#slips python

[cncity]

i love these guys....

[emilybee3729]

Slips

[9ine9ine9ine6ix]

ngl if bts' comeback doesn't involve

-RM having to retcon some timelines

-Taehyung finding some way to die or gravely wound himself but maybe he's also a demon

-Seokjin catching on via hints from universe-bending flowers

-Yoongi burning something down

-Jungkook bawling his eyes out OR existing in some purgatory state

-Jimin dancing to distract himself from everything

-Hobi trying to figure out the demon thing alleged earlier

-Hooded figures looming in the background, and

-English vocabulary words written on parts of the background set

then i don't want it

[mochacoda]

too nice | hjs

Pairing: Hong Joshua x GN!Reader

Synopsis: Joshua Hong is nice. Too nice. He’s the kind of nice that makes people think twice about their relationship to him, wondering if they might be special. The answer is, no. Problem is, he's your coworker and your neighbor.

Content: Fluff | Coworkers to Lovers, Neighbors to Lovers | Office AU

Tags: slightly insecure reader, totally inspired by the youngji chocolate milk grandchildren interview, lots of elevators, lots of tension, a bit of drinking, mutual pining, "sweetheart" as a petname, gentleman agenda indeed, except he goes a bit mad at the end, seungkwan is a comedic genius, woozi is the wingman of the year, konglish w/ context clues, reader is scared of loud noises, no "y/n," loosely connected to python (seungcheol)

Word Count: 10K

────୨ৎ──── Monday

Joshua Hong is nice. Really nice. He opens the door for you every morning walking into work. He insists that he carries heavy file boxes from your boss’ office to your desk. He buys you coffee from the cafe down the street, knowing that the instant machine is almost always broken. Whenever he passes you in the hallway, he always smiles and mouths “fighting!” He notices when your enthusiastic mask slips and your tiredness peaks through. He tells you not to work so hard, and asks if you’ve been sleeping well. 

He’s the kind of nice that makes people think twice about their relationship to him, wondering if they might be special. 

But the answer is, no. 

“He’s just like that. He’s nice to everyone. Get a grip.”

You sigh, staring at your reflection in the mirror hanging above your vanity. You’ve been absentmindedly rubbing moisturizer on your cheeks for the last three minutes, at least, thinking about your coworker. How have you gotten to the point of talking to yourself in attempts to rationalize the thoughts of him clouding your mind?

All of a sudden, your alarm rings. You jolt upright, reminded that you have to leave your tiny apartment and head over to your equally small office cubicle. 

You quickly stand up from your vanity chair, then walk over to your closet to grab a jacket. Relying on muscle memory, your hand moves toward the hook it always lies on, only to swipe at air. 

The one and only winter coat you own isn’t there. 

You groan, remembering that you’d put it in the laundry bin after staining it with beer over the weekend, at that disastrous company “bonding” event. You look down at the taupe sweater you’re wearing, pinching the material to guess if it’d be warm enough. It’s barely a centimeter of fabric. 

Glancing at the time on your phone, you decide that the thin sweater would just have to do. 

You turn back to the mirror to do one last check of your appearance, when something catches your eye. Sitting on your bedside table is the plushie Joshua had won for you at the arcade. The bunny stares back at you innocently. You’d placed it there last night before crashing out on your bed, fatigued from the chaos of the company outing—or, more specifically, the secondhand embarrassment recalling your attempts at trying to be normal around Joshua.  

You shake your head roughly. You could cringe at yourself on the way to work. Grabbing your work bag and shoving your shoes on, you rush over to the door. 

Squaring your shoulders, you open it and walk out. And for a moment, as you’re turning your key to lock the door, you think that you’ll be alone for the commute to work for once. 

But then you hear a familiar voice.

“Good morning!” 

You tense, heart beginning to race, then turn around with a weak smile.

“Hi, Joshua.” 

Somehow, you’re not only coworkers with your crush, but also next door neighbors. 

“Hey,” he says, then takes a sharp breath. “It’s pretty cold today. Is that sweater going to be warm enough?”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, avoiding eye contact as you drop your keys into your bag. “It can’t be that cold.” 

You adjust the bag strap on your shoulder and walk toward the elevator on your floor, pressing the down button. It immediately opens.

“You sure?” 

You nod as the two of you walk inside the elevator. 

Hoping he’ll stop pushing you on your lack of a coat, you ask, “Did you look into the McKinley and Lee file yet?”

“Come on, it’s not even 9am and you’re already attacking me with work!” Joshua dramatically clutches his chest, then lightly punches your arm. “What’d we say about ���라밸, huh?”

You feel your face getting hot, your right hand reflexively going up to where he’d touched your left arm. Was it always this toasty in the elevator?

Meeting his eyes for the first time today, you say, “Yeah, yeah, work-life balance. You’re right.”

His lips turn up and his eyes crinkle into bright crescent moons. You find yourself smiling back at him, despite having tried so hard to avoid his stupidly sweet gaze.  

“I’m just teasin’, you know?” he says, leaning casually against the steel walls of the small elevator.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble again, rubbing the handle of your bag and tapping your foot to give yourself something else to focus on, suddenly aware that the two of you were alone. 

God, could the elevator move any slower? Fidgeting with the loose threads of your sweater, you were on the verge of melting from being near his vicinity for so long. 

Ever since Joshua Hong had arrived two months ago as a transfer from the Seoul branch, you haven’t gone a day without running into him. It was HR’s fault, really. The Human Resources department had placed him in yours, and also gave him the company-funded apartment next door to you. 

He’d spent so much time around you that, if you didn’t see the people who regularly flocked to him, you’d think you were his only friend in the States. It was, and still is, ridiculous. His constant presence has meant that you are constantly aware of yourself. Of how you’re breathing too loud, and how your heart is beating too fast, and how you were in too much of a rush to do your full routine this morning. He makes you care more than usual about how well you perform at work, and, worse, he makes you think about how happy and funny you appear to be. 

The way he teases you for being nervous (although that’s only because he’s around practically all the time) and the way he always notices when you aren’t feeling well—it’s as if he sees right through you. Yes, he sees right through you, and it’s incredibly scary knowing he could confront you at any time—maybe even in this elevator—and say that he’s known all along that you’ve had feelings for him. And what’s worse is that you know he’d be polite with his rejection. He’d be a gentleman, carefully letting you down with—

“Hello? Hellooo?” Joshua says, waving his hand in front of your face.

You jump, blinking rapidly. “Huh? Sorry, what?”

“We’re here, sweetheart,” he says gently.

“Oh,” you reply lamely. 

He gestures with his hand for you to walk out of the elevator first. Inside the lobby, he walks by your side. As the two of you approach the door, he reaches it first, and opens it for you to head outside. 

You’re immediately hit with a blast of winter and harsh winds. Your arms instinctively tighten around your stomach, trying to prevent the cold air from rushing up your sweater. 

Joshua turns to you, brows furrowed. His eyes glance over your sweater again, and you can tell he’s about to say something. Certain it’s an I told you so, you quickly say, “Before you start, I’m fine. It’s really not that cold, and the bus is coming soon anyway.”

You march forward toward the crosswalk before the bus stop, knowing he’s following behind you. Once you reach the start of the white lines, you slow down to a stop, waiting for the signal to change. 

Still behind you, Joshua says, “거기 있어봐.” 

“왜?” Though confused, you listen to his request to stay where you are. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, feeling somewhat awkward just standing with your back turned to him. 

He doesn’t answer your question why, but you hear a shuffle and the sound of fabric rustling. Then you feel a warm coat draped over your shoulders. 

You turn back to face Joshua with a start, opening your mouth to protest.

But before you can get a word out, he takes his pointer finger and lightly presses it against your lips. 

“Shh,” he says with a smile. “Tomorrow, wear a jacket, okay?” He pats the top of your head. 

Speechless, you barely bring yourself to nod, then remember to shut your jaw. Let’s just survive this bus ride, you tell yourself. God, it was unfair how nice he was. It only made it harder for you to believe he was like this with everyone—or to stop hoping that, somehow, you might be the exception. 

────୨ৎ──── Tuesday

Ever since you showed up to work on Monday wearing Joshua’s coat, your coworkers have been speculating nonstop about your nonexistent relationship with the man. More specifically, your two closest friends in the department, Boo Seungkwan and Lee Jihoon, have had a lot to say. 

Today would be no different. Huddled around the coffee table in the break room with Seungkwan and Jihoon, you’ve been roped into listening to their comments. 

Eyes darting between the two of them, you silently sip on your coffee.

“I’m a hundred percent sure now. I swear it’s real, he’s so into you,” Seungkwan says while staring at you, waving his hands in the air like a madman.

Jihoon raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure? Remember when you said that the delivery guy had a crush on this one,” he replies while pointing at you, “only for it to be me? Your 촉 is trash.”

Seungkwan scrunches his nose, and huffs in your direction, as if you’re going to defend his skill of guessing office relationships. (You’re not.)

“Your hunch is horrible, I said,” Jihoon says, goading him. 

“No,” Seungkwan frantically shakes his head. “That was a one off. Remember when I said the nepo baby in Finance liked Director Chun’s secretary? He kept staring at her and nobody believed me but I was right!” 

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Lucky guess.” 

“No, no, no, my 촉 is excellent, thank you very much.” Seungkwan turns to you, all pouty. “You trust my 촉, right?”

Finding the entire conversation ridiculous, you can’t help but shake your head and laugh. Though Seungkwan prides himself on his supposedly superior hunches, he is really only accurate half the time. 

You raise your coffee cup to your lips and sip on the liquid inside, a perfect state in between steaming hot and lukewarm. 

“Kkah, this coffee is great,” you say to Seungkwan, ignoring his question. 

His eyes suddenly widen, and he frantically waves his pointer finger at you. “Oh, oh! Another thing! He always gets you coffee from that expensive place next door, Cafe whatever. He never gets us coffee, but he always gets you coffee.”

Taken aback, you put the cup down, saying, “No way, he does that for a lot of people. He bought coffee for the receptionist like, last week.”

“That’s because it was her birthday,” Seungkwan says. 

“And how’d you know that?” you ask.

“Because there were happy birthday balloons next to her desk?” Seungkwan says matter-of-factly. 

“Well—” you retort, before getting cut off. 

“You know,” Jihoon suddenly interjects. “I hate to agree, but it’s true. Joshua doesn’t do that for anyone else.” 

“Right?” Seungkwan exclaims, nudging your arm with his elbow. “Come on, I’m so right. Woozi said I’m right. Trust the 촉.”

You rub your temples, feeling ambushed by your loud friends. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” You wave them off as you stand up from the little coffee table chair you’d been sitting on for the last few minutes. “I’m going to head out.”

“Where are you going?” Seungkwan asks.

“Away from you,” you joke.

“I know you’re going to the vending machine,” Jihoon accuses. "You always get a snack after coffee."

You raise your hands in mock surrender. 

“Can you get me a granola bar, then? You know the one I like, the blueberry one.” Seungkwan asks.

“Oh, and a Coke Zero for me?” Jihoon adds. “Y’know, not everyone has a coffee fairy named Joshua, like you do.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You know it’s not like that. Besides, you guys just love using my money, don’t you?”

“Guilty,” Jihoon grins.

“Come on, I paid for karaoke last Friday,” Seungkwan complains. “That was way more expensive than a granola bar and a Coke.”

“Coke Zero,” Jihoon says, emphasizing the “Zero.” 

