not only sounded like a bad idea, but Raven and Zatanna had both made sure he knew it was a question to not ask. 

They chatted, they ate, or well, Tim ate. Danny ate a bite every few minutes and looked thrilled about it but he was slowing down. Tim was looking forward to Danny being able to eat more with every visit. 

He flagged down the waitress, gesturing for a box and got a thumbs up in return. 

“You can take it with you.” Tim said when Danny was giving him a look. “It might be a couple days before i can call you again and this way you’ll have enough to eat every day.” 

“I can’t deny that.” Danny said. “You don’t have to keep summoning me.”

“I promised you lunches.” Tim said firmly. “And you said it yourself, you should eat more and spend more time in a living realm. You may as well take advantage of being summoned for food.” 

“Hm…” Danny played with the end of his braid again. “You do make a compelling argument. It’s nice to talk to someone without it being preceded by a brawl.” 

Tim stared, “What?” 

Danny just looked amused. “I’ll explain to you etiquette in the Infinite Realm sometime.” 

“Yeah?” 

The waitress returned with boxes for Danny to pack up his meal and the empty dishes were whisked away to make more room on the table while they waited for their to-go orders. 

They were almost startled when a second waitress reappeared with a few little dishes before they could begin speaking again. Everything was set in the middle of the table, presumably for them to share. There was a piece of white peach tart, a bowl of strawberry gelato, and a slice of frozen chocolate chip meringata. 

“Um…” Tim blinked. “We didn’t-”

The waitress chuckled. “It was ordered for you by another patron. Please enjoy.” She set down another set of utensils for them and walked away. 

Danny made a small sound in his throat. “Well i was full but how could i say no to a couple more bites…” 

“Wait.” Tim said, gaze subtly shifting around the room. Maybe he was trained to be paranoid, but it usually served him well. What he found almost instantly had his eye twitching. 

Not even halfway across the room sat a poorly disgusted Dick wearing large sunglasses, a fedora, and the world's least convincing mustache. When he saw Tim looking and grinned and raised his own wine glass. 

“I gotta kill my brother…” 

Danny sputtered out a laugh, so genuinely amused that Tim could definitely see his fangs as he laughed.

“That would make him my problem.” Danny pointed out, reaching for a spoon to try the gelato first. 

“I’m not seeing your point.” Tim said, delighted by Danny’s teasing. It was a rookie mistake to think one of his siblings wouldn’t find out about this. An absolute blunder that he hadn’t noticed Dick walking in after them at all. He’d never live it down. 

“Guess i’ll have to be more careful next time.” He added. 

Danny hummed again and seemed to have a fondness for the cold dessert. “I could always invite you to my realm sometime.” 

“Cool.” Tim said instantly. Ha, let them try to follow him then…

[borrowedtimeandspace]

🐺- What animal do they most remind you of?

For 10 and Zepheera :3

This ask game; still taking these!

Ten: "Okay, I know this is gonna seem like stereotyping-- and she's also gonna hate this-- but when we're just hanging 'round the TARDIS, I can't help but think of her like a little mouse scurrying about the place, getting into the walls--"

Zepheera: "Wow, how original of you, comparing the borrower to a rodent."

Ten: "Oh c'mon, you know it's not like that! They asked the question, and it's just what came to mind!"

Zepheera: "Fine! If we're playing it like that, then I think of him the way you might think of an elephant. Big lumbering fella, stomping around--"

Ten: "I do not stomp!"

Zepheera: "-- too smart for his own good and has uncanny senses compared to a human. It'd be impressive if it weren't so annoying."

Ten: "Well now you're just being mean."

And just for fun I'll say they made up and went for ice cream after this conversation. And probably bumped into some sort of catastrophe wherever they went.

[sam-out-of-energy]

The angst, THE ANGST its consuming me

I had to write something based off this ask because oH MY GODD

This already became too long so its a cliffhanger sorry teehee

______

They'd been ambushed.

Upon trying to retrieve materials for Ratchet the entire base had suddenly sounded the alarm for intruders.

Prowl had quickly scooped Jazz from a pile of metal scrap into his servo and then inside his cockpit. They'd ran, making it to the very end of the hangar before mechas had walled them off.

It was a stand-off- well- emphasis on was, as it had taken about two nano-seconds of Prowl and the others standing there against mechas before Vortex had already began tearing robots apart.

Now chaos reigned as the crew, including Prowl, Jazz, Vortex and First aid, were in the ringer, fighting off an overwhelming amount of mechas.

"It's like they knew we were coming!" First aid comm'd Jazz while the two sat inside cockpits that were trembling from the punches, the mech's visors coated in an unhealthy layer of energon and oil.

"These ain't normal mechas either." Jazz replied.

"Explain?" Prowl's voice was eerily casual considering the situation at hand, wrenching an arm off an opposing mecha before kicking them back.

"They're faster! Stronger too-" First aid noted, watching intensely from Vortex's visor, admittedly a little curious.

"No doubt they used Prowl's parts to rebuild them."

"To hell with 'em! Let's be done with this and go-"

Jazz was caught mid-sentence when Prowl shook.

The inside of the cockpit pulsed, like something had struck him, which confused Jazz because for a short while they'd kept a good distance from the mechas.

Then Prowl just....stood. Very still. Very still.

"Prowl? Prowler?" Jazz scooted forwards and grabbed the controls, pushing them but they didn't budge. Nothing did.

"Prowl?! You're not obeyin' my controls-" Jazz questioned.

"I'm- not- obeying- my own controls either-" Prowl choked out, straining his joints with a loud creak.

["Hello Jazz."]

Both the pilot and mecha stiffened.

Jazz's eyes widened. He recognized the voice that suddenly rang out inside Prowl.

"Shockwave?! Where are you! What've you done t' Prowl?!" Jazz jumped up from the pilot seat (not having been strapped in to begin with)

["I am nowhere you need to concern yourself with. I am simply testing out my new technology."]

Jazz looked around. He could hear a muffled First Aid calling out for Vortex in the distance.

["So, Prowl, was it?. Good to know. Now, let's get well acquainted."]

Prowl shook again, sending Jazz tumbling around as the mech bent over, clutching his helm.

Something flashed. Prowl felt electricity buzzing inside of him, phantom pains in his joints. Like his wing was once again broken, like his optics were busted in and losing vision of reality arround him. His body wasn't his and it wouldn't listen to him.

He tried to keep his expression cool at the face of this new threat but his coolness came crashing down when he looked up.

Quintessons. So. Many. Quintessons. Fire, blazing high like a giant barrier.

The realization struck him like his processor's loud ERROR alarm.

He was on Praxus.

No, he was- no-

Prowl felt like hurling.

He felt something inside him twist and turn, something wicked. Something unnatural, something that was definetly not meant to be inside him.

-

Jazz could do nothing but watch his mech tremble and shake, straining and squirming like something was crawling under his plating.

"J- azz-" Prowl gasped.

"Prowl! I'm here!" Jazz called out, grabbing the controls tigthly despite the fact that they were moving.

"H- elp-"

The plea came out in a stuttered, glitching mess but it was all Prowl needed to say before Jazz began pushing. Pushing, pulling. Whenever the stick moved one way he'd move it back.

"Shockwave, stop! Let him go!" He yelled. He didn't know what sick game the mad scientist was playing but he was not about to let him take Prowl from him.

["It is futile, pilot. Give up."]

Jazz grit his teeth and kept pushing.

Prowl's fight was made easier, so he managed to break free of the illusion for long enough to push with Jazz, taking a step back on his own from the (imaginary) fire surrounding him. (It was all his in his head, surely). Coolant rushed down Prowl's backplates, his motors overexerting themselves to keep control to himself.

["...I see how it must be. Very well, Jazz."]

Prowl was jerked away from his mindscape, straggling, back into the frey, loud echoes of crashing and crumbling of metal plating and concrete. The mechas weren't focusing on him, focusing all their efforts into trying to stop Vortex from tearing down the entire hangar.

Prowl had managed to take two steps forward to go assist before he'd felt more electricity surge through him. Oddly enough, it didn't stop him this time.

What did stop him was the pained scream that carried into Prowl's audials.

Jazz.

"Jazz? Jazz!" Prowl called, stopping and looking down at his chest.

Jazz clutched his head, crying out. Something coursed through him like a painful needle and thread, connecting him to Prowl even more than before, but not in a good way. In a way that hurt, every muscle in his body clenching. It was like he was connecting to a mecha for the first time again, but the feeling of it amplified twicefold.

Then, it was like he saw his own body slump. No, he was slumped. Jazz couldn't move, couldn't speak or scream anymore (In reality he was still screaming).

No, no no no no-

He saw white. A bright light in his eyes. A smell of burning flesh, of ethanol, medical grade liquids in multitudes.

Eyes. He saw faceless masks and he saw so many eyes, shining like the headlights of a car, blinding him into submission, into staying silent despite the aching.