“Tomato, tomato.” Seungkwan wrinkles his nose, enunciating the “ay” and “ah” in the two pronunciations of the word.

“Apples, oranges,” Jihoon insists.

“Okay, okay, let’s not fight, children. A blueberry granola bar and a Coke Zero, on your way.” You give a pretentious salute.

Grasping your coffee, you down the rest of it and get up from the table. You crumple the cup and toss it into the trash can before leaving. 

Walking through the main hallway, you pass the vending machines on your department’s floor, which are known to swallow dollar bills without offering products in return. Between the youngest employees in the department—people like you, Seungkwan, and Jihoon—you’ve discovered a secret spot that has better machines. 

Once you reach the elevator, you tap on the down button. When the doors open, you walk inside and press on the “G” and “Door Close” buttons. 

The elevator doors close smoothly, and you tap your foot as you watch the numbers at the top right corner go down from 8. It reminds you of the awkward elevator ride from Monday morning, but you quickly shake those thoughts out of your head. 

It’s best not to think of Joshua when you don’t have to.

The garage is a relatively far trek from floor 8, but it’s a worthwhile time sacrifice. The other floors (and by extension, their vending machines) are locked by key cards for employees of their respective departments, so it’s either you take a chance with the floor 8 machines or head to the basement. You, Seungkwan, and Jihoon have all found that you’d rather not take that chance. 

The elevator announces your arrival to the ground floor with a ding, and as the doors open, you make a beeline toward the machines. 

Seeing that someone is already using the vending machine closest to the elevator, you walk past it toward the machine closest to the doors leading out of the hall and into the garage. 

“Blueberry granola bar, Coke Zero. Blueberry granola bar, Coke Zero,” you repeat to yourself under your breath.

Coming to a stop by the vending machine, you scan the snacks inside. Grabbing your wallet, you fish some dollars out and double check the numbers of the items before lifting your right hand up to the combination pad. 

Jihoon first, because he was slightly less annoying than Seungkwan this morning: Coke Zero, number 405. You punch the numbers into the machine. When it flashes $2.00, your eyes widen. 

“Two dollars for a soda is robbery,” you groan. 

Still, you count two dollars out from the wad of cash in your left hand, then feed it into the machine. The machine begins whirring, the spiral in 405 moving forward. But just as you think the drink is going to come out, the spiral stops. 

“Oh, come on,” you mutter. 

You press on the small button next to the number pad that you guess is made for delivering change, but it doesn’t return your money. 

Maybe putting in two more dollars would make the machine move and spit out two drinks? Immediately acting on the thought, you punch 405 in the number pad again and feed two more dollars into the machine, only for it to whir without delivering the Cokes again. Another two dollars later, and the same happens. 

Taking matters into your own hands, you begin banging on the front of the vending machine. After around five seconds of failing to make the machine respond to physical force, your arms fall from the screen back down to your sides. 

Clenching your fists, you sigh and count out two more dollars from your left hand. Then, your right hand stalls. 

On second thought, you really don’t want to lose more money to the machine. Maybe you should try to force it out one more time? You shove the remaining cash into your back pocket. 

You raise your clenched fists again, but before your hands meet the vending machine glass, a voice suddenly comes from right behind you. 

“Whoa, whoa.” 

Unfortunately, you’d recognize that honey-coated voice anywhere. 

You spin around wide-eyed, coming shockingly close to Joshua Hong. His face is dangerously near yours, and his arms have wrapped around your body to clasp your hands in his.

“Shua? Wha—” Your voice is breathless, trailing off like you’ve forgotten how to speak.

“Hey, don’t fight the machine. You’ll only end up hurting your hands.”

His words are soft, but the way his thumb grazes your knuckles leaves a faint hint of warmth, like he’s lit a match against your skin. You should pull back—really, you should. But the closeness, the weight of his presence, keeps you frozen in place.

Your heart stutters in protest. This is nothing. He’s always like this. Always caring, always thoughtful. Always too close.

And yet, remembering what Seungkwan and Jihoon said, some part of you also wonders: Why does it feel different when it’s me?

Scowling, you drop his hands and take a step back, like distance will save you. "It's fine. I'm handling it."

His brow arches at your defiance, and for a moment, his gaze searches yours, like he’s looking for something you’re not ready to admit.

"Are you?" he asks, the words laced with amusement.

Your hands ball into fists at your sides, both in frustration and to keep them from reaching out for him again and betraying you. 

“I am,” you insist, though the heat rising in your cheeks threatens to undermine your confidence.

But then, just as quickly, he tilts his head, and his lips curve into a smirk—soft, upturned at the corners, with those faint dimples that could bring a fortress down.

And for a moment, just a moment, you wonder if you’re the only one feeling this way.

But before you can think of a sharp retort, his voice cuts through the haze in your head.

“You should’ve just asked me for help—like always.”

The softness in his tone, the familiarity, pulls you up short. It’s almost unbearable how easy it is for him to say things like this. Like it’s normal. Like it’s not turning your brain into static.

It’s too much. He can’t keep getting away with this, with being so nice to you all the time. It’s not fair.

“Stop being so nice to me,” you blurt out, clenching your fists tighter. You’ve got to hold your ground.

Joshua cocks his head slightly. “I thought you like it when I help you?” 

Your face gets, if possible, even hotter. 

Honestly, what can you even say to that? 

Desperately avoiding his face, you stare at the much safer collar of his shirt. It’s an off white color, like the fur of the stuffed bunny he’d gotten you at the arcade. It remains on your nightstand because you still have no idea what to do with it. 

Realizing that you didn’t answer him, you finally deflect. “Where’d you even come from? I didn’t see you.”

“Over there,” he says softly, pointing at the vending machine by the elevator.

“Oh.” You press your lips together, belatedly realizing that the person you’d passed on your way to this vending machine had been Joshua all along. 

“So, what’d you need? I’ll fix it for you.” 

You feel your face getting hot again. “Coke Zero,” you mumble.

“I thought you didn’t like Coke?” Joshua asks. 

He remembers?

“It’s not for me,” you explain. “For Woozi.”

“Woozi?”

“Oh, I mean Jihoon.”

Strangely feeling like you have to explain yourself to him, to let him know that you’re only friends, you say, “We went to college together. Me, Jihoon, and Seungkwan. We just happened to get into the same department here.” 

Joshua hums in acknowledgment. “No wonder, I always saw the three of you together. Made me feel left out.”

Your heart drops. Eyes wide, you cross your arms repeatedly, saying, “I never—we never meant to exclude you at all!”

“That’s okay, I have you to talk to, right?” he says with what you can only describe as an upside down smile. 

You swallow and nod. 

“Y’know I was just teasing,” he says casually. “I wasn’t offended.” 

Before you can confront him about the mental whiplash he’s putting you through, he grasps your shoulders and maneuvers you to the right, so that he can stand in front of the machine. His touch was fleeting, but your heart skips a beat anyway. 

You watch as he grabs two dollars out of his wallet, then punches 405 into the keypad. As the spiral whirs, he sends two precise kicks to the bottom left of the machine.

Doubting his method, you raise your eyebrows in uncertainty. But just as you do, the whirring is accompanied by the sound of the soft drinks falling.

Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! 

That actually works? 

Joshua bends down and sticks a hand into the bottom flap of the machine, pulling out the drinks that had just dropped from slot 405. 

“Four Coke Zeros, at your service. Anything else?”

“Oh, a blueberry granola bar for Seungkwan. And those chips for me,” you say with mild surprise, pointing at slots 201 and 302. 

“Sure thing.” He taps the corresponding numbers and slips some bills into the machine. 

Thankfully, 201 and 302 are very cooperative, unlike 405. 

“Thank you, you didn’t have to pay for those,” you say, your fingers brushing against his as you accept Seungkwan’s granola bar and your bag of chips. The faint contact sends an unexpected jolt through your chest, one you force yourself to ignore.

“Oh, it’s not for free,” Joshua replies, his lips curling into a smile that’s soft yet pointed. “You owe me a coffee from next door.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Tomorrow morning, then?”

He nods his head slightly, a gesture so casual it almost feels calculated. “How about today, after work?”

Your heart stutters. The way he’s looking at you—his eyes shining, eyebrows raised a little, with a faint crease between his brows—feels strange. It’s somewhat vulnerable, like he’s waiting for something.

No, surely not. Surely, he’s not—

The thought dies before it can fully form, drowned out by the thundering sound of your heartbeat.

“Sure,” you manage to squeak out, your voice embarrassingly small in the space between you.

His smile widens, but there’s a flicker of something else in his expression. Relief? Satisfaction?

You swallow hard and grip the snacks in your hands like they’re a lifeline. You need to get a hold of yourself. Joshua Hong is not asking you out. He’s just nice. That’s all.

────୨ৎ──── Wednesday

“You’re joking. You’re actually joking.” Seungkwan’s voice rings throughout his waterlogged apartment. 

“Most unfortunately, I’m not.” You blink, feeling a droplet of sweat getting dangerously close to your eyes. 

You carefully wipe the sweat that’s gathered at your forehead using your forearm, since your hands are gloved up. You definitely don’t want the nasty residue from the rubber gloves getting on your face. 

Seungkwan glares. “You didn’t tell me that you were on a date with You Know Who! Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called you.”

“Well, you did,” you say exasperatedly, grabbing an antique-looking lamp and lightly placing it in the box of items to throw away. 

“Tell me what happened, exactly. Don’t leave a single thing out!” Seungkwan barks, waving at you from across the room, where he’s dismantling a chair to put in the box. 

In the middle of clearing out Seungkwan's damp furniture, your mind drifts back to yesterday afternoon, to the cafe where…

────୨ৎ────

…The soft hum of coffee grinders and the steady chatter of customers make you feel warm inside, easing the tension from earlier that morning. You sit across from Joshua at a tiny table near the main window, taking in how the late afternoon sun casts a golden glow over his face. He looks like royalty, and you think you could watch him for forever. 

He’s nursing a cappuccino, his slender fingers tracing absent patterns on the side of the mug, while you sip on a mocha latte, its foam already starting to lose its shape. Staring at the latte, you think it’s about time you moved on from small talk.

“You really didn’t have to pay for my drink,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction. It’s hard to argue with him when he wields his secret weapon every time. 

He smiles, that same boyish, disarming grin he always gives you. “It’s just coffee. I get you one almost every day, y’know?”

“Yeah, but I was supposed to—”

“Exactly,” he interrupts, eyes sparkling. “Think of it as payback. For all the mornings you made brighter just by showing up.”

Your cheeks warm at his words, heat spreading down your neck as you lower your gaze to the coffee table, suddenly fascinated by the faint scratch marks on its surface. “You’re too nice,” you manage, the words feeling as flimsy as tissue paper.

“Only to you,” he says, and though his tone is light, the words feel impossibly heavy. Like they’re carrying something you’re both too afraid to name.

Your heart twists violently as your eyes snap up to meet his. The way he’s looking at you—steady, unyielding—makes your breath hitch. This is Joshua, you remind yourself, the nicest guy you’ve ever met. And yet, you can’t ignore the way it feels like he’s waiting for something. For you.

“You don’t mean that. I don’t believe that.” The words spill out before you can stop them, shaky and uneven. But even as you say them, a part of you aches with the knowledge that it’s not entirely true.

Because deep down, you want to believe him. You want to hold onto the idea that he’s different with you, that the warmth in his voice and the way he looks at you isn’t just another facet of his kindness but something more.