Make it stop, make it stop-

-

"Stop!! Don't hurt him!"

Prowl demanded, the cockpit echoing with his voice, layered over Jazz's screams.

["I will do what is necessary."]

Prowl called for Jazz's name again, opening the cockpit hatch, desperate to reach in and grab the other, until he realized he was still in the middle of a Vortex vs. Vortex's victims skirmish and pulling Jazz out could only risk him accidentally dropping the other or Jazz being hit by something.

Prowl stepped back from the fight, wracking his processor. He had to do something, something to help!

It was easier with him, Jazz could just use the controls to help him fight against this weird virus, but Jazz? Shockwave was most likely inside Jazz's head due to his connection with Prowl, what could Prowl even do to help?! He couldn't forcefully remove or disconnect Jazz. The other was wriggling and twisting in pain, Prowl's servos were way too big to do anything with him without causing further injury.

An anti-virus, a firewall. Something to block Shockwave out. Prowl had to reboot and rewire his systems for that and all of that had to begin with getting Shockwave to release Jazz.

"Please, stop-" Prowl half-blurted out amidst his panicking. He couldn't tell what was happening to Jazz, but he could feel the other. He felt Jazz clutching the arm rest of the pilot's seat, thrashing and kicking on the cold metal of the cockpit floor. He heard Jazz scream and wail, inaudibly begging for release.

["I will stop when you relinquish control to me."]

"So you can use me?" Prowl snapped, his engine revving from the anger, his optic ridge bent down so hard it almost covered his optics.

["As you wish."]

Jazz went silent.

Prowl heard the thump of a body hitting the floor.

[aheathen-conceivably]

New Orleans, 1924

“Good Morning, mi raccomando.”

Josephine bolted awake as though the words were an alarm clock. There were calls to make, men to cajole, artists to placate. The voice could only mean that she had slept in and no one had been there to wake her up. After all, it had been her and only her apartment for over four years. Four years of it smelling like the gardenia perfume she wore and the open bootleg whiskey bottles cooking in the New Orleans heat from the party the night before.

She still wasn’t used to it smelling like fresh herbs and men’s cologne drifting from the well folded shirts on her dresser…🎶

But he was there because he knew that, because from the very first moment they had seen each other nearly three years before, it was as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Like a chain reaction that can’t be stopped once it's begun, they had fallen at nearly light speed through the frenetic haze of after parties and illegal booze into an unexpected domesticity that was uncharacteristic of them both.

Maybe if they had known what it would become all those years later, it would have been enough to send them both running. But in that moment, there was no way either of them ever could have, and with one glance, it was too late.

Through the unceasing roar of improvised piano keys, time seemed to be demarcated only by their meetings. At first neither of them had any expectations of the other; they rotated around eachother like satellites, moving through the same circles and parties with an ease that made it feel as though life would always be that way.

Only the crowds seemed to shrink in on them when the other was there, until even the sounds of dancing heels and clinking beer bottles began to feel intimate. And no matter how many parties went by, they ended each and every one together, until eventually, the stranger next to them at daybreak was no longer a stranger.

But surrounded by humid sunshine, neither of them could have identified the moment that they went from two people driven by lust to something more; or maybe they simply didn’t want to. After all, why slow down to question something that just felt right? Maybe that would have ruined it, or maybe, once again, they would have realized that time was carrying them onward into something that neither of them was ready for.

Because as it turned out, falling in love was easier than either of them had ever expected it to be.

Maybe it was because for so long, it felt like he needed nothing more than her, and he seemed to fall into her life like something she had never even known she wanted.

Initially, there were no games and no lies, no difficulties in just how quickly he accepted how totally he had fallen into her orbit. For a while, it made her willing to do the same. Through it all, he never faltered or responded to her impulses with nervousness or trepidation like others did. She had never met anyone else who could roll from one party to the next like he could, or who was just as excited by life as she was. It was infectious - he was infectious, and whether or not she would ever realize it, the simplicity of his joy afforded her more vision than she had ever even had herself.

And all along he knew what she herself still questioned in the dead of night - she was fearless. When she was near he felt like he could live forever, or like she had included him in some conspiratorial plan that the rest of the world knew nothing about. But more than anything, she made him feel alive.

Like being sucked into a vortex, every one of his molecules seemed to contort around her when they were together. Even the way she spoke mystified him. The lights in her eyes were just as vibrant as the words coming out of her mouth. Because deep down, she believed in something better, some star that would always be just out of view, and it made him feel as though maybe he could to catch it too.

As the years passed, she began to realize why he felt different than anyone else she had ever been with - he made her feel safe. She didn’t have to search him to see how he felt; and despite everything she had been taught, he didn’t just want to use her for his own pleasure. He was gentle and kind, and every time she was around him her heart soared. Until eventually, almost tearfully, she realized that she was in love with him, and her apartment would never smell the same again. 

So after a momentary realization that his voice was no alarm clock and the lingering smells were no phantom, she didn’t fight them. Instead she smiled back at the warm look of love she had come to expect. “It’s Sunday, mi raccomando. You don’t have to worry about work today.”

She could have told him that musicians and politicians took no days off, not even in reverence for the Lord. But she didn’t want to, so she stretched out in bed and let him carry the breakfast tray to her. “No one told me this is what living in sin would be like. Breakfast every Sunday. You in whatever bits of clothing you can find.”

His eyebrows shot upward, a false look of indigence feigned on his face for the sake of her smile. “Every Sunday? That’s a big assumption that I’ll be here each and every time.”

She pushed the tray away with her foot and moved between his legs. “Won’t you then? Stay with me. Live here. I know you practically already do but will you in truth? I don’t want you to ever leave. Not when we can be like this.”

His answer came in hurried kisses and forgotten breakfasts one Sunday after another for months. Month after month surrounded by gardenia perfume and young love, the air free of the regrets and resentments that they didn’t know were waiting for them just around the bend.

But time is unstoppable. It moves like an ever-flowing river, shaping and changing the trivial lives that stand in its path. Months became years, and little by little, his unwavering presence became merely a given rather than a revelation.

All the while the world kept spinning, determined to dim the stars in her eyes that he had once brightened. As it did, she began to realize that she could climb back up on the pedestal it kept knocking her down from by simply putting him beneath her. One morning after another, until finally, the last star went out, and the fearlessness he had once admired molted into a hardened shell that he couldn’t break through no matter how many breakfasts he cooked or questions he asked. Then the coffee began to go cold not from their shared tenderness, but from the new realization that the embers of their attraction could be stoked from rage just as easily as they had once been from softness.

Because all along, what neither of them realized, was that falling in love would always be the easiest part.

Little by little, he was the one who began to feel time draining like sand in an hourglass. Because as the world fell apart around them, he realized that no matter how long his shirts had been in her room, the suffocating smell of gardenia perfume never abated. There was no place for him there - trapped in the orbit of a woman who would never let him in, doomed in a city where every respectable citizen shirked from his name.

So he took a gamble. A series of gambles, really. The first had seemed certain. The promise of The West - a place where a man could go to make himself, to reinvent his past and build a corner of the world that was his and his alone. How could he have known that the cruel dominos of history were lining up behind him?

But he had always known that the second bet was riskier. He had wagered his own heart against the house, risking it all on the hope that if he left he would be able to chase the stars in his eyes rather than forever following the ones in hers. He had gambled on the thin chance that he could run from the smell of gardenia perfume; and that maybe, just maybe, if he played his cards exactly right, then he would see her again. Except when he did, he would be the one sitting at the head of the table, his heart safe from the roulette wheel and content with the surety that she would never walk out on him again.

New Mexico, 1936

When Gio awoke, the air was drier than he expected it to be. Before he could even fully open his eyes, one name was already on the tip on his tongue. “Jo? Mi raccomando?”

But there was no answer. The door was open wide and her suitcases were gone. He knew that meant she was still on the road, or that maybe it was time for him to finally admit that she was never coming home. That's why it was better in the warm, humid air of New Orleans in 1924. So he closed his eyes and rolled over to the other side of the bed.

Because even though falling in love was the easiest part, it was also the hardest to forget.

Previous / Next

[revelboo]

(Shockwave voice) My observations of the recent behavior among our faction's ranks have led me to a logical conclusion on the biology of our species... this planet seems to have ideal conditions to activate a dormant protocol in the processor, among other things. All of this centers around the native sophont life forms, which are not only capable of spark-bonding to our own species... this bond can kindle new sparks with a nearly 100% success rate, their anatomy is optimal for tactile interfacing, and roughly 50% of their population is capable of carrying a physically developing protoform to term in a specialized organ... I have exchanged notes with Tarantulas on the subject.

So far these organisms, humans, seem to be unique among other alien life forms in their high compatibility, but I have extrapolated a theory from the interactions between captured specimens and their caretakers. A coordinated program to pair compatible humans and mechs will not only create a boom in our dwindling population, the operation to cyberform Earth may accelerate exponentially. Any cross-species bondmates are removed from the human gene pool as they devote their energy to their Cybertronian partners and hybrid sparklings; within generations, depending on the aggression of the operation, fewer and fewer humans will reproduce with their own kind... their lifespans are short without our direct intervention, we would not be waiting long before Earth is entirely within our control.

With your permission, Lord Megatron, I can begin drafting plans for a long-term study... passive observation has sufficed until now, but my research would benefit from volunteers. Perhaps even mandatory participation.

🤣 He would. 🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Research

Shockwave

• “Harder,” you groan, a leg sliding against his hip as Thundercracker moves against you, hips snapping as you cling to him. Back arching at the feel of his spike stretching you and driving deep again and again. ‘Your position isn’t optimal. Try elevating your human’s hips,’ intones a voice and you scream spotting Shockwave just standing there watching you two go at it. How had he got into the habsuite and how long has he been just watching? Mood ruined, you stare at the purple lunatic as his head tips.

• “Get out, you son of a glitch!” Thundercracker snarls, wings flared aggressively as he tries to hide as much of you from view as possible from Shockwave. How had the Pit spawned scientist even gotten into his habsuite? And you’re naked under him, his spike buried in you as you hide your face against his neck. ‘Are you currently bonded to your human?’ Shockwave asks, awkwardly cradling a datapad against himself with his cannon so he can make notes. ‘Is this an attempt to establish nanites prior to sparking or simply recreational?’

• “Get out!” Optic dimming when Thundercracker lifts an arm, his weapons system humming to life in threat, Shockwave’s antenna flatten back. That’s the third one that’s become irrationally resistant to answering simple questions or letting him assist them. Showing them the most efficient ways to interface with their humans can only facilitate his end goals. So why are they all so angry about his help? Except Vortex, that one had invited him to join him and his human and had laughed when he’d declined.

• Leaving Thundercracker’s habsuite before the seeker can decide to fire upon him, he makes a notation on his datapad. And while several Decepticons are making use of the research material data files he’d distributed with videos showing humans coupling in optimal positions, he’d been disappointed to realize it was being utilized by Decepticons without humans for recreational masturbation. Though, he does plan on sending out another data file composition in the hopes it might encourage more Decepticons to go find humans of their own. If they’re getting off to the videos, it stands to reason they’re interested in humans.

• Using his override to enter another habsuite, he vents in exasperation. ‘Interfacing in that manner accomplishes nothing useful,’ he growls and Skywarp’s head lifts from between his human’s thighs, optics bright. And the purple seeker does fire at him, face twisting in outrage. ‘The human sucking your spike at least introduces nanites,’ he snarls in parting as he ducks into the hall. Why are they all so resistant to saving the Cybertronian race? Making a note, he heads for the Constructicons’s habsuite. Hook is a medic, surely he’ll listen to logic.

[raven-dor]

'cause i like you

the four times james 'bucky' barnes calms you down, and the one time you return the favor

PAIRING: bucky barnes x fem!reader, bucky barnes x thunderbolt!reader, platonic!thunderbolts x fem!reader

WARNINGS: Walker, mean man, protective Bucky, crying, hurt/comfort, low self esteem, DEPRESSIVE EPISODE, SELF HATRED, angsty af, like super angsty, mission gone wrong, love confession!!

WORD COUNT: 3.4k

🎶 : delicate - taylor swift

AN: 🩵♥️💛💗 - alternative title - you and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day!! reader is like a 'female Bob', powers are sort of the same as Bob's but weather (weather manipulation and such) your superhero name is Vortex!!

one. 

The overcast weather perfectly reflected your mood, the gloomy grey sky making it nearly impossible to see the brighter side of things. 

This day would go down in the books as one of the worst days of your life, of that you were sure. You’d woken up with a pounding headache, nothing out of the blue, but not exactly something you were looking forward to. You then made your way to the kitchen, grabbing your favorite cereal box, only to realize that it was empty. Someone (most likely Walker) had put the empty box back in the cabinet, apparently forgetting the trash can that was a mere two feet away from him. Then, on your way to the deli to grab your favorite chicken noodle soup, a very rude man shoved past you, almost causing you to fall into the slush-covered sidewalk. 

You’d finally reached the deli, a sort of solace from the day you’d had. The counter was within reach, you were about to order, when a bald man cut in front of you. You frowned, taking a deep breath so that your powers didn’t get the best of you, the cloud above your head storming. “Excuse me, sir.” 

The man in question ignored you, continuing to anger you by shouting out his order. You crossed your arms, clearing your throat once more. “Excuse me-” 

“What?” The man whipped around, and you almost ran away, his eyes full of annoyance and anger. “Listen, lady, why don’t you just shut up so I can order my food?” 

Your eyes had begun to water, this man’s rude nature becoming the final straw. Your bottom lip began to shake as you opened your mouth to fight back. “I-” 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

An angry tear fell down your cheek. You tried to reason with yourself - maybe this man was also having a horrible day, maybe his car got hit, or his rent was late. But your anger didn’t care about what had happened to him, because he had finally broken you, and now-

“Hey.” A gloved hand reached around you, his voice dark as he tapped the man’s shoulder. “Apologize.” 

“I swear to god, lady-” He turned around, eyes wide as he came face to face with the Winter Soldier. “You’re the- the-” 

Bucky nodded, stepping in front of you to put space between you and the man who’d upset you. “Yes, I am.” He had a horrible sort of smile on his face, one that at first glance seemed polite, but under the surface was destructive, almost begging the man to upset you again.  So why don’t you apologize to the lady for cutting in line, and we can go about our day?” 

“Yes- I um-” The man couldn’t get a full sentence out under the watchful gaze of the Winter Soldier, his cheeks bright red as he addressed. “Sorry, miss.” 

“Thank you.” You whispered. “No harm, no foul.” 

The man scurried away, a light laugh falling from your lips when he forgot his order he so urgently needed. You looked up at the man beside you, smiling gratefully. “You didn’t need to do that.” 

Bucky scoffed, ordering your chicken noodle soup before giving you his full attention. “Yeah? It looked like if I hadn’t, he would have faced your wrath.” 

You laughed, hooking your arm through his like it was second nature. “You’re not wrong.” 

“Your little storm cloud was thundering and everything…” He shuddered, muttering a quick thanks when the man behind the counter handed him your soup. “Last time that happened, New York was suddenly in the eye of a hurricane.” 

“It wasn’t just him that made me upset, you know.” You leaned your head onto his arm, suddenly feeling a lot better. “Walker ate the rest of my cereal.” 

“I know.” You looked up, confused as to how anyone else could have known. “Bob told me.” 

“Ah.” 

two. 

The Watchtower receptionist made herself busy when she looked up and saw you stalking through the lobby and straight into the elevator. Your powers were wild, the cloud above your head conjuring up yet another storm, no doubt caused by your knee injury, which was throbbing in pain. 

You’d been having a good day: you’d gotten your favorite drink at your favorite café, visited a quaint bookstore with a plethora of antique books, and no one had bothered you as you walked down the busy New York streets. 

Then you tripped over the curb, flying forward and scuffing your knee and palms. 

The ever-familiar ding echoed through the empty elevator, finally reaching the penthouse. You stumbled toward your room when Bucky’s unmistakable tone stopped you in your tracks. “Hey Trouble. Where have you been? I missed you.” 

He hadn’t seen the front of you, the torn-up pant leg, the teary eyes. What he said was not even in the slightest upsetting, if anything, it was kind, heartwarming, even. It was his kind question that made you cry, tears falling in consistent streams. “I’ve been out.” God, your voice sounded uncharacteristically shaky, whiny even. “Sorry, can I just-” 

“Hey.” He walked in front of you, holding your face in his hands. “Why the tears, Doll?” 

“I fell. Scraped my knee.” He looked down, wincing at the bloody wound. 

“I have a lot of experience with these sorts of things.” His boyish grin instantly lightened the mood, causing your stomach to flutter as a result. “Why don’t I fix you up, yeah? Would that make you feel better?” 

You nodded, following him to his bathroom, and promptly hopping onto the counter. “Thank you.” 

“Of course.” He smiled, standing between your legs, your cheeks growing hot at the proximity. “This is gonna sting, okay?” 

“Just do it.” You whispered, squeezing your eyes shut. “Thank you for this.” 

“You said that already.” His tone was soft as he carefully tapped your wounds with an alcohol wipe. “It’s nothing. You know I’d do anything for you.” 

“Bucky…” If you’d thought your cheeks were hot before, it was nothing compared to the way you felt now as you peeled your eyes open. He was already staring at you, eyes as gentle as ever. “You’re too sweet to me.” 

He shook his head, his smile shy as he looked back through the kit, grabbing a band-aid. “You’d do the same.” 

“I would.” You nodded. “But you always do this.” 