But that hope is dangerous.

If you believe him and you’re wrong—if this is just Joshua being Joshua, warm and selfless to everyone he meets—it’ll break you. So instead, you tell yourself that it’s impossible. That he can’t mean it.

You clutch onto every reason why: the way he always holds the door open for others, how he buys coffee for the entire team sometimes, the way he seems to know exactly what to say to make anyone smile. It’s who he is, you think, not just with you.

The idea of reading too much into his words—of exposing your heart only to realize you’ve misunderstood everything—is unbearable. So you push it away, burying the small flicker of hope before it has a chance to grow.

But even as you deny him, there’s a quiver in your voice, a hesitation that gives you away.

He leans forward slightly, his arms resting on the table, shrinking the distance between you. “You should. Don’t you ever wonder why?”

Your breath catches. His words hang in the air, heavy and charged, and for a second, you think he’s about to say something that will upend everything you’ve convinced yourself to believe about him.

“Joshua, I—”

Before you can finish, your phone buzzes loudly on the table, shattering the moment. 

You scramble to grab it, breaking eye contact as you glance at the screen.

It reads: “Kwannie Kwannie Kwannie.”

You sigh deeply but answer the call, putting the phone to your ear. “What?”

“Help!” Seungkwan’s voice comes through in a panicked shriek. You take the phone a few inches away from your ear, wincing at the sound, then stiffen. His tone did not sound like one of his regular, made-up crises. Bringing your phone closer to your ear, you hear him shout. “My apartment’s flooding! There’s water up to my knees, my coach is floating! I don’t know what to do! Jihoon’s useless with this kind of stuff, and you’re the only person who knows where my emergency shutoff is—”

“Okay, okay, breathe. 4-7-8 method. I’ll be right there,” you say, shooting up from your chair.

Joshua watches you, his brows knitting together in concern. “Everything okay?”

“Seungkwan’s apartment is flooding. I have to go help him,” you explain, grabbing your bag. 

“I’ll come with you,” he immediately offers, already standing.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it.” You force a smile, though you’re still buzzing with the tension of whatever had just happened. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Before he can respond, you rush out the door, heart racing—not just from Seungkwan’s crisis, but from the words Joshua almost said. You hear him calling your name, but you’re unable to bring yourself to look back, afraid you’d cave. 

If you had, you would’ve seen a crestfallen Joshua still standing by the table, frozen in place...

────୨ৎ────

...Seungkwan drops a chair leg. 

If the water hadn’t already been drained (by you, yesterday, when you figured out how to use Seungkwan’s emergency shutoff valve), the metal leg would have made a small splash and floated in knee-deep waters. Instead, it fell obnoxiously loudly onto Seungkwan’s hardwood floor, ringing throughout the half-empty apartment with full force.

“Ah! Seungkwan!” You jump, nearly dropping your drill, which you had been using to unscrew the legs of the coffee table while retelling what had happened Tuesday afternoon.  

“He was about to confess,” Seungkwan says slowly and robotically, as if caught in a trance. 

You can’t bring yourself to deny it.

“He was about to confess,” he repeats.

Letting out a major sigh, you hop up onto the dining table, tapping it. “You know, we have to dismantle this too.” 

“He was about to confess!” His sudden shout startles you again. “And where the hell is Woozi when we need him?”

“Probably on his way, as he was when you checked 20 minutes ago?” you say dryly. 

“He needs to get a load of this. I was right!” Seungkwan waves the chair leg in the air triumphantly, far too close to the ceiling for comfort. 

“Dude,” you laugh, “you’re going to scratch the ceiling, put it down!”

Seungkwan pouts. “But this is my victory leg.”

“Tell that to Woozi,” you grin. “I think you should show him the leg, first thing.”

He lights up. “Excellent idea.”

All of a sudden, you hear someone knocking on Seungkwan’s door. Jumping off of the table, you skip across the living room down to the narrow main hallway. Once you reach the door, you crack it open a few inches—as far as the chain link will let you. 

“Woozi, you’re so late!” Your face breaks out into a smile upon seeing your friend. 

“My bad,” Jihoon says with a chuckle. 

“`Y’know, Kwannie has a big surprise for you?”

“I can’t wait,” he says with a sigh. “How bad is the damage?”

“See for yourself.” You take down the chain lock and swing the door fully open with a smile, only to falter at the sight of the one person you thought you’d successfully avoided all day. 

Joshua. 

For there he was. 

“Here to help,” he says shyly, hands folded behind his back. 

You give Jihoon a panicked look. 

Jihoon explains, “I was heading out of the office when I caught him in the hallway. He said he was down to help Seungkwan, and I figured the more, the merrier.”

The sight of Joshua standing in Seungkwan’s doorway makes your stomach drop. It’s like all the tension from earlier has come rushing back in, this time amplified by the unexpectedness of his arrival.

You plaster on a polite smile, though you’re sure it looks more like a grimace. “Great,” you manage to choke out, turning on autopilot to lead him and Jihoon down the hallway.

But inside, your thoughts are spiraling. What is he doing here? Does he know you’ve been avoiding him all day? Did Jihoon tell him anything on the way over?

Your chest tightens as you think about Seungkwan waiting in the living room, blissfully unaware of Joshua’s presence. You can already imagine the chaos—Seungkwan, ever the open book, accidentally blurting out something incriminating.

What if he says something about the coffee shop? What if he mentions the way you couldn’t stop talking about Joshua just now?

You’re half a step ahead of them, your mind racing through ways to keep the situation from unraveling, but drawing nothing but blanks. 

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of Joshua. He’s walking casually beside Jihoon, his hands tucked into his pockets, a beanie snug on his head. He looks different, less polished than usual, but still effortlessly himself. And for a moment, you falter.

Because despite your panic, there’s a part of you that’s almost glad he’s here. A part of you that can’t help but wonder what it means that he came at all.

When you reach the living room, you come to a hard stop, frantically making a small X with your arms. 

But Seungkwan has his attention focused on that blasted chair leg, and of course, he immediately opens with: “Guess who has the biggest news of all time! The biggest action since the Great Orange Plaza Incident—”

Cue the obnoxiously loud laughter from you. “Joshua’s here! Say hi!” 

Seungkwan turns to the hallway, where, indeed, Joshua is standing. Shocked, he drops the metal leg, and it announces its contact with the ground through a loud clang. 

Wincing at the sound like earlier, you accidentally shift your body backward into someone behind you. 

“Sorry,” you say, hoping it was Jihoon. 

His arms come up to grasp your waist, holding you steady.

“No worries,” comes Joshua’s voice. 

You shut your eyes, somehow both drowning in embarrassment and burning up at the spot where he’s touched you. 

You quickly step out of his hold, trying not to let your flustered state show. “Right,” you say, clearing your throat. “Let’s go now.”

Joshua chuckles softly, his voice like velvet. “그래, 바로 가자.” Right, let’s go straight away.

Seungkwan, thankfully, is too caught up in his shock to notice the moment, though Jihoon raises a single eyebrow in quiet observation.

As you guide Joshua and Jihoon into the living room, you internally rehearse all the ways you can deflect or redirect the inevitable awkwardness. But before you can settle on anything, Joshua is already rolling up his sleeves. You avert your eyes from his biceps.

“What needs moving?” he asks.

You glance around the room, desperate for something to hand off to him. Your eyes land on the dining table—big, heavy, and far too ambitious for one person to handle. Perfect. “The dining table,” you say, trying to sound casual. “We need to get it downstairs to the lobby for pickup.”

Seungkwan perks up. “Oh, that thing’s a beast. Good luck.”

“I’ll help,” Joshua says immediately, a soft smile playing on his lips as he looks at you.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh, okay. You and Woozi can move it.”

But Jihoon smirks, catching on. “Actually, I just remembered I promised to help Seungkwan with,” his voice trails. “Something else. You’ve got this, right?”

Before you can protest, Jihoon grabs the metal chair leg and joins Seungkwan in the corner, leaving you and Joshua alone with the daunting table.

“Looks like it’s just us,” Joshua says, his teasing smile widening.

You swallow thickly, resigned. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

Together, you begin maneuvering the table toward the hallway. It’s heavy and awkward, and you struggle to find a good grip on the edges.

“Here,” Joshua says, dropping his side of the table and moving closer. His hands brush over yours as he adjusts your grip, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “That should help.”

The contact sends a jolt through you, but you force yourself to focus. “Thanks,” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper.

By some miracle, the table fits in the elevator, though the tight space forces you and Joshua closer together. You’re much too aware of how little distance there is between you, the faint scent of his cologne making your heart race even faster.

“This reminds me of Monday morning,” Joshua says suddenly, his voice soft.

Your head snaps up to meet his gaze. What is he talking about? The elevator? The coat? Both?

He nods, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Your stomach twists. “What about it?” you ask cautiously.

His eyes searching yours. “I just,” he hesitates for a moment, before continuing. “I feel like we keep dancing around something. Don’t you?”

Your breath catches, and suddenly the space feels even smaller. “What do you mean?��

Joshua steps just a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I mean,” he pauses for a second or two before picking up again. “This. Us. I feel like there’s something you’re not saying. And I’m not sure if I should say it first.”

The elevator dings, announcing your arrival at the lobby, but neither of you moves.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Shua, I—”

Before you can finish, the doors slide open, and an older woman waiting outside peers in, her curious gaze snapping you both out of the moment.

“Uh, sorry,” you stammer, quickly stepping out with your end of the table.

Joshua follows, but you can feel his eyes on you, his earlier words hanging heavy in the air.

As the two of you set the table down near the designated pickup area, he leans in slightly, his voice low. “This isn’t over.”

Your heart threatens to jump out of your chest, but you force yourself to nod, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. Okay.”

Even as you head back to Seungkwan’s apartment, your mind is racing with the possibilities of what he might say—and whether you’re ready to hear it.

As you reenter Seungkwan’s apartment, the weight of Joshua’s words hangs like a thick fog in the air. It’s almost suffocating, the way your heart beats erratically at the thought of what he might say next. 

You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting Joshua to be right behind you, but he's still out by the lobby. The sound of Seungkwan and Jihoon’s voices floats down the hallway as they continue their discussion, oblivious to the tension that’s spiraling in your chest.

You step inside, but you can’t shake the feeling that everything is about to change. Joshua’s words—“This isn’t over”—echo in your mind, repeating with every beat of your heart. What did he mean? What does he expect?

“Everything okay?” Seungkwan calls from the living room, looking up with a raised brow as you walk in.

“Yeah,” you chirp, trying to act normal, but your voice comes out too high.

He narrows his eyes. “You sure? You look a little off. Everything go well?” It’s unsaid, but you know there’s a “with Joshua” attached to the end of his sentence.

You force a smile, but it’s shaky at best. “Yeah, the table's gone now.” You can’t tell him. Not yet. Not with the weight of Joshua’s unspoken words still pressing against your chest.

Seungkwan studies you for a moment, his gaze flickering toward the hallway. “I’ll take your word for it. So, you two, huh?”

Your eyes widen involuntarily, and you try to laugh it off. “아니, 아니! 그런거 아니야, it’s really not like that.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh. Sure. Anyway, me and Jihoon are going to go to the bar. Want to come?”

The offer hangs in the air, and you realize, suddenly, that it’s the perfect distraction. You need space from your own thoughts. You need to calm your racing heart. Maybe getting out of here will help.