“Yeah?” He carefully placed the band-aid over your knee, grinning like he’d just accomplished something spectacular. “Do what, exactly?” 

“You take care of me.” The super soldier still stood between your legs, his hands lying gently on your thighs. “No one’s ever done that for me.” 

“As long as I’m around,” His eyes were captivating, pulling you in every second you held contact. “You’ll be looked after, I promise.” 

three. 

You didn’t possess the will to roll out from under the covers, telling yourself it would be fine if you stayed in bed all day. It wasn’t like anyone would miss you, or anyone would come looking for you. Your room was practically pitch black with the shades pulled shut, the only source of light the crack at the bottom of your door, the hallway light peeking through. 

You just stared at the ceiling. That’s all you could do, all you felt like you could do at least, at the moment. 

 This always happened when you least suspected it. If you were being honest with yourself, it was something you could never escape from, no matter how well you thought you were doing. Your mind had dangerous corners, thoughts that pestered at your walls until you cracked. No matter how hard you worked to rid yourself of them, they stayed there, like a disease. 

Sometimes, on good days, you could push them away, back where no one could find them. Other times, times much like today, you allowed them to control your senses, pull you into an infinity pool of self-pity, of doubt, of hatred. 

Hatred, the kind that ran deep in your bones, the kind that made you think you were worthless, undeserving. A knock rang through the silent room, and you turned your head toward the door, voice hoarse as you called out. “What do you want?” 

“Doll.” Of course, He always knew. Always. “I’m coming in.” There was no fighting him. He shut the door gently behind him. “One of those days, huh?” 

You nodded, not having the strength to speak. He crossed the room, flipping on your bedside lamp. It was yellow, the light. Like the sun, it was comforting, much more comforting than the fluorescent lighting the tower came with. 

If you looked at Bucky, if you truly took in his beautifully sweet face and kind eyes, you would crumble into a pile of tears. He lay beside you, draping a hand over your waist and pulling you into him. “What happened, Trouble?” 

“I-” Your eyes immediately welled. “I-” 

“It’s alright.” He whispered, kissing your temple so softly you could have sworn it never happened. “You know it’s not true. You know that.” 

“But it is.” You sobbed, shaking in his hold. “I- I don’t deserve this. Any of this.” 

“You’re everything.” He kept whispering sweet nothings over and over, his embrace pulling you back to reality, to reason. “Everything. Don’t listen to that voice. Trust me, Doll.” You couldn’t respond, sobs still wrecking through you. 

“Don’t leave me.” You cried, “Please-” 

“I’m right here.” He pulled you closer, wiping away your tears. “Not going anywhere.” 

four. 

The trees brought you much-needed shade from the summer sun. You’d dragged Bucky out of the Watchtower for some much-needed fresh air. He hadn’t fought that much, giving in to your incessant begging almost immediately. 

You clung to his arm as you walked through Central Park, your fellow New Yorkers also taking advantage of the perfect day. He looked over every so often, before quickly looking away whenever you caught him.

“Is something on my face?” 

He shook his head, laughing. “Just admiring the view, Doll.” 

You rolled your eyes, smacking his arm playfully. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” He laughed, enjoying your attention. “You’re gorgeous.” 

“James…” If the summer sun didn’t completely melt you by the end of the day, his compliments would. “You’re just saying that.” 

“Am I?” He spun you into his arms before you even had the chance to blink. The others who populated the path just walked around you, unbothered by this blatant show of affection. “It’s funny.” 

“Funny?”

“You have no idea.” 

Your heart beat hard against your chest, pupils wide as he leaned his forehead against yours. “And just what do I have no idea about?” 

“What you do to me,” His eyes trailed to your lips, pulling you closer. “I can’t even begin to-” 

“Hey!” And just like that, the moment vanished. Bucky’s posture was stiff, pin-straight, and defensive. “You’re the Winter Soldier.”

He turned around, facing the stranger. “I am.” 

You watched the man who’d addressed Bucky for any sudden movements, frowning as you observed his body language. He was angry, aggressive, his fists clenched. You wondered how long it would take for Walker and Ava to get here. 

“How do you sleep at night? How do you sleep, knowing how many you’ve killed?” Bucky simply stared, like it was something he dealt with every day. “How do you live with yourself?” 

You stepped out from behind Bucky, tired of cowering. If he wasn’t going to defend himself, than you would be damn sure that you did. “Do you know what he’s been through? Not only that, but what he’s done for this country, for this world?” You were positively shaking with anger, the sun disappearing behind the storms clouds you unknowingly conjured. The park’s attendees started to whisper, staring at the sky in fear. “Do you know how many times he’s saved this city alone?”

“Doll.” He whispered. “Stop.” 

You whipped around, eyes wide. “What?” 

“It’s not worth it, honestly.” 

“This man is- “

“Let him.” He smiled. “I’ve dealt with worse.” 

“Bucky-” 

“I’m not finished.” 

“Yeah.” You glared, effectively shutting him up. “You are. Get out of here before I do something I won’t regret.” 

“Alright.” Bucky coughed, hooking his arm through yours and pulling you away before you made good on your promise. “That’s enough out of you.”

“I’m sorry.” You whispered once you were far enough away from the heckler. “He just- I can’t believe he would say that to you-” 

“He has every right to. And I can’t blame him.” He smiled, kissing your temple quickly. “But thank you for defending me.” 

“And thank you,” You smiled, leaning your head on his arm once again. “If it wasn’t for you, I’m pretty sure New York would have been in a Category Three hurricane.” 

the time you saved him

It was supposed to be a simple mission, so simple that only three out of the seven of you were needed. Bucky, Walker, and Yelena had left two days ago. 

They had yet to return. 

The first day, you’d been fine, telling yourself that Bucky probably insisted they stay in a safe house to ensure they weren’t followed.

The second day was a different story. You were a mess, horrible thoughts echoing through your mind, thoughts that did nothing to soothe the ache of Bucky’s absence, of your friend’s possible death. You couldn’t sleep, eat, or focus on anything other than willing them to return. 

You were now standing in the kitchen, forcing yourself to drink a hot cup of cider. Perhaps that would calm your growing nerves. Bob sat behind the island, head in his hands.

He was as anxious as you, if not worse. Those two nights Bucky, Yelena, and Walker were gone, you kept each other company, staring at the city below from your balcony. 

The elevator chimed, indicating someone had reached your floor. You made no movement to see who’d come to visit. It was probably Val dropping by to let you know you had interviews with every major news outlet tomorrow morning. 

While you and Bucky had never made it official, everyone knew there was something between the White Wolf and Vortex. You almost cried thinking about the fact that you'd never been brave enough to confess your feelings to him.

She would tell you what outfit to wear, something dark, grey, but still flattering. She’d tell you to play the mourning lover act with the interviewers, to cry when you said his name, to pause in the middle of your sentences to feign emotion. 

Your eyes welled at the thought. Little did Val know that you would end up doing that without her pointless guidance. 

“You had one job, Walker!” 

You slammed your mug on the counter, racing toward the lobby. “Bucky-” 

He looked livid. The super soldier was radiating anger, his eyes shooting daggers at the US Agent. “If it wasn’t for your stupidity, we would’ve been home by now!” 

“I said I’m sorry-” Walker looked genuinely apologetic, his face resembling that of a kicked puppy. It was rare that Bucky yelled at anyone after missions; he'd mellowed with age, you'd joked with him. This was another side that the Thunderbolts had yet to see. 

Yelena stepped in between the two men, trying to seek reason. “Alright. You made your point.” 

Bucky scoffed. “Are you defending Walker right now?” 

“No, Walker fucked up.” She quickly glared at the US Agent. “As always.” 

“Hey-” 

“But he apologized. He can’t fix the past. Let it go.” 

“You-”

“You’re back.” 

Bucky whipped around, smiling when he saw wrapped in his favorite crewneck.  His eyes, which were always soft when he looked at you, held a certain guilt today, something you’d yet to see before. “Hi, Doll.”

“What’s going on?” You carefully approached your teammates, frowning at the visible wounds each of them had. “You were supposed to be back yesterday.” 

“I know.” He nodded. “I tried, I swear I did, but Walker-” 

“I said I was sorry!” 

“Walker-” You stepped forward, your fingers grazing over his cheek, assessing his cuts. He stilled like the act had startled him, like it had shocked him to his core. He faltered, stepping back like he wasn’t allowed to enjoy your touch. “I have to go clean up.” 

You frowned. “I’ll see you later, then.” 

You waited until you’d heard his door slam shut to address the remaining two. “Anyone want to tell me what happened?” They avoided your eye contact, staring anywhere but you. Yelena even tried to ask Bob for help, but it was no use. “I’ll wait.” 

“Bucky?” You stood outside his door, waiting for a response. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

You heard his feet shuffling, and a small smile broke free as you thought about him trying to tidy up his room for you. “One second.” 

You waited patiently, smiling brightly when he opened the door. “They told me what happened.” 

“Yeah?” He looked nervous, not at all like the man you’d grown to love. “Remind me to-” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” You stepped closer, hands itching to reach out and hold him. “You know you can talk to me, right? You’re always there for me, for everything, and I want to make sure you know I’m there for you too. You can trust me with anything.” 

“I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone.” 

“Yeah?” Your voice was soft. “Then talk to me.” 

He stepped aside, shutting the door behind you. “It’s a mess in here.” 

You fought the laughter that threatened to spill from your lips. The ‘mess’ he’d talked about was a few shirts on the ground and a cup on his bedside table. “This is nothing. You should see my room.” 

“What did they tell you?” He stood nervously in the center of the room, too anxious to sit down. “Because-” 

“They told me that you were the reason they got out alive. That when Walker went down, you stepped in and took out the enemy before they could get to him.” 

“Okay.” He nodded. “Thought they would say something much worse than that-” 

“They look up to you. Walker especially. And I know he’s annoying, but he-” You squeezed your eyes shut, shocked that you were even saying this. “He means well.” 

“It’s not Walker that upset me.” 

You tilted your head. “What upset you?” 

“I-” He shuddered. “I felt like I wasn’t in control of myself.” 

Oh. “Bucky-” 

“When I finally stopped, when I had taken down the last of them, I didn’t recognize myself.” His voice was small, much like when you’d saved him with Steve all those years ago. “It felt like I was him all over again.” 

“You know you’re not.” You reasoned. “The Wakandans got the last of it out. I was there.” You reached up, caressing his cheek once more. “You’re not him anymore.” 

“I know.” He croaked, this time leaning into your touch. “I was scared. For the first time in a while, I was scared, and I took out that fear on Walker.” 

“Oh, Bucky.” You pulled him into your arms, hugging him tightly, his head nuzzling in the crook of your neck. "It’s alright.” 

“I just wanted to get back to you.” He murmured into your skin, his voice causing shivers to run down your spine. “I just wanted to see you.” 

“I’m right here, James.” You gasped when he pulled you closer, your bodies practically one. “I have to tell you something. It’s really bad timing, but-” 

“I love you.” He stood straight, eyes desperate as he spoke. “I told myself that if we got out of there, I would tell you.” 

You hoped that this wasn’t some twisted dream, a soft sob leaving your lips. “I love you, too.” 

“Good.” He nodded, leaning his forehead against yours. “I don’t know what I would do with myself if you didn’t.” 

“I’ve loved you since you gave me that plum you bought from the market.” 

“That long, huh?” He smiled, eyes darting to your lips. 

“Don’t get a big head about it.” 

He laughed, his lips brushing against yours. “Too late.” 

“You know you’re gonna have to apologize to Walker, right?” 

He nodded. “I know. But for now…” His breath tangled with yours as he spoke. “I think I’m going to kiss you.”

taglist: @milesdrift @eddiemunsons-lover @maryjaneeeee

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO JOIN!

[sillyteecup]

Licking The Bloodstains from your alter

Terry Richmond x black!o.c

Warnings:

18+

Obsessive behavior

Violence

Mentions of murder

Very questionable decision making

Exhibitionism if you squint

Smut

Word count: 6954🧍🏾

A.N: remember how I was supposed to have this up 4 days ago? Fucking hilarious business I tell you, like I'm even slapping my knee and stuff🧍🏾. Anyway, here's my first Aaron Pierre/Terry Richmond fic to keep yall busy while I work on the series I've been yapping about. Thanks for reading, I really hope you enjoy it❤️

~Tee❤️

"7 months?"

"Yes Indi."

"7 months since someone else gave you an ass clenching, toe curling orgasm, head spinning, heart stopping orgasm?"

"Yes Indi."

"And that bum hasn't called you yet?"

"Yes Indi."

Mila watched boredly as her best friend's hands searched frantically for something to grab while her jaw hung open in disgust and disbelief. They had come back from a night out with Indi asking Mila why she didn't take anyone home with her. Mila's answer left Indi essentially crashing out in the driver's seat of her Mini Cooper right outside of Mila's house.

Although she was over it now, the first month of being ghosted by Terrence James Richmond had left her equally flabbergasted. The mystery American man she had met at Sumo last year gave her one of the best nights of her life when she took him home. It was actually the first time she had experienced an orgasm that wasn't self induced, and it was an out of body experience.

Luckily for Mila, Terry became a gift that kept on giving. Sucking her into an all consuming vortex of stormy eyes, expensive dates, late night phone calls and mind-blowing sex, Mila grew addicted to the enigma. Mind always occupied by the memories of him turning her every which way, the heart always yearning for his presence. Every moment, even non-sexual, felt incredibly intimate with him.

Yes, there were many glaring red flags like the fact that she knew nothing about him aside from his (South African) phone number and the fact he was from Louisiana USA. But in the same breath, he knew virtually nothing about her aside from her name, phone number and address. It was a mutual agreement that they would remain mysteries for each other to uncover. There was also his possessive streak. Despite his naturally calm and stoic demeanor, he always made sure to his claim on her when he fucked her; hand prints, hickeys and literal bite marks all over her for the world around her to see. And God forbid another man even thought of breathing in her direction in public: let's just say that Terry had no qualms with gratuitous PDA.

Mila wouldn't say she loved him, no, scratch that she did love him, but she also loved what he brought with him. The excitement, the passion and obviously, the dick. Even while riddled with commitment issues, Terry had hypnotized her into envisioning a future with him in it. She actually liked him and being around him. Mila actually wanted to keep him around.

Until one night when his usual 10 pm call didn't come. Until he never called, or knocked on her door again. She didn't even know any of his friends or whoever it was he stayed with so she couldn't reach him. For 2 weeks she blew his phone up, worried that something may have happened to him. One day she even caved and googled him, hoping to find a social media account or anything to alert her of his whereabouts. The only thing she managed to find was the fact that he served as a Marine for about 6 years before being honorably discharged a year ago. Everything else was a dead end.

Distraught at the sudden loss of someone who had etched himself into the life of a woman who never made space for lovers, Mila eventually grew to accept his disappearance. If anything, he solidified her lack of trust in romantic partners, pushing her back into the realm of strictly causal sex. The only problem was that he had ruined her for the rest of the world. She shuffled through hook-up after hook-up, chasing the high he had fed her during their 2 months together, to no avail. She began to suspect his dick was laced with something because there was no way it was impossible to replicate that feeling. Either way, she would never hear from any of those hook-ups again.

I wonder what that's about.

Maybe I'm just looking in the wrong places, she told herself. But alas, she eventually gave up on that as well, swearing celibacy for the next 2 years. She thought of it as a reset of her mind, body and soul. Maybe after enough time, she would be free from the now blood boiling memories and sex would become fun.

This mini-debrief session was the first time that Mila had spoken to anyone about Terry outside of a throwaway line like, "Gotta go, godly dick is waiting on my doorstep," and "This fuck-ass nigga is ghosting me." No one in her life even knew his name until now.

"No Mila, we need to find this gent and jump him. There's no way-" Indi yelled, smacking her dashboard in frustration.

Mila shrugged nonchalantly. Sure, the topic still stung a little, but she was at a point where she didn't wanna think or care about it anymore. Terrence James Richmond was gone and probably never coming back.

"I'm not doing that; broer probably always has a gun on him," Mila replied coolly. The last thing she needed was having a gun in the hands of a military man in her face because she overestimated her odds.

"It's fine, you just get your father to find him, then I'll organize the firepower for me, you and Sandy," Indi said, suggesting Mila convince her dad who had connections in the US military and the marines from the time of his Marine service.

Mila's eyes went cold at the suggestion. The last thing she wanted was to involve her hot-tempered and trigger happy father in the affairs of her sex life.

"Absolutely not," she stated firmly.

"But Mila-"

"Indiphile I said no. Ebile, let's drop this topic before I get PTSD flashbacks," Mila interjected, knowing that Indi wasn't going to drop it unless she firmly put her foot down.

Indi held her hands up in surrender, acknowledging that there was no room for argument. "Let's go inside then, I'd like to eat something decent before I go back to that baren land I call my apartment," Indi suggested while adjusting her jacket and grabbing her purse.

"Why don't you just sleep over?" Mila asked. Her dad's insistence on getting her a house instead of an apartment was one that Mila never opposed. At least that way she had more space and got to stick the whole apartment hunting and saving for a house process.

The joys of a bald rich dad with a guilty conscience.

"Neh? It's late and I've got toiletries and enough clothes here," Indi said in agreement, never passing up an invite to spend the night with her best friend.

The friends gathered their stuff and exited the car. They reached the front door, Mila sticking her key in the keyhole to unlock it.

It was already unlocked.

Mila and Indi froze, blood running cold at the possibility of an intruder. The worst part was that if they were in the living room, they already heard them try to unlock the door. Quickly, Mila grabbed her phone from her jean pocket and logged onto the app connected to the security system and cameras in the house.