“I’ll go,” you blurt, before you can second-guess yourself. “Haven’t gone weekday drinking in a while. Let me just grab my bag.”

Seungkwan gives you a knowing look but says nothing more. As you step into the hallway to grab your bag off a high-hanging hook, your mind is still whirling with the unanswered questions about Joshua. 

Walking further down the hallway, you find Seungkwan and Joshua standing near Jihoon. 

Jihoon’s already at the door, his hand on the handle. “Come on, let’s go. I need some drinks in my system after today.”

You nod, attempting to shove your thoughts away for the night. The cool air outside greets you, and the cacophony of the city feels like a welcome distraction. As you make your way to the bar, Seungkwan and Jihoon immediately dive into their usual banter, but your mind is elsewhere. You keep glancing over at Joshua, who seems uncharacteristically quiet tonight, his usually playful energy subdued.

By the time you reach the bar and order drinks, you’re beginning to relax. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the fact that you don’t have to think about what’s going on between you and Joshua, but you can’t help but feel like you’re walking a thin line between tension and relief.

But as the night goes on, Seungkwan and Jihoon quickly fall into drunken antics, leaving you and Joshua alone on the quieter side of the bar. The air between you both is thick, like an invisible thread is pulling you closer, yet neither of you dares to speak.

You fiddle with your glass, wondering if you should speak up first. You only have so much courage, though. 

Thankfully, Joshua clears his throat, his voice low. “넌 좀,” he hesitates for a bit, before deciding to call you out, “조용한데?” 

Well, it’s no secret that you’re being quiet. He was, too, at least until now.

You glance up, meeting his gaze for the first time since earlier. His eyes are intense, his lips pulled into that soft, half-smile you know and adore.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. The words hang between you like a dare.

Joshua leans in just slightly, his breath warm against your cheek. “What part?”

Your heart races, but you hold his gaze. “About how this isn’t over?”

He’s quiet for a beat, then smiles—just a little. “I meant what I said.”

And in that moment, you realize you’re in way deeper than you thought.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest, like a stone sinking deep into water. You want to ask him more, to press him, to demand answers, but the words feel trapped in your throat. Instead, you look away, fidgeting with the rim of your glass, your fingers tracing the condensation. The alcohol has started to mellow your nerves, but the tension still hovers in the air between you two, thick and almost palpable.

“You’ve been quiet too,” you manage to say, keeping your voice steady despite the jittery feeling in your stomach. “What’s on your mind?”

Joshua doesn’t answer right away, his gaze flickering toward the noisy group in the corner where Seungkwan and Jihoon are laughing too loudly, practically leaning on each other for support. The laughter echoes in the background, a sharp contrast to the quiet bubble that has formed around you and Joshua. 

It’s the kind of moment that feels too intimate, too close to the edge of something that could change everything.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and his voice is soft, thoughtful. “I guess I’m trying to figure out if you’re really as clueless as you act, or if you’re just pretending.” His eyes meet yours, and there's something almost vulnerable in his gaze, a flicker of hesitation that’s rare for him.

You feel your heart skip a beat, caught off guard by the question. “Clueless?” You repeat, the word tasting strange on your tongue. “I’m not clueless.”

“그래? Are you sure about that?” he asks, his smile barely there, his tone teasing but with an edge of something else—something deeper.

You narrow your eyes, a little irritated by how easily he toys with you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, and then immediately regret it. It sounds too defensive, too much like you’re trying to cover something up.

Joshua leans in slightly, his expression serious now, no longer playful. “I think you do. I think you’re scared.” His voice drops, barely above a whisper, but it lands like a truth you can’t deny. “You’re scared of what might happen if you admit what you feel.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The world feels like it slows down, the noise of the bar fading into the background as his words settle in your mind. The truth in them stings, and you don’t know how to respond. 

He’s right, but you don’t want to admit it. 

Not yet. 

Not to him.

Before you can say anything, Seungkwan stumbles over, dragging Jihoon along with him. “You two are too quiet,” Seungkwan says with a grin, clearly tipsy. “What’s going on here? Trying to plot against us?”

Joshua straightens up quickly, his smile returning to its usual playful, disarming self. “Nothing like that, we were just talking,” he replies, his voice smooth and easy.

You take a deep breath, trying to push the moment away, but the tension still lingers in your chest. You force a smile, though it feels weak. “Yeah, just talking.”

Jihoon gives you both a sideways look, too drunk to notice the underlying current between you and Joshua. “You two really are something, huh?”

Seungkwan laughs, waving a hand as if dismissing Jihoon’s comment. “Yeah, yeah, don’t mind them. They’re just having a little ‘moment,’” he says, emphasizing the last word with air quotes.

You don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Contrary to Seungkwan’s comment, the moment’s long gone now, robbed by the chaos of their antics. But you can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted, that you and Joshua are standing on the edge of something—something both terrifying and irresistible.

And for the first time, you decide that you’re ready to see where it leads.

────୨ৎ──── Thursday

You wake up on Thursday with a start, the events from last night already feeling faraway. Joshua had dropped you off, and you had spent most of the night restlessly thinking of him, going over how to confess.  

The bright morning light filters through the blinds, causing you to squint at the time on your alarm clock. It’s much earlier than you’d usually get up. You fight the urge to go back to sleep.

With resolve, you push yourself up off your bed and run through your morning routine with extra care. And by the time your last alarm rings, you’re ready to tell him. 

You walk over to the front door, waiting for the telltale signs of movement coming from the apartment next door. Only, you hear nothing. Not even footsteps shuffling around. 

Your elevator ride is silent. Your bus ride is silent. 

Joshua had left before you’d even woken up—and you’d woken up pretty damn early—and his absence only made you more aware of the pressing silence between the two of you. 

When you reach your cubicle, your eyes graze over the desk repeatedly, finding something is wrong.

“Hey, what’s gotten into you?” Jihoon asks from the cubicle next to you.

“Nothing.” Everything. 

You stare at the spot where Joshua puts a cup of coffee from the cafe next door every day. It’s empty. 

“설마,” you whisper. No way. Did he decide to drop you because you didn’t answer him? But what else could explain his radio silence? You haven’t gone to work alone in over a month. 

“설마 what?” Seungkwan asks, dropping into his office chair to the left of you at 9 on the dot.

When you don’t answer, he asks Jihoon, “What’s going on over here?”

Jihoon shrugs. “Probably drama with You Know Who.”

“Oh,” he says, and the two of them drop it. 

Before you know it, the clock has hit 5pm, and you’ve spent the entire workday soullessly typing on your keyboard, lifting your head up every time you’ve seen movement in the room. Only, the man you were looking for was nowhere to be seen. 

You miss the stolen glances and bright smiles you used to exchange. The silence had been stifling. You really did want to talk to him, to clear the air today, but he just never showed. Heart sinking, you pack up your bag and put on your coat. You stall for a moment remembering how he’d given you his coat just a few days prior. Did he really decide to give up because you weren’t responding well?

The bus ride back to your apartment is silent, but your head is full of speculative thoughts. When the driver announces your stop, your heart settles into a newfound determination. 

Maybe he could let go, but you can’t. You won’t let him go.

“I’ll just barge in! Say my piece, then let him talk,” you mumble under your breath, pushing the lobby doors open.

Is it a good plan? You aren’t sure, but hopefully he’d forgive you for being hesitant for so long. You honestly don’t know how he did it—how he was able to stand your wishy-washiness?

Eyes tracing the ground, you make a beeline for the elevator, continuing your whispers. “And what am I going to say? God, I need a good opening line. Something like, please please take me back? Actually, we were never dating, so I guess that doesn’t make sense. Please please like me back? Is that too desperate? Well, I am desperate, so—”

Out of the corner, you see the elevator beginning to close.

“Hold the doors, please!” you shout, running as fast as you can. Speed is of the essence, so you can confront him as soon as possible.

You make it across half the lobby in record time, panting as you enter the elevator. 

“Thank,” you say in between breaths, hands on your knees, “you—”

When you look up, your heart stops.

Joshua Hong. Dressed dapper in an all black suit and carrying, of all things, a briefcase?

“Shua?” you say breathlessly, immediately straightening.

Joshua looks down, his usual calm expression faltering for just a second when he sees you out of breath. For a moment, the two of you simply stand there in silence, the elevator’s gentle hum filling the space between you.

“Where were you?” you ask, your voice quieter than you'd intended, a hint of nervousness creeping in despite your earlier determination.

Joshua clears his throat, a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks. “Director Chun had me accompany him to the Lee meeting. You?” he asks, his gaze softening as he watches you catch your breath.

Your mouth suddenly feels dry. The reality of the situation hits you hard. 

This was it. 

This was the moment. 

But now that you’re face to face with him, you’re unsure of what to say. You should’ve prepared a real speech, practiced your words properly. Instead, the dreaded silence lingers.

“I,” your voice trails off. “I just—” You let out a shaky breath, then shake your head as if to clear the mess of thoughts swirling inside. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About things. About us.”

Joshua tilts his head slightly, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “About us?”

You nod, trying to steady your breath. The elevator seems to be going slower than usual, as if the universe itself is giving you more time to process, to speak. You feel a strange mix of nerves and determination pushing you forward.

“I didn’t handle things right. I was,” you pause for a moment, carefully choosing your next words. “Unsure. Confused. And I thought maybe if I stayed quiet, I’d be able to ignore everything. But I can’t,” you say, the words finally coming out in a rush. “I can’t ignore you. I don’t want to.”

Joshua’s eyes soften, his posture shifting, his briefcase clutched tightly in his hands. “You’re not the only one who’s been confused,” he admits, his voice low, almost vulnerable. “I didn’t know what to do either, but I couldn’t let you slip away without at least trying. I care about you. A lot.”

The elevator jerks suddenly, and you both look up in surprise as the lights flicker. A loud noise rings through the space, and with a groan, the elevator comes to an abrupt halt. You both freeze, and your heart jumps into your throat.

“Shit,” you gasp, instinctively taking a step back from the elevator doors, but your foot catches in a brief moment of panic, and before you know it, you’re pulled toward Joshua.

He catches you effortlessly, his hand impossibly warm at your back, steadying you as you stumble. “괜찮아?” His voice is gentle but concerned. 

You can’t help but laugh nervously, shaking your head. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, him holding you in his arms, your heart still racing from the shock. Then you both realize the situation. No Wi-Fi. No way to call for help. Just the two of you, stuck in this tiny box, the tension thick in the air. The sound of your heavy breathing fills the silence as the elevator remains motionless.

Joshua clears his throat, his voice teasing again. “Well, if you think about it, this isn’t that new.”

In response, you lightly laugh, thinking back to all the times throughout the week where he's kept you steady. The you of Monday morning never would have thought you’d be in this position now, not to mention the you of two months ago.

You glance up at him, mind still racing. The unexpected turn of events had thrust you into a corner. And yet, in some strange way, you felt it was just the kind of moment the two of you needed. 

Alone. 

No distractions. 

No running away.

“Well, at least we have some time to talk now, huh?” you say with a small, tentative smile.

Joshua meets your gaze, his eyes full of understanding. “Yeah. Looks like we do.”

And for the first time in days, the silence doesn’t feel suffocating. Instead, it feels like an opportunity, a moment to finally clear the air.

────୨ৎ──── Friday

You’ve been in the elevator for hours, but it doesn’t feel like it. Somehow, conversation just flows.

“I liked you first,” you find yourself saying, voice barely above a whisper as you rest your head on his shoulder.

“그래?” comes Joshua’s soft reply, so close that you can feel the vibrations in his chest. Really? 

You can’t believe he even has to ask. Yes, really. You were so obvious about it. So affected by him that you couldn’t even look at the stuffed bunny he’d gotten you on Sunday, reminded of his soft, kind eyes. 

So you nod, “Mm-hm.” 

Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, your body still adjusting to the peaceful rhythm of being near him. You’d been thinking about this for the longest time, but now it feels so natural, so certain, and you can’t help but regret all the time you’d spent secretly pining over him. God, you’d even asked him to stop being so nice to you out of pure desperation. Who does that?

“Since when?” His voice is smooth, warm, like a soft melody, and you can’t help but feel drowsy with the way it lulls you into comfort.

You pause, eyes drifting to the floor of the elevator as you try to gather your thoughts. “Since when?” you repeat, the memory taking you back.

It was a chaotic day, the kind of day where everything felt so loud and full of people. You were at that welcome party for the new transfer—Joshua—but it had been too overwhelming. So, you’d slipped away, finding solace in the quiet of the cafe next door. You’d gotten a coffee to-go, and you sat outside on a bench, letting the world pass you by as you listened to your audiobook. That was your kind of perfect Saturday.

You never saw him that day.

But you did see him a week later, in the hallway of your apartment building. You’d just locked your door, ready to head out when you noticed the man next door fumbling with his own keys. His moving process had seemed slow, but that day, you finally got to exchange quick introductions before stepping into the elevator together. And somehow, in that brief exchange, you found yourself already falling, the way his laugh filled the space between you, the way you both laughed at the coincidences stacking up—the apartment, the floor, the building, the department. It was electric, the start of something special. 

You glance up at him now, still leaning against his shoulder. “When we first met, in the hallway,” you finally say, voice soft.

Joshua smiles, a glint of fondness in his eyes. “That was when we first met?”

You furrow your brows, confused. “Wasn’t it?”

Joshua laughs quietly, the sound like a comforting hum in the otherwise still elevator. “I remember differently,” he says, poking your cheek gently.

You tilt your head. “If not the hallway, what was it?”

“The first day I came here, sweets,” he says, his fingers brushing a lock of your hair from your face.

Your mind races, wondering if you’ve forgotten an important memory. “But we didn’t meet, did we?”

Joshua hums, the kind of hum that carries a story behind it. “I guess you didn’t see me, but I saw you.”

You blink, unsure if you heard him right. “When?”

He leans back slightly, eyes distant as if replaying the scene in his head. “I remember being bombarded by all the office workers. God, it was so chaotic. I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out, so I said some BS excuse about needing a drink.” He chuckles softly, then his expression shifts, softer now. “I went to the drink station by the window, grabbed whatever they had, and just stared out. I was wondering how long I could hide before it was socially acceptable to go home, when I saw you.”

You shift, intrigued by his words.

“You sat outside on the bench. You weren’t even aware of the crowd inside, just focused on,” he pauses, thinking of the right word, before continuing, “Existing? Listening to something, I guess. I watched you for a while. You were so still, so peaceful in the middle of all that noise. It made me stop and think. I’ve never really done that before. I’ve always been in ‘go, go, go’ mode. But there you were, just being, and I don’t know. I think that’s when I started thinking about you.”

His words settle over you like a blanket, warm and unexpected.

“I decided then to keep giving you coffee after that,” Joshua adds with a shrug. “You’re my elevator to my small enlightenment, if you will. You made me slow down, sweets.”

At that, your heart flutters in your chest. “I never knew,” you murmur. “I thought you were just nice to everyone. All this time, you’ve been looking at me like I’ve been looking at you.”

Joshua smiles softly, his fingers brushing against yours. “I’ve been thinking about you for a lot longer than you’ve been thinking of me.”

“Only a week!” you protest. 

Joshua’s eyes shine as he looks at you, crinkling into crescents. His hands steadily clasp yours, thumb rubbing against the back of your left hand. “Still think I’m too nice?”

“No,” you say, burying your face in his chest. “Keep being nice to me.”

When the elevator finally dings, and you can hear firefighters shouting things past the doors, it’s a few minutes past 12am. But neither of you moves, content in making up for lost time late into the night. 

Masterlist

Author's Note: yes they were stuck in an elevator for like 7 hours from thurs after work to midnight, 내 마음이야

Disclaimer: nothing i write is representative of how svt acts off camera, take their names as stand-ins for oc's!!

Taglist: @syluslittlecrows - @junplusone

[anonymityisfunwriter]

Every Part of You

Pairing - Grumpy!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Reader A.N. - Alright, I've been asked to write about Bucky and Sunshine's first time many, many times. And the thing is, like sure, I could write that, but also I want us to take a moment to consider trying to build up to that. There's so many firsts buried in there that I think need to be navigated through before they even get there. This is one of those firsts. Like the first time you see Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist | Grumpy Sunshine Series

"You're just- " You stop speaking, searching for his lips again. Though you're breathless, you can't bring yourself to pull away from him, "You're so pretty."

You shudder as you feel his hand slip under your sweater. The occasional graze of the cool metal on your skin enough to send shivers down your spine.

His lips trail down, nipping at your jaw, "I'm not pretty."

Your hands, winded in the hair at the nape of his neck, glide down his neck, to clutch the fabric of his henley. The moment he feels your fingers toy with the collar of his shirt, his heart hammers against his ribcage. Not in the sort of way that he usually feels in these moments with you. He feels a sense of dread, of panic. It wraps around his spine like a python. It feels like he can't breathe.

"You're so -"

He wrenches away from you, his chest heaving, "Stop, stop, stop."

You freeze, immediately dropping your hands. Panic starts creeping up your throat, coating your words. "Did I - did I do something wrong?"

He gulps, silently shaking his head. It takes him a moment to regain his composure, to regain the ability to speak clearly, "No, no, you're - you're perfect."

Guilt starts to eat at him. He can see you doing your very best to keep your own feelings off your face. He can see the sting of his rejection in the way your lips press together in a tight line. The embarrassment in the pallor of your once flushed cheeks.

You two have worked so hard to overcome your own personal issues and traumas, to build trust in each other, moments like these hadn't come easy. And he so callously pushed you away, it makes him feel worse. And what makes his heart ache even more, he sees nothing but concern for him shining in your eyes. You just look so worried for him.

Your hands rest in your lap. You twist and untwist your fingers. "If you don't want to, we don't - we don't have to do anything. I'm really sorry -"

"No, no, please don't be sorry." He reaches for you, gently squeezing your hand. It soothes him as much as it does you. "I want to. You don't know how much I want to."

"But?"

His eyes squeeze shut. He can't bring himself to meet your eyes. "You haven't seen it before - my arm, my shoulder."

"Oh."

He drops your hand. That feeling takes over him again. It feels like there's not enough air in the room. He slides away from you, closer to the edge of the tiny couch in your apartment. "It's - I am not pretty."

It breaks your heart, watching him pull away from you. You can only imagine how many people have turned away from him before. "James..."

He fervently shakes his head, refusing to open his eyes, "No, no, I know what you're gonna say, but it's bad. A lot worse than you're thinking."

"How do you know what I'm thinking?"

"It's bad," he insists. "I see it every day and I can barely - it's just bad, okay?"

You take his hand, squeezing it tightly. "It's okay if you don't want me to see it. I understand."

He finally opens his eyes again as his eyebrows pull together. He still doesn't meet your eye. "No, no, I want to - I trust you with this, I do. I just - I want you to be prepared."

In that moment, you realize that it's not really about preparing you. Not at all.

He thinks you're going to react badly. He thinks that this will make you turn away from him for the first time ever. He's worried that the love and adoration in your eyes will turn to disgust and repulsion.

It's less about preparing you for the scarred flesh, and more about warning you that he couldn't take a bad reaction. He's not sure he could take it if you turned away from him too.

"I love you," you promise him. "There's nothing that you could show me that would change that. I hope you know that."

There is no response to that. And you know that he won't believe it until he sees it. It takes him a moment. His hand toys with the hem of his shirt. His hand grips the hem, only to let it go.

"I love you," you remind him.

He takes a large gulp of air, pulling off his shirt with one quick movement.

You weren't really sure what you were expecting. You knew the story. You knew how Bucky lost his arm. He even confided the bits and pieces he remembered from getting his vibranium arm.

Your eyes trail over his skin. The shoulder is scarred, scars jut in every direction. Each scar is etched into his skin. It's clear it was a painful, violent experience for him. The metal plate protrudes from the scar tissue in a way that you're sure was painful when first placed. You look on with curiosity, you're not really sure how this, a sign of survival, a badge of resilience, could ever make anyone turn away from him.

He's as breathtaking as you could ever imagine.

Your eyes flicker up at him. He looks at the blank wall of your apartment, scared to watch your facial expressions as you take it in. "Can I?"

He nods, barely able to look you in the eyes. He sucks in a breath when your fingers make contact with the scar tissue surrounding the metal plate.

You immediately pull your fingers back, worried you've accidentally hurt him. "Does it hurt?"

"No," he answers reflexively.

You know he's lying. "I've seen you holding your shoulder before - holding it like it hurts."

"Sometimes," he amends. "The doctor said there's a lot of nerve damage. Things they can't fix."

"Does it hurt now?"

"No."

You run your hand over the plate, over his scars, down to his shoulder blade.

"Still think I'm pretty?" he sarcastically remarks.

You press a gentle kiss to his bare shoulder. "I'll always think you're pretty. Every part of you."

Bucky Barnes Masterlist AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated! 💛

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[usedtobecooler]

eddie ‘monstercock’ munson, who is painfully unaware of the sheer size of his dick.

tw: sexual content 18+ minors dni, size kink, oral m receiving, piv sex, praise kink, dirty talk, general debauchery. for my love @raccoonboywrites

and, listen, you’re not a size queen at all. don’t care much for how big or small a cock is so long as whoever it’s attached to knows how to use it. but you gasp out loud once you get your fingers dig under eddie’s waistband, pulling the offending material down to let his length spring out.

it’s enough to shock you back into the room, watching as the thick weight of it slaps against eddie’s tummy, the way it curves into his navel. he’s wet, leaking at the head and matting down the pretty swirls of black hair that lead a trail down, down, down.

he’s rumpled against your bed frame, slumped down with his shirt rucked up his tummy. the prettiest pink flush spreading across his cheeks, tinging his ears and dipping as low as his collar. you’re willing to bet his chest is blotched with the lovely rosy colour, too. he grips aimlessly at your comforter, wide eyes watching your every move; tracing every hitch of your breath.

you wrap your hand around the base — purposely ignoring the pathetic little whine eddie makes, because jesus now isn’t the time to think too much about that — and you moan despite yourself when your hand doesn’t even wrap fully around the girth of it, dwarfing your fingers and palm.

“you— you’re so big, oh my god,” your voice catches at the end, desperate and dampened by your own desire for it. you lean forward, hot breath ghosting over him, tugging his foreskin back just enough for the head to pop out, shiny and reddening with need, “you could’ve at least warned me you were packing a python down there, fuck.”