My dad's paranoia is finally doing something for me.

No notification indicating entry and nothing in today's footage. Although it seemed that no one was inside, Mila was her father's daughter, so she grabbed the gun from her purse, cocking it and making Indi gasp.

"I'm over here talking about pulling strings for glocks, kanti you already have one?" she hissed in disbelief.

Mila just rolled her eyes and shushed her. "I don't know why you're so surprised when you've literally known my dad for this long," she replied calmly, hand reaching to carefully open the door.

Indi shrugged, conceding to Mila's point before slowly following her into the house with a teaser in hand.

Mila stepped into the living room, taking slow and quiet steps with the hope that no one was in the living room. Gun aimed at nowhere, her eyes scanned the dark area finding nothing until-

A lighter flickered. Her head snapped in the direction of the sound, finger instinctively pulling the trigger. Mila frowned. She had expected a grunt or a thud, but all she got was a startled scream from Indi, and probably a hole in the wall.

Maybe I'm hearing thi-

Suddenly Mila felt a hand roughly grip her wrist, catching her off guard and effectively disarming her. She tried kicking at the assailant but it was no use, because they either dodged or flat out blocked all her attacks. Indi had huddled in a corner screaming having dropped the taser in the shock of the gunshot, while a now anxious Mila did her best to fight the assailant off in the dark.

The scuffle however, was put to an end when Mila found herself roughly pinned against the wall right next to the switch for the living room lights. Coupled with the hand holding hers above her head, was the cold metallic barrel of her own gun pushing her chin up launching her into a further panic.

"Whatever it is you want: money, jewelry, what-just please-" she had begun to plead before being shushed.

"Shhhh. I'm only here for you sweetheart."

Ain't no way.

Right as the assailant spoke, Mila's eyes finally adapted to the dark. Although his face was covered in a ski mask, those eyes were unmistakable. Factoring in the voice and his scent-oh that rich, woody, spicy saffron mixed with vanilla and cloves...

"Terrence?"

"Sorry!?" Indi yelled from her corner, Mila realizing that she pondered a little too loudly.

The corners of the man's eyes crinkled. If this was Terry, he was cockily smirking under the mask.

He removed the gun from her skin, causing her to release a breath she didn't know she was holding, and reached for the switch behind her. Once the lights were on, he used the same hand to take the mask off, revealing his identity.

And there's that fuck-ass smirk.

Terry leaned in, dipping his nose into the crook of her neck and deeply inhaling her vanilla-peach and cocoa scent.

"So fucking good, just like I remember," he whispered, lifting his head to meet her rather blank looking eyes.

Mila's mouth was slightly agape as she searched her brain for something to say and how to feel. Too many responses flooded her mind all at once, leaving her blank loss of words.

Indi on the other hand had made up her mind. "Rhaaa, isbindi onaso, kaka ndini yendoda! Hayi uyabenza ubunqundu shem. Kwaye ufluent kubo. Hayi-hayi shem ndiyakuvuma! Wena? Eyakho ibrand yobuBitch ass nigga, ndiyaqala ukuyibona. U-Innovative wena ngamasimba-" she ranted in disgust as she walked towards them. Mila was actually scared that Indi would snap and put her hands on Terry. And that was not something Mila felt like dealing with.

As if reading her mind, Terry slowly backed away from Mila with his hands up while she gathered herself. Her uncertainty of her feelings would have to wait as the situation needed to be de-escalated.

"Indi, I need you to please calm down and wait for me upstairs," Mila requested calmly. "Terry and I have a lot to talk about."

Indi frowned before nodding and stomping up the stairs to the guest room she usually slept in, leaving Mila and Terrence alone in the living room.

The latter's gaze was on Mila, longing, and terrifyingly primal. His lips were still stretched in a smirk as he walked over to her. "I never stopped thinking about you," he unconsciously reassured her.

She sucked her teeth in before saying, "Yet you never came back. You never even fucking called," she spat as she took a step back.

Bitter. Mila was bitter, and angry at this man's audacity to disappear for as long as he did, then break into her house and sing her hymns of sweet nothings.

"Sweetheart I never left," his tone was light and sweet, an unnerving contrast to his physical demeanor..

Mila's eyebrows furrowed, face scrunching up in confusion. "Yes you did. You ghosted me for 7 months while you were who-knows-where, ignoring all of my calls and texts," she argued as she pointed an accusatory finger at him.

"That doesn't mean I was gone," Terry insisted, gently placing his hands on her shoulders.

"What do you even mean by that?" Mila asked incredulously, getting progressively baffled and impatient.

He hooked a finger under her chin, raising it for her eyes to meet his.

"I mean exactly that. I've been here the whole time watching you, keeping you safe," he whispered. Although he sounded sincere, his irises twinkled with something sinister. Like there was a darker edge to his revelation.

"Well, except I did leave for about a week, but I was always gonna come back to you. Then my pops called about getting me a job down here, and I couldn't believe my luck when he told me who was offering and what it was," he explained, with a light chuckle.

Mila arched an eyebrow, "You gonna tell me or-" she was interrupted by Terry placing his index finger against her lips.

"So impatient. You really are daddy's little girl," he mused, confusing Mila even more. How the hell would Terry know that when she had never even spoken about him to her?

"But let me cut to the chase. Your pops basically hired me to be your...long distance bodyguard to put it simply," he shrugged. "So like I said, I've been here the whole time, watching you."

Something about the way he said "watching you," made Mila's blood run cold. She doubted he meant it as strictly professional.

"Watching me?" she choked out, terror seeping in at what he could mean.

"Yeah...watching you eat. Watching you sleep. Watching you shower. Watching you go about your routines and shit."

Then he leaned in, head dipping to plant kisses up her neck, and jaw until his lips softly grazed her earlobe. "Watching you let some random niggas touch what's mine," he said before planting more soft kisses on her jaw, eliciting a moan.

However, it didn't take long for her to register his words, and her body stiffened. "Terry..."

"Mmm?" he hummed against her skin.

"Don't tell me you-"

"Got rid of 'em? Tuh, each and every last one...gone!" he laughed menacingly before stepping back to look into her now teary eyes.

"N-no, no, no, NO! What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Mila cried as she stared at him in horror.

"Nah, don't get it twisted sweetheart, this is all on you. I did it all for you!" Terry tried to grab a hold of her hand but she fought him off, disgusted by him using her as a scapegoat.

"You killing innocent people because you're a jealous, possessive, psychotic creep was for me? Try again Terrence," Mila spat venomously.

Terry ran a hand over his frustrated face, doing his best to quell his rising temper as a result of her tone. He desperately dug through the corners of his mind for a way to reason with her, not wanting things to come to a head. Even though they had only argued once before this, Terrence knows that with their combined tempers, a fiery explosion was afoot.

"They couldn't make you cum-"

"Wow-"

"They couldn't satisfy that precious little pussy the way I could. Never had your eyes rolled back, your toes curling, your legs shaking...nothing. And that shit tore you up from the inside out," he said, reminding her of the frustrating aftermath of her sexcapades.

"I watched you, every Saturday , crying and throwing shit around because you hated me for ruining you. You screamed and cried about being broken and that you hated them for not being able to fix you. You were spiraling-It wasn't just them," Terry rambled, making Mila's scowl even deeper.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait...Terry...who else did you kill?" Mila asked, prompting Terry to retrieve a backpack from underneath her coffee table. She watched as he took out a binder and placed it on the table and sat next to it, gesturing for her to come closer.

She complied, albeit hesitantly, taking small apprehensive steps towards the man she once felt safe around enough to be vulnerable with, taking a seat on the edge of the table. Terry opened the binder, the contents of its folders and pages eliciting a sharp gasp from her. Pictures by the dozen, of people Mila had not only slept with, but also had interactions that she vaguely remembered with. Negative interactions being the common theme.

Her ex coworker, Sean, whom she had reported to HR for harassment when he wouldn't stop threatening to tamper with her work if she didn't go out with him. Last she had heard, he had resigned before committing-

Terry.

Her creepy tutor, Simon who tried to solicit her into giving him head for a good word with her professor regarding her latest assignment. Apparently he had left the University 2 weeks before being found dead in Centurion.

Also Terry.

That one aggressive Jehova's witness lady that had tried to accuse her and Indi of shoplifting at Dischem after Indi cursed her out for following them around the store. Mila never really expected to see her again to be fair. In fact she had forgotten all about her.

But Terry had killed her too.

Tons of people, dead from what seemed like mysterious or natural causes. Their biggest sin was being a random stranger that had upset Mila, no matter how minute the situation. He had all their pictures, personal details and reasons for their deaths documented. Also in the binder, we're pictures of Mila herself. Sleeping, eating, showering, reading, talking to her friends, at work, at school, with her family-

And for some sick reason, all of this was endearing to her. What should have scared the ever living crap out of Mila, and had her running to the nearest police station, actually relieved her.