“oh shit, really? i thought it was aver— holy fuck, you don’t have to—“ he’s bug eyed, eyebrows shooting under his fringe as you mouth at the head, determined and eager to get a taste of him. uncut, heavy on your tongue, the heady splash of precum blurting out to coat your tastebuds.

eddie’s knees kick up a little as you mouth greedily at his tip, pointing your tongue to run in circles around the glans on the underside. you smirk despite yourself, getting a kick out of it when eddie goes a little cross eyed, burying a ringed hand into your hair.

you indulge yourself, feeling the weight of him in your mouth as you sink lower, just far back enough as to not trigger your gag reflex. your lips wrapping around his hot flesh, suckling softly, reveling in each blurt of pearlescent release that drips onto your tongue.

“baby, sweetheart — fuck,” eddie gasps, breath shuddery, lightly pulling at your tresses to test the water. his mouth falling open into a quiet moan when your eyes flutter at the feeling, “y’can- y’can take more, right? s’not… s’not that big.”

your jaw cracks under what of him you’ve fit in, which truthfully isn’t much. despite your efforts, there’s still a good three inches of eddie’s cock left untouched by hand or mouth, and you really have to wonder if he’s that clueless of his size. you pull off with a wet pop, strings of saliva keeping you connected to him as you stare up with wet orbs.

“eddie, you’re huge.” your voice is wrecked, butterflies swirling in your tummy as you make eye contact with him once again. you flush under his debauched gaze, "i— shit. nobody's ever told you before?"

eddie shrugs, considers for a moment. you don't think he's aware of the fact he's holding you in place with his hand, gripping your hair just enough to keep you still, hovering over his dick just close enough that if he wanted to, he could push you back down, get your mouth back on him.

though, that’s clearly not what he wants. because, he’s slipping the hand from your hair, doing this kind of awkward dance as he lays you out where he wants you.

you end up on your back, thighs spread wide as eddie slots between them, mouthing hotly at your neck. his fingers graze along your flushed skin, dance on your hipbone, across your pelvis. dips those godforsaken fingers into your panties, carelessly fumbling over your sopping wet pussy.

“this is okay, right?”

“it’s all okay, eddie. anything you want.”

"not— not even touched you yet and you're already this wet?" eddie's voice is a low timbre against your skin, has you arching up into his touch with a soft little moan. he sounds shocked, no heat or teasing in his words.

"can't help it," you gasp, exhaling shakily when eddie swipes two fingers over your clit deftly, unable to hide his smile at how receptive you are, "feeling the size of you in my hand — my mouth, god. would've let you choke me with it, would've thanked you."

eddie buries his face into your cleavage, poorly concealing a choked whine. he's skillful with his fingers, working you over fast despite how much your words are clearly affecting him.

your hips rock in short little circles, fingers sinking into eddie's hair, tugging lightly at the nape of his neck. you whine, body set alight with the feeling of calloused fingers grazing the small bundle of nerves.

he's biting you, brandishing you with little blooming bruises, and with the noise he makes against your damp skin you'd think it was him getting touched like this, him hurtling towards the edge.

you're so wet that the slick noises of eddie's fingers on your pussy are deafening in your ears, causing your back to prickle with heat, tummy winding tight.

the hot, heavy flesh of his cock presses against your inner thigh, shocking loud moans from you both at the same time. you arch up into his touch, ears ringing as pleasure takes over your body.

"i— you're making me cum," you gasp breathily, a static feeling warming your body, eyes rolling into the back of your head. you grapple for eddie's hair once more, tugging with a ferocity as your release washes over you.

it's. something. you feel like you're fucking floating, and eddie keeps swirling his fingers perfectly, whispering little shocked praises and keening into your rough pulling as he wrings you out.

once eddie's sure you're done with the aftershocks of your orgasm, he hazards pushing two fingers into your soaked cunt, and you're practically shooting away with overstimulation. crying out, somehow swivelling your hips and pushing down onto his fingers further once the shock wears off.

"you're a shit," you gasp, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, "god, might've known your dick was gonna be big, fuckin' size of your fingers."

"was— was that good for you? can i, shit can i?" eddie's desperate, rutting the thick outline of his cock against your thigh. he's never stopped fucking leaking, soaking your leg in milky precum and allowing the slip and slide to feel good.

you nod, shaky hands tilting his head up so you can finally, finally, get your mouth on his. eddie's whole body presses flush against yours, his hand coming out to stabilise himself so he doesn't crush you, and fuck.

it's so charged, like he can't stilt his emotions as he snakes his tongue into your mouth, lapping at your own wetly. it's probably disgusting, doesn't feel like it though — you'd swallow his spit happily, whenever he wanted, if it meant he kept making you feel like this.

eddie's shaky hand fumbles for the base of his cock as you continue kissing, positioning himself so that he's nestled prettily between your legs. the kisses turn languid, and he almost sounds pained when he next speaks, "s-sorry. if it, if it hurts."

"let it hurt, i want it to," your demeanor falters a little, turning doe eyed and pleading as eddie slides the ruddy head of his cock up and down the seam of your cunt, flirts with the idea of pushing the tip in just to watch you gasp and keen.

"would never," eddie promises, finally — fucking, finally — pushing the first few inches into the sopping wet heat of your pussy. he cries out when you clench around him unwittingly, and you mumble out a small sorry as you adjust.

it's. not good. it's not bad, either, but fuck. you feel like you're being split from the inside, the thick tip pushing you wider than you anticipated. your fingers grapple for eddie's biceps, nails digging in tightly, "so fucking big, oh my god, you're gonna split me in half."

you're breathless and eddie catches on, panics a little, "you're okay? you're okay, right? i can sto—"

"if you stop, i swear to god," you seethe, looking at eddie with a fierce spark in your eyes, "keep going. fuck. keep going."

before long and with a little bit of resistance, eddie's buried deep inside of you. your bodies roll against one anothers, shallow, slow breaths

it starts slow, the catch and drag of eddie's cock shocking you both into silence. but, before long, your pussy catches up with the programme, gushing wet and allowing eddie to push in further with each thrust.

it's intimate, erotic.

"you're so tight," eddie all-out whimpers, head falling and shoulders shaking as he fucks you at a lazy pace, clearly trying his best to hold out for as long as he can.

"fuck, you’re so gentle,” you try, knees squeezing eddie’s narrow waist, thighs encapsulating him, “you can go quicker. not gonna break me.”

eddie shakes his head, almost like he’s bewildered. looks at you all fucking soft, clearly can’t help the rut of his hips as he buries in deep, biting his inner lips to muffle his noises.

you grasp a hold of eddie's hand with nimble fingers, guide his hand over the softness of your tummy, let him push down where his cock is buried deep inside of you. his whole body shudders, and you can feel where he kicks up.

"practically in my guts," you wheeze, unable to shake the full feeling despite how your pussy gushes for him, so full you swear you feel him in your throat with every deep thrust he can muster, "you're s-so big, eddie."

"oh— jesus, can't do shit like that. can't say shit like that," eddie grunts desperately, rutting into you and gripping for your waist tightly, other hand still pushed down on the pudge of your belly, "gonna make me cum so, so quick."

"can feel every ridge of you, you're splitting me apart," you keen, "i can't— god, you've ruined me f-for anyone else. yours, yours, m'yours."

eddie's forehead slumps against your own, and you're panting into each others mouths more than anything else, lips barely brushing, "mine, you're mine." he agrees, though he sounds pained and submissive as he says it.

your hand snakes around eddie's neck, holding him in place as he fucks you so desperately, so rough you're rattling the stupid bedframe, and you don't think you've ever felt anything like this before. it's all-consuming, the tug between sore and soul-crushingly sensual.

your second orgasm hits you like a freight train, the constant press against your spot causing a quicker build up than you could've anticipated. you both make eye contact as you come with a muted gasp, nails scraping harshly at the soft skin on eddie's neck as you rock it out.

"didn't think you could get any tighter, god," eddie whimpers, eyes squeezing shut, finger-shaped bruises sure to be left on your hips as he fucks you in some sort of reckless abandon, "fuck, i'm so close. i'm so sorry, fuck, fuck."

you nod, understanding, the wet clap of skin on skin deafening as your release allows an even smoother glide. he's fucking ethereal above you, covered in a light sheen of sweat, mouth open in a constant stream of steady moans.

you reach between where both of your bodies meet, where the final few inches don't quite fit, spreading your fingers either side of his cock to allow friction as he fucks in and out rapidly, chasing his high.

eddie looks at you with a wild expression, eyebrows shooting up into his fringe. he grunts like a fucking animal, eyes drifting down to where your hand is, "you— you— i'm cumming, holy fuck—!"

he's loud when he comes, full body wracked with it. you feel his cock pulse and kick inside of you, painting your insides deep. the moan you let out at the feeling is hardly voluntary, so pathetic you flush hot when you realise just how loud you are.

"thank you, thank you," eddie's mumbling against your skin, kissing the side of your neck softly as he comes down, "god, you're perfect. so perfect."

you shudder, overcome with this sappy fucking fond feeling, allowing eddie to collapse on top of you once he's done. it's soft, domestic, even.

you both end up in some sort of gross, body fluid covered cuddle as you calm down. blissed out in the post-orgasmic haze, and fuck.

maybe you're in love with him.

[hanniebaeee]

Hold My Hand

Han Jisung x fem!reader

Warnings: nothing much!

Genre: classmates to lovers, fluff

Summary: Your life was a straight line. Graduate top of your class. Marry Minho. Take over your family business. But then there's Han Jisung - the sweet geeky genius, who has completely stolen your heart.

a/n: Needs another round of editing which I'll do soon.

Bonus

You were terrible at this. Numbers? Fine. Business strategy? More than fine. But Python? It might as well have been ancient hieroglyphs. You sighed, trying to remain calm even though all you wanted to do was scream.

Your life was a straight line - graduate top of your class (questionable, considering you may or may not fail your coding class), marry Minho (your father’s friend’s son and your closest friend - because your fathers promised you to each other) and take over your family business. It was a plan carved in marble. No deviations allowed.

But then there was him. Han Jisung. The scholarship guy from a world that was exactly opposite to yours - completely chaotic. He was all messy hair, glasses slipping down his nose, and thrifted hoodies, making your pulse raise for reasons unknown to you.

You weren't supposed to want someone like Jisung. He wasn't part of the plan. But yet, seeing him stumble into the library with his laptop in hand, your traitorous heart stuttered shamelessly. Exactly like how it had, when he lent you a pen during the first week of class, during an emergency pen situation.

You tried to focus on your screen, but your eyes betrayed you, watching as he looked around for somewhere to sit.

Get it together, you scolded yourself.

But Jisung had noticed you, and it was like watching a cartoon character short-circuit. His eyes widened, his foot caught on a chair, and he nearly faceplanted into a table.

“Oh, uh…h-hey, Y/N!” he stammered, pushing his glasses up with a shaky finger.

His voice cracked, and you bit your lip to keep from smiling. He was such a mess, and it was so unfairly hot.

“Hi, Jisung,” you said, your tone cool and measured, though your heart was doing cartwheels.

You crossed your legs under the table, hoping he didn’t notice how your hands were trembling. Well, he wouldn't, since he just stood there, frozen. His hands clutched his laptop like a lifeline.

“You, uh, working on the coding assignment? The one due Friday?” His voice was too loud for the library, and a nearby student shushed him.

He winced, mouthing a silent 'sorry', before taking the seat next to you.

“Yes,” you said, glancing at your screen. “It’s… challenging.”

“Challenging?” He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s one way to put it. Um, do you need help? With the coding, I mean! Not that you’re bad at it! You’re probably great! I just…uh…”

He was spiraling, and it was absolutely adorable.