Terry loved her. He didn't even have to say it. This was all the proof she needed that he hadn't just discarded her after everything. He really had been around the entire time, watching over her and trying to keep her happy.

She glanced up at him, a small smile forming as gratitude coated her features.

"Terry you actually did this? For me?"

Terry scooted closer to her, moving the binder to the side and cupping her face. "All for you sweetheart. All for you. You're everything to me, and I'll be damned if anyone fucks with what's mine," he whispered, fingers gently tracing up her back before reaching the nape of her neck. Gentleness was then thrown out of the window when he snatched at the roots of her braids, eliciting a surprised yelp, to push her face closer to his. His eyes had gone from green to hazel, the flecks in his irises darkening as his eyes took her in like she were but his prey.

“But don't think any of this means I forgot that you let some bum-ass niggas touch my shit,” he said darkly, making Mila bite back a moan at the sharp sting in her scalp and the dark promise behind his words. Her thong had already begun to dampen.

Feeling brave, she smirked. “Yeah? And what exactly are you gonna do about it Terrence?” she taunted. If the defiant question wasn't enough, she was certain that using his government name would definitely trigger him.

Terry let out a menacing chuckle accompanied by a slow no. His reaction to Mila's dare had her rubbing her thighs together (something she naively prayed he wouldn't see). His piercing gaze had already been enough to get her wet; at this point she was damn near a dripping faucet.

“First,” he began, punctuating the word with another yank at her roots. “You're gonna tell your little friend to either put on some noise canceling headphones and bump something on full blast, or put in some earplugs, or whatever the fuck else, because tonight I plan to have you screaming at the top of your fucking lungs until your little slut throat gives out,” he explained eerily calmly.

“Then, you're gonna go to your room, and you're gonna wait for me on your bed, in nothing but that little red thong you put on tonight, on all fours like the pretty, smart, and above all…” he trailed off as his lips claimed hers in a soft, but also raw and hungry kiss that took her breath away all the while gnawing at his self-control.

It was like a dance. Terry was the lead and every step he took, Mila followed in line. His tongue glided across her teeth, her jaw made way for entry. He nipped at her bottom lip, she let out a needy moan and slid her tongue over his. Every movement was in sync. An outsider would say rehearsed.

But Terry's resolve was waning. If he didn't pull away when he did, he would have taken her on the coffee table like a rabid animal. He still had a point to prove, and he planned to draw it out for as long as he could. Mila’s eyes remained half closed in a love drunk state, prompting Terry to pat her cheek firmly

“Like the obedient little slut I know you can be.”

Mila had never done a single hard drug in her life. The only high she had experienced was Terry induced, and if she was being honest, solely from what she had heard and read, it was all the same.

Hands planted into the gray satin sheet to support her trembling knees, her skin vibrated in anticipation as he stared at her from the doorway. The awe in his hazel eyes was seasoned with unfiltered lust. His ability to remain restrained for this long surprised Mila. 7 months ago he would've had her against the dresser, holding her immobile body up while he fucked her into another consciousness by now. But that was 7 months ago. Since then he had watched 5 too many people fail her. He had watched from a distance while they left with her that knot he could untie with one touch.

A slight tinge of resentment returned, and from the way Terry's eyes darkened even more than before, Mila knew he had sniffed out. She also knew that the next plan of action would be to snuff it out. As much as she owed him a plate of penitence for letting those lesser beings even breathe near what he held so sacred, he had prepared it with his absence.

At least they had paid for their crimes. It didn't matter that they were unaware of them.

“Fucking beautiful,” Terry mused. He began to walk towards Mila, his piercing gaze, and slow, purposeful steps growing that little knot in her belly.

He squatted at the foot of the bed, meeting her at eye level. “You wanna know what my favorite thing about you is?” he asked gently, completely contrasting his foreboding demeanor.

Mila, breath caught in her throat, nodded eliciting a disappointed sigh from Terry. His hand shot up to grab at her jaw. “What happened to all that mouth from downstairs huh? You ain't have nann issues acting bold and calling me by my government name,” he said condescendingly as he shook her face roughly.

Mila mentally face-palmed at her past self. If that dumb bitch just knew how to shut up.

The shaking stopped when the pads of his fingers dug into her skin, holding her jaw in place. “You know what? I'll just tell you when I get tweaking off this dick,” he promised with a wild grin.

Mila watched Terry undress: each bracelet unclipped, watch discarded, rings slipped off the fingers that would be knuckle deep inside her and around her throat soon, shirt tossed to the side and pants, socks and shoes left in a pool on the ground. Only one thing remained on his (extremely well endowed) body, and that was the usual silver chain he wore. He always left it on during sex because Mila had told him that she lived for how it hung over her face while he dug her guts out during missionary.

Having waited for what felt like an eternity, Mila watched Terry move around and felt the bed dip behind her as he settled in. His calloused hands ran over her thighs, feeling them as he was making sure this was real. Her breath hitched when they planted themselves sharply on the sides of her ass. Her back arched instinctively when his fingers split her cheeks open for a clearer view of her his moist pussy. The tip of his nose grazing her opening with a ghost of a touch as he inhaled her scent elicited a moan. If she hadn't already been internally shaking impatiently, his thumb rubbing light-almost nonexistent circles on her clit definitely brought her to the brink of begging territory.

Like an addict feigning for a hit while somebody else sets a line of coke onto a counter.

But he had barely touched her, and like he said earlier, she still had a long night ahead of her. So she inhaled deeply and bit her tongue while his fingers played her like dough.

“You'll forgive me baby, but tonight I wanna take my sweet time with you and this sweet little pussy. Need to make sure you both know that you're mine, and that you're always gonna be mine by the time I'm done. And fortunately or unfortunately depending on how much you can take, that might take us all night,” he said softly from behind her. Suddenly his fingers plunged into her entrance, curling against her inner walls making her cry out. He tsked as he added another finger, “Unfortunately it is then,” he sighed.

His fingers continued to curl and scissor, putting pressure on her inner wall, causing her to let out choked moans. His other hand toyed with her clit pushing her towards the tides of an early orgasm. Her mind spun as he reminded her of how well he knew her body. It had been too long since a familiar face had shown itself around these parts and that was evident in the way her stomach and pussy had begun to clench. Her knees vibrated in a slight tremble, telling her that if she took any more she'd find herself flat on the bed in a muddy pile.

“Fuck, baby I knew you missed me but I ain't know it was this bad,” Terry chuckled having felt and read the warning signs of Mila’s pending crash.

“Yeah bab-fuck! Missed you so fucking much,” Mila moaned, the pleasure making her confident enough to speak again.

Before she could sputter out her need to cum, Terry beat her to the cut. “Give it to me sweetheart. Make a mess on my fingers for me,” he said, coaxing her into an orgasm with one last curl.

Mila’s knees parted slightly as she sat up. The hand that Terry had previously used to play with her clit, held her up by the small of her back while he readjusted his body and wrist. Comfortable, she began to ride her orgasm out on his fingers, head thrown back in delirium, albeit minimal at the moment. Terry left a trail of wet kisses from the back of her ear down to her shoulder blade as she finally came down.

“D’you like that,” he whispered in her ear.

“Mhmm,” she hummed with a slow head. Her eyes were lidded, head growing heavier from the intoxicating orgasm and growing arousal.

“Good, good. Because there is plenty more where that came from,” he promised as he slowly removed his fingers that were now coated in her essence. He brought them up to her lip, brushing his fingers against them as if asking for entry. Her lips parted, making way for him to drag his fingers across her tongue while she sucked the contents off nearly clean.

“My beautiful little princess,” he cooed as he felt her tongue clean his fingers off before removing them from her mouth.

Mila felt his body shift as he maneuvered his way off the bed, once again standing at its food. Through her eyelashes she could see him eyeing her, taking her body in while he fought the unholy thoughts that threatened to throw all his restraint away. Her dark skin remained iridescent under the dim lights, every curve and their sister line, stretching as she laid back completely and parted her legs for him to see his handy work.

A cunt seeping of pleasure and begging for more.

Terry licked his lips and shook his head in appreciation. “I don't think I'll ever stop gushing about how beautiful you are sweetheart,” he whispered as his hands roughly yanked her ankles and dragged her body closer to him. His hands then ran up and down her calves while he watched her face strain with excitement and wanton.

“My gorgeous, needy little slut. So needy that she just had to get her fix elsewhere. Pathetic, unworthy, bitch ass niggas coming in here and barely scratching the surface of what makes her snap and come undone. And thank God for audio cameras, because I could hear the fake moans too. That shit drove me over the edge, had me wanting to bust in and show them how it's really done. Have you creaming, shaking and drooling, high off the pure shit,” he said as he kissed up and down her inner thighs.