You tilted your head, considering. This was a bad idea. Getting close to Jisung was like playing with fire when your life was already a perfectly curated museum exhibit. But your assignment was due in three days, and you were drowning.

“If you’re offering,” you said carefully, “I wouldn’t mind some assistance.”

His eyes went wide, like you just handed him the keys to a Ferrari.

“Really? Okay, cool, cool, I can do that. Totally chill.” He was not chill.

He vibrated with nervous energy as he dropped his laptop on the table and slid his chair closer to you.

Too close. His knee brushed yours under the table, and you both froze. He quickly jerked his leg back, muttering, “Sorry, sorry, oh god -,” while you stared at your laptop, trying to ignore the electric jolt that shot through you.

“It’s fine,” you said, pointing at the screen. “I don’t understand why my code keeps crashing.”

Jisung leaned in, squinting at your laptop. His arm brushed yours, and you caught the faint scent of his shampoo - something citrusy, that shouldn’t be this sexy, but was. He was muttering about syntax errors and missing semicolons, but you were barely listening, too distracted by the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“See, here’s the problem,” he said, pointing at a line of code.

His glasses slipped down again, and he pushed them up with a pout. His fingers flew over your keyboard as he fixed the error like it was nothing, and you were mesmerized by how confident he was when he was in his element.

This was a different Jisung - not the flustered mess he was a second ago, but a geeky genius.

He finished typing and turned to you, grinning.

“Try running it now,” he said.

You hit the execute button, and - miracle of miracles - it worked.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, genuinely impressed. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Jisung beamed, but before he could say something, another voice boomed through the silent room, disturbing its peace.

“Hey, Y/N!”

Your head snapped up as Minho walked over with his designer coat and smug grin.

“Didn’t expect to see you slumming it in the library.”

Jisung shrank back into his chair, looking like he wanted to melt into the floor. You sat up straighter, slipping back into your polished persona.

“Minho,” you said coolly. “I was studying.”

Minho’s eyes flicked to Jisung, and he smirked.

“With him? What, you are hiring tutors from the thrift store now?” he asked, but there was no real bite in his words. Minho was always joking around, and that was just his nature.

Jisung’s face flamed, but he muttered, “At least I don’t need daddy’s money to pass my classes.”

Minho’s smirk faltered, and you bit back a laugh.

“Enough,” you said, standing. “Jisung was helping me with an assignment. But we're done here.”

Minho raised an eyebrow, clearly not used to being dismissed.

“Whatever. Let's get going. We have to be at the dinner party in 2 hours, babe.” he said, waiting for you to gather your things, while his eyes lingered on Jisung.

Jisung stared at the table, picking at the edge of his laptop looking like a kicked puppy.

You hated these business parties that your father forced you to attend. But you had to play your part to perfection - Y/N, the poised heiress, future CEO. Your arm looped through Minho’s as he navigated the crowd, his tailored suit hugging his frame perfectly.

He was all charm tonight, flashing his sharp grin, his hand resting on the small of your back.

You’ve kind of known since you were teenagers that he would most probably be your future husband - the final piece of your carefully curated life.

But tonight, it felt so off. Your mind kept drifting to Jisung and his nervous laugh. And you were mentally preparing yourself to talk to Minho. To ask him that one question that has been haunting you for more than a year now.

You two have been friends since forever. But this friendship has been nothing but a friendship from then. The most platonic one ever. Even after your parents casually mentioned that you'd marry Minho one day - there was literally no spark between you two.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Minho murmured, leaning in.

His hand slid lower, fingers grazing the curve of your hip through the thin fabric of your gown.

“What’s got you so distracted?”

You forced a smile, tilting your head to meet his gaze, which was playful, but there was an edge to it, like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“It's nothing,” You lied quickly and Minho hummed, a frown taking over his face.

He stepped closer, his chest brushing yours as he maneuvered you toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, away from the prying eyes of the crowd.

“What is it?” he asked again, his hand still resting on your waist.

You were used to this - Minho has always been handsy, and you’ve let him get away with it before, chalking it up to familiarity, to the inevitability of your future together. Even though you two weren't actually together. Or engaged. Just stuck in the purgatory of the in-between situation. Unwilling to say the least.

But tonight, his touch felt… wrong. Like it was trespassing on something that didn’t belong to him anymore.

But before you had to act on it, your phone buzzed in your purse, the vibration cutting through the tension. You jumped back, breaking his hold, and fished it out. The screen flashed ‘Mom’, and your heart leapt with relief. Perfect timing.

“I need to take this,” you said, already turning away.

Minho’s expression clouded, but you didn’t give him a chance to argue.

“Sorry, it’s urgent. I’ll find you later.” you said, scurrying away to a safe distance.

And that's when you knew - you were screwed. Absolutely, royally screwed.

You didn’t plan to end up here. Parties weren't your scene - too loud, too messy, too uncontrolled. But your roommate dragged you along, insisting you needed to “live a little” before the stress of midterms (and an impending engagement) crushed you.

So here you were, in a simple black top and jeans, sipping a beer in a corner, trying to blend into the wallpaper. Your parents would have a heart attack if they saw you here, but for once, you weren't thinking about them. Or Minho. Or the way his face fell when you ran away.

But then you see him. Jisung. He was across the room, looking like he wandered into the wrong universe.

He was clutching a beer as talked to some guy - probably one of his nerdy Comp Sci friends - his free hand gesturing wildly as he spoke. Your heart did a stupid little flip, and you hated it.

But then his eyes caught yours, and it was like the room shrank two sizes. His smile faltered and his cheeks flushed as you raised your beer in a half-hearted greeting, and he grinned, all lopsided and shy, before making his way over.

“Y/N?” he said, like he’s shocked you’re real. “What are you doing here?”

“Needed a break. What’s your excuse?” you said, moving over to make room for him to sit.

He laughed, scratching the back of his neck.

“Uh, free beer?” He held up his drink, sloshing a bit onto his sneakers. “Oops. Shit. Pretend you didn’t see that.”

“Too late,” you teased, and he groaned, his blush deepening.

He was so himself - clumsy and sweet - and it was doing things to you. Dangerous things.

And just like that you both get into a conversation. And your cups are empty at some point. So naturally, you followed him into the kitchen, where you found a cooler stuffed with beers. You both grabbed one, popping the caps with a bottle opener someone had tied to the fridge. You leaned against the counter, and Jisung mirrored you, his shoulder brushing yours.

As you looked over at him with a soft smile on your face, and he did the same, you couldn't help but realize that you've never felt this way before. No one has ever made your heart flutter like Jisung did.

The night blurred, and one beer turned into two, then three, and soon you were both tipsy, laughing too loud at Jisung’s dumb impressions of your Comp Sci professor.

Jisung was more at ease now, his nerves dulled by alcohol, and you were not much better, your usual prim-and-proper filter slipping. You were close - too close - your knees bumping as you talked, your hand grazing his when you reached for another drink. Every touch felt like a match struck against your skin.

“God, you’re so cool,” Jisung slurred, leaning closer, his glasses fogging slightly. “Like, you’re all fancy and perfect, but you’re here, drinking shitty beer with me. It’s unreal.”

You laughed, shaking your head lightly.

“I’m not perfect, Jisung. Trust me.” you said, the words hitting even though you're drunk.

“You are,” he insisted, his voice soft, earnest. “You’re, like… you. I can’t explain it.”

Your cheeks burned as you said, “You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”

He gasped, clutching his chest.

“Are you flirting with me, Y/N?” He asked, and it’s so cheesy you burst out laughing, but god, you wanted to kiss him. You wanted to grab his stupid hoodie and pull him close until there was no space left between you.

Until you realize that you were sitting so close. So close that you were literally half on his lap. You didn’t know how you got there - maybe you tripped, maybe he pulled you, maybe the beer made you bold. Jisung’s hands hovered over your shoulders, like he was scared to touch you, his face flushed crimson under the fairy lights.

“Y/N,” he whispered, voice shaky, “is this-”

You didn't say anything. Just rested your head on his shoulder, your lips brushing the soft skin of his neck (accidentally, to be honest). He smelled like cheap cologne and something uniquely him, and it drove you wild. Your lips lingered, and you felt him tense beside. A soft whimper escaped him, barely audible, and it was the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

You pressed closer, and he actually moaned, his hands finally settling on around your shoulder, gripping you tightly, like he was afraid you'd disappear.

You were drunk and dizzy, but at that very moment, you knew it - you were in love with Han Jisung. You didn't just want him or just crave - you loved him and his clumsy charm and geeky rants and his heart so big it spilled out of him.

But then, there was something gnawing at you from the inside. A sharp stab of realization that this was just so unfortunate. Because you were promised to someone else. Like a damn object. And it was so unfair.

Reality crashed in, cold and brutal. Minho, your almost-fiancé.

You froze, pulling back with a jerk, and Jisung gave you a confused look.

“Y/N?” he said, voice small, like he was scared he did something wrong.

“I…I can’t,” you stammered, sliding off the couch, away from his warmth, your heart pounding. “I’m sorry, Jisung. I… I have to go.”

His face fell, and it was like a knife to your chest. “Did I-?”

“No,” you said quickly, grabbing his hand. “It’s not you. It’s… complicated.”

You couldn’t explain it, not here, not now, not when you were still buzzing with alcohol and guilt and want. You squeezed his hand, then let go, standing on shaky legs.

“Y/N, wait -” he started, but you’re already moving, weaving through the crowd, your vision blurring with unshed tears. You didn’t look back. You couldn't. If you saw his face, you’d break, and you were already too close to shattering.

---

You stumbled outside, the cool night air hitting you like a slap. You leaned against a tree, catching your breath, and wiped at your eyes. A sob spilled from your lips, and at that exact moment, you heard Minho’s sharp voice, cutting through the haze like a blade.

“Y/N, what the hell?” Minho was striding toward you, his usual smug confidence replaced with something harder.

It looked a lot like annoyance, maybe, or something deeper. He stopped a few feet away, taking in your disheveled state - your flushed cheeks, the way you were clutching your arms like you’re holding yourself together.

“You’re wasted. What are you doing out here looking like… this?” he snapped and you bristled, straightening up despite the wobble in your legs.

“I’m fine,” you snapped back, though your slurred words betrayed you. “Just needed air.”

“Air?” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he scanned you. “You look like you just stumbled out of a bar fight. This isn’t you, Y/N. Getting drunk at some shitty party? What’s gotten into you?”

His tone - condescending, scolding - lights a fuse you didn’t know was burning. You were so fucking tired of it. The expectations, the control, the way everyone assumed that they could dictate your life.

Jisung’s face flashed in your mind - his soft shy smile and his hurt face from a few minutes ago, and it was like a dam breaking inside you. You pushed off the wall, swaying slightly, and pointed a finger at him.

“Tell me this, Minho. Why do you want to marry me?”

He froze, his expression shifting from annoyance to incredulity.

“What?” He laughed, short and disbelieving, like you just asked him why the sky was blue. “What’s the matter with you? You’re drunk and talking nonsense.”

“I’m serious,” you said, your voice rising, unsteady but fierce.

You took a step closer, your eyes locked with his.

“Why do you want to marry me? Because our parents decided it? Because it’s good for business? Tell me, Minho. Why?”

He faltered, his smirk slipping, and for the first time, you saw uncertainty flicker in his eyes. He opened his mouth, then closed it, like he was searching for the right words and coming up empty.