“Made me wanna end their shit right there and then so you knew what would happen if you kept letting these niggas fuck with you. Oh, I bet you'd have liked that huh? Watching me catch bodies for this shit? That shit alone probably would have made you cum, my crazy, beautiful little slut,” he chuckled, deep voice vibrating against the skin right next to her pussy making her moan.

While. Mila never cared to say it out loud, he was right. Terry's possessive streak was one of her favorite things about him. Especially coupled with the knowledge of the threat he posed to the general population. The idea that a man who was strong enough to snap someone's neck in a split second, was willing to go so above and beyond for her, cared for and coveted her, made her feel safer than any of her dad's extra security measures. And now with the information that he had gone as far as killing people for merely breathing wrong in her direction…the mere thought of it added to the arousal pooling between her legs.

Terry kneeled before her, his laser-focused eyes never once breaking away from her half-opened ones. The first press of his lips against her sent a shiver through her system. Her mind reeled at the light swipes of his tongue across her clit. It had been too long, and she was already on a trip so the increasing pressure coupled with his digits drawing her soul out of body with the traces on the backs of her thighs only sent her into a higher orbit. A light graze of his teeth against her bud drew a sharp gasp from her. Her hands flew to tug at his curls which had grown longer than the last time she had seen him.

“Fuck, Terry don't stop,” she begged, her voice ragged from her heavy breaths, her back arching slightly from the bed. Never one to turn down his precious Mila's wishes, Terry unrelented, feasting on her like a man possessed and employing his hands to keep her pinned to the bed.

Sinful pleas for more sprinkled with the occasional famished grunt filled the room. The air was thick with sex and Mila found herself chasing her breath and another hit all at once as Terry quelled any past doubts she'd had of his desire for her. The tremble in her legs had grown more violent at Terry's onslaught. It was like speeding up the highway to heaven, the way her mind fogged up with every swipe of his tongue. Her breaths grew shorter as her desperate mewls and pleas grew louder.

“Baby I-I need to…fuck, I'm about to-” she sputtered, struggling to form a coherent sentence over the mind numbing spell he had breathed into her pussy.

Refusing to separate from his meal, Terry simply nodded for her to let go and give in to the crashing wave of pleasure. Her body's fluent understanding of him registered the silent beckoning and with that she found herself light headed as she floated into her second orgasm of the night. Terry remained attached to her mound, lapping and sucking the fruits of his labour. He had yet to be satiated, his hunger driving her into another, and another, and yet another head splitting orgasm, despite her loud cries for mercy.

By the time Terry deemed himself fulfilled, Mila's mind had numbed. She felt separated from herself, like her soul had merged into the atoms around her. Nothing but dazed pleasure behind her usually cynical yet curious chocolate colored eyes. Terry's touch sent shocks through her has his climbed onto the bed over her. Although barely present, his hands on her now hypersensitive skin and that damn chain over her face grounded whatever was left of her. He pressed his lips onto hers, the kiss desperate and needing. On autopilot, her lips moved in sync to his, giving into his every whim. Her soft groans as he nipped and licked her lips spurred him on, sending him into what felt like a drunken haze; a sudden extra spike in his need for her.

The kisses traveled down her jaw, where he gently sucked at her skin before trailing down. His head buried into the crook of her neck, the pressure of his lips and tongue on her skin increasing as he left dark patches all over her for all to see.

Feeling like Mila's body was beginning to consume him, Terry raised his head to admire the absolute work of art that laid before him. The miniscule conscious part of her found herself drowning in Terry's lovingly hungry gaze. His features were focused as his index and middle fingers worked her sensitive nipples, kneading and twisting at them to melt Mila into a pile of nothing.

“Damn, my little slut’s already greened out huh? I ain't even give you the main yet and you're already full. Can't think, can't speak, nothing,” he commented with a light chuckle. “I can't lie, I almost feel bad. After all this is all my fault. But I'd actually be lying if I said I didn't like how you look right now. Completely and utterly undone, and I ain't even stick the tip in yet.” The lightness in his tone was deceptive. This man's intentions with her were anything but. Mila’s undone state aside there was still a point to be made. “Now I'm gonna you remind you of how it's supposed to feel to have someone take care of you,” he growled in her ear, his fingers tightening around her nipples, eliciting an incoherent curse from her.

He moved to line himself up at her entrance, gently tapping her with his thick tip. He gently pushed into her, the pressure pulling her body up in a light arch while it drew the unholiest cry to leave her lips. Terry inhaled deeply, the feel of her tight walls around him slightly intoxicating. Driving him to do something unusual for them: bottoming out. She had always said she felt he would be too big to have all of him inside of her, but tonight was different. Clearly he needed to remind her exactly who this pussy belonged to, and what better way than to go all the way and ruin her even further.

“Ah-fuck baby. Too much-” she managed to cry out.

But her words fell on uncaring ears as Terry flashed his signature, sinister grin before pulling out slightly and slamming right back into her, staying there for a moment. She erupted into what sounded like a moan blended with a tortured cry, back once again arching from the bed. Her hands desperately reached for his hips as if trying to push him away, only for him to grab them and pin them above her head and hover over her.

“Feel that baby?” he asked as his hips twisted against hers, drawing a choked groan. “Yeah, that's me digging you out. Tonight you're gonna be an exceptional little slut, and you're gonna take it all; I don't care if it's too much or if you feel it in your chest or whatever the fuck excuses you've got loading in that pretty little lump of mush you used to call a brain, I'm giving you all of me, and you're gonna take it,” he growled menacingly before he once again pulled out and snapped his hips against hers, driving himself fully into her.

As Terry continued his unforgiving pace, pressure, and tempo, Mila's cries grew louder and increasingly incoherent. Her previously slurred cries for mercy turned to a symphony of sweet nothing that was punctuated by the brutal force of his hips and low hung balls slapping against her body. His dick pounded in and out of her, arranging and rearranging her insides. Every sense of coherence had been fucked out of her with every brutal stroke.

“Whose fucking pussy is this?” he growled, gently kissing her jaw as he continued to fuck her like he hated her.

Mila, however, was too far gone to form a cohesive thought let alone a sentence. Unsatisfied with her incoherent babble, Terry his hand wrapped around her throat and squeezed hard enough to blur her vision. “I know you're too cock-drunk to think right now baby, but I need you to answer me when I ask you a question. I know my polite little princess is still in there somewhere,” he said softly as he purposefully constricted her breathing before letting go for an answer.

“It's-it's…yours, baby. All yours,” she choked out between gasps for her air and lustful moans to Terry's satisfaction. He rewarded her with an even more unforgiving stroke, which she swore drove her soul out from her body, before returning to his original pace.

Fists wrapped around the ruined satin sheets, Mila found herself nearing her third orgasm of the night. Her vision had begun to blur and her legs had begun to numb.

“Terry, I-”

“Go ahead sweetheart,” he grunted, not faltering even once.

Once again Mila found herself washed under an abyss of pleasure and nothingness. Her head spun as a sinful cry tore from her lips, her pussy clenching around Terry making him close his eyes and growl before regaining his composure.

Terry's pace slowed as she came down, allowing her a brief moment to stew in her third wind. Her erratic breathing grew calmer and calmer as her loud moans quietened into whimpers. Terry peppered a few more wet kisses across her chest, up her neck and to her ear.

“God I missed this shit. I missed fucking this pussy numb. I missed hearing you scream when I'm inside you. I missed the way you look when you're drunk on this dick. Kinda like right now, my sweet, beautiful, dick-dumb princess,” he said as he continued to kiss all over her, soft strokes lulling her into a false sense of security.

“...missed you too baby,” she muttered, barely above a whisper while she tried to collect herself.

Mila felt Terry pull out, assuming they had reached the aftercare segment of their little show. She hummed as he gently began to massage her left calf, relieving it of any tension while kissing it softly.

“You know, you've been such a good girl for me tonight; being obedient and taking me so well like the sweet little slut I know you are. Made me think about ending it here, running you a bath and making something nice for you and your friend before you fall asleep,” he said as he put her calf over his shoulder, repeating his actions with the right one.

“I mean just by looking into your eyes, I can tell there's nothing left in there. You look like you'd pass out if I gave you anymore,” he pointed out, making Mila nod in agreement. Honestly, she could use a hot bath and a good meal. As much as it was only the first round, it was also the third orgasm and it had been brutal. All of that for the first time in 7 months had taken her out pretty early.

“But then I thought, ‘nah, fuck that’.”

His words made her eyes snap open as he gently placed the next calf over his shoulder. He began to lean in, effectively folding her body in half. “We've both waited too damn long for this shit. You cried for this, I killed for it. And I don't know about you, but I feel it would be a waste if all of that was just for you to tap out after one round,” he said, his tone darkening with promise in the last sentence.

Without warning, he pushed into her, fully driving his huge dick back into the depths of her guts. The pained yet lustful cry that tore from her throat made him chuckle darkly.

“I did tell you this was gonna be a long fucking night for you.”