“Y/N, come on,” he said finally, his voice softer. “You know why. We’re good together. We make sense. Our families -”

“That’s not an answer!” you cut him off, your hands balling into fists.

The alcohol made you bold, reckless, and you couldn't stop now.

“I don’t want to be a puppet, Minho. I don’t want to be some trophy wife you control, some box you check off for your perfect life. I’m not a thing you get to own.” you cried, and his face crumpled as the tears flowed freely down yours.

He stepped closer, his voice low, almost pleading.

“You think I see you like that? A puppet? Y/N, I -” He stopped, running a hand through his hair, his composure cracking. “I’ve known you forever. I thought… I thought you wanted this too.”

His words hit harder than you expected, a pang of guilt slicing through your anger. For a moment, you saw the Minho you grew up with. The one who snuck you extra dessert at boring dinners, who teased you but never let anyone else cross you.

But it wasn't enough. Not when your heart was screaming for someone else. And it hurt more because you'd promised yourself to quietly go ahead with the engagement and the wedding if Minho told you that he loved you. You obviously would have, considering the fact that you've known him your whole life, and you would never break his heart. But now, you wanted to scream.

“It’s not fair,” you said, your voice breaking. “It’s not fair that I don’t get a say. I don’t want this, Minho. I don’t -”

The words spilled out before you could stop them - sharp and final, and you saw the hurt flash across his face, his eyes widening like you’ve slapped him.

“Y/N…” he was reaching for you, but you stepped back, shaking your head.

You turned and ran, stumbling toward the street. You heard him call your name, his voice raw, but you didn’t look back. The party’s noise faded, replaced by the thud of your pulse and the burn of your tears.

You hated this. Hated yourself, hated the stupid plan that chained you to a life you don’t want.

The morning came with a headache that was literally tearing your head apart. And the weight of last night’s drunken outburst crushed you.

What was worse, Minho didn’t show up to class, and it was unheard of for someone as annoyingly perfect as he was. You panicked all through the day, and felt too scared to text or call him.

The memory of his hurt expression, the way you ran off after shredding your almost-engagement, kept replaying like a bad movie in your brain. So, here you were, standing outside his door with a peace offering: his favorite black forest cake from that overpriced bakery he loved and a large iced Americano, just how he liked it.

You knocked with your heart in your throat, half-expecting him to slam the door in your face. But when he opened it, you almost dropped the cake. Minho’s usually sharp eyes were dull, his hair was a mess. And he was in a rumpled T-shirt and sweatpants, like he hadn't slept at all. It totally broke your heart because you've never seen him like this and you had no one but yourself to blame for this.

He sighed, long and heavy, when he saw you.

“Y/N,” he said, voice flat, but his gaze flicks to the cake and coffee.

He stepped aside, taking the offerings without a word, and let you in. No snarky comment, no smirk. Just silence. That was scarier than any lecture he could’ve given you.

You hovered by the door as he shuffled to his bed, flopping onto it with the cake box and coffee in hand (picking up a fork from the little kitchen on his way). He popped open the box and started eating, not even looking at you.

The silence was deafening, and you felt like an idiot, standing there like a statue in your pristine sweater and skirt.

He finally glanced up, mid-bite, and raised an eyebrow.

“You coming in to share this or are you leaving?” His voice was tired, like he’s too drained to care.

You hesitated, then nodded, kicking off your shoes and climbing onto his bed, and cuddling up beside him like you always did. The familiarity of being in his space made your throat tight.

You curled up closer, tucking your legs under you, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Minho.”

He didn’t say anything, just took another bite of cake, the fork scraping softly against the box. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, until he set the cake on his lap and looked at you, his eyes searching.

“Who is it?” he asked quietly, no venom, just curiosity tinged with something resigned. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

You froze, your heart slamming against your ribs. You weren’t ready for this. Not now, not here, not with him looking at you like he already knew the answer and just needed to hear it.

“I…” you started, but the words stuck, your mouth dry.

He tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Come on, Y/N. I have known you from when we were in diapers. I know this isn't some random impulsive thing. Who’s got you throwing away our whole… whatever this is?”

His voice was steady, but there was a crack in it, a hint of the hurt you saw last night.

You swallowed, your hands trembling in your lap. If there was one thing you could never do, that would be lying to Minho. So you just told him the truth.

“Han Jisung,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Minho blinked, then leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, he was silent, and you were bracing for anger, for a fight. Or tears even. But then he started laughing. A loud, almost manic laugh that filled the room, like he was possessed.

You scowled, offended. “What’s so funny?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he gasped, wiping his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. He looked at you, still chuckling, and shook his head.

“Really? Geeky is your thing? Han Jisung? The guy who trips over his own backpack and talks to his laptop like it’s his girlfriend?” he laughed and you huffed, shoving him.

“Shut up! He’s not like that!” you argued.

Okay, maybe he was, but it’s cute, and Minho's laugh pissed you off. You cross your arms, sulking.

“He’s… he’s sweet. And smart. And -”

“Okay, okay,” Minho said, holding up his hands in surrender, still grinning. “I get it. You’re into the hot loser vibe. No judgment.”

His smile faded, and he leaned forward, his expression softening.

“It's a relief you left me for love and not for someone richer. So…there’s no use of me fighting him, is there? You’re set on Jisung?” he said, and you nodded, your throat tight.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I think I am.”

He exhaled, long and slow, and looked down at the cake, poking at it with the fork.

“Have you told him?” He asked.

“No.” You said, sighing. “Not without talking to you first.”

“Ok.”

“I’m so sorry, Minho,” you said, reaching for his hand, squeezing it, desperate for him to understand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I can’t keep pretending this is what I want. It’s not fair to you either.”

He looked at you, and for a moment, you saw the Minho who has been your closest friend for years.

“It’s okay,” he says finally, his voice soft. “Thanks for being honest.”

You didn’t know what possessed you - guilt, affection, the need to hold onto something familiar, because you wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug. He stiffened for a second, then relaxed, his arms looping around you tight. You buried your face in his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you even as your heart aches.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling against your chest. “Babe, are you breaking up with me or trying to start something here? Mixed signals much?”

You pulled back, flustered, and shoved him lightly.

“Minho!” you squeaked, your face burning hot.

He laughed again, softer this time, and ruffled your hair, the gesture so familiar it hurt.

“You’re a mess, Y/N,” he said, but there was no malice in it, just sad fondness. “Go figure your shit out with Jisung. But if he breaks your heart, I’m not buying you cake to cry over him.”

---

The days that followed your break up (can you even call it that), your mother has been driving you up the wall with her dramatic crying and angry screeching and lectures.

It had become a daily ritual. Waking up to her scolding you and threatening to disown you. And then begging you to get back together with Minho. When you tell her you were never actually together in the first place, she flipped again. And it was all a loop.

You were not sorry for choosing yourself, for wanting Jisung, but the weight of your family’s disappointment was suffocating.

You spent the mornings venting, Minho listening and cracking jokes to lighten your mood. It was funny how much better your relationship with Minho was, now that you two were just friends. In the evening, he would order takeout, and you would end up cross-legged on his floor, eating dumplings and laughing at his stupid jokes.

It was the only thing helping you forget about your mother, the company, and the mess you’ve made.

---

But across campus, Jisung wasn't laughing. In fact Jisung was a walking tragedy, and he was leaning into it hard. In the days since the party, he had transformed into a melodramatic shadow of himself, moping around campus in his heartbreak.

He was in your shared Comp Sci class, slouched in the back row, his hoodie pulled up and completely heart broken. He had watched you leave the party in tears and arguing with Minho. And now he has been seeing you and Minho together, walking across the quad, you leaning into Minho’s side, lost in conversation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

To Jisung, it looked like you were something, like the party was a drunken mistake, and it’s eating him alive.

He was quiet in class, not his usual fidgety, joke-cracking self. When you tried to catch his eye, he ducked his head, pretending to focus on his laptop. You wanted to talk to him, to explain, but every time you got close, your nerves betrayed you.

What if he didn’t feel the same? What if he thought you were just some rich girl playing with his feelings?

The jealousy festered over the next few days. Jisung saw you and Minho at the campus coffee shop, your head on Minho’s shoulder as he scrolled through his phone.

He slumped over his tray, poking at a sad pile of fries, muttering to his roommate, “What’s the point of life when you’re just the guy who gets kissed and ditched?”

His roommate sighed, used to the theatrics, and slid him a soda, but Jisung just stared at it like it betrayed him too.

Then he saw Minho sling an arm around you at the library. This was proof enough for Jisung - you were Minho’s, always have been, and whatever happened at the party was a fluke.

His chest ached with it, a mix of longing and hurt that he buried under late-night coding sessions and too-loud music.

You noticed Jisung pulling away - if ever you caught his attention, his smiles were forced, his eyes avoiding yours. It hurt more than you expected, especially after the party, when you felt so sure he wanted you too. You were so in love with him, but the chaos with your family and Minho’s constant presence made it impossible to bridge the gap.

---

You’ve been psyching yourself up for this all day. Your mother’s morning tirade still rang in your ears - another lecture about ruining the family legacy by ditching Minho. But you were done letting her control you. You were here for Jisung, to clear the air, to tell him how you felt.

You knocked on his door, clutching your bag like a shield. When Jisung opened it, he looked like he'd been through a war with his own brain. He froze, one hand gripping the doorknob.

“Y/N?” he said. “What, uh, what are you doing here?”

But he stepped back, letting you in. You stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you, and the air felt charged, like you were both standing on the edge of something big.

“I need to talk to you,” you said, trying to sound calm, but your voice wavered. “About the party. And… other stuff.”

Jisung’s face paled, then flushed red, and he started pacing, his hands flailing.

“The party? Oh, you mean the party where you…where you kissed my neck?” He pointed dramatically to the spot on his neck, where your lips had been, his finger jabbing like he was marking a crime scene. “Right here, Y/N! You did that, and I was, like, losing my mind, and then you just bolted! And now you’re, what, playing house with Minho? I see you two everywhere! Laughing, cuddling, sharing coffee like you’re married or something! What am I supposed to think? That I’m just some drunk mistake you made for fun?”

His words spilled out in a torrent, his voice rising with every sentence, and he wasn’t even looking at you now, just ranting to the air, gesturing wildly.

“I mean, I’m not an idiot, okay? I know I’m not, like, Minho. He’s all cool and rich, but I thought - god, I thought maybe you liked me, you know? Because you kissed me! Here!” He pointed to his neck again, his cheeks flaming. “And now you’re back with him, and I’m just the nerd who got too excited over nothing, and -”

“Jisung!” you tried to cut in, but he was on a roll, pacing faster, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“- and it’s fine, really, I get it! You’re you, and I’m me, and we’re not even in the same universe, but it hurt, Y/N, because I’ve been crushing on you since, like, the first day of class when you asked me for a pen, and I gave you my favorite one, and you never gave it back, by the way, but that’s not the point! The point is, you can’t just go around kissing people’s necks and then -”

You couldn’t take it anymore. He wasn't shutting up, and every word was like a knife, twisting your guilt and frustration tighter. So you did the only thing you could think of - you grabbed the front of his T-shirt, and kissed him.

It wasn't not gentle. It was desperate and messy, your lips crashing against his to silence his rant. Jisung froze, his hands hovering mid-gesture, and for a second, you thought you'd broken him. Then he melted, a soft, surprised whimper escaping his throat as he kissed you back, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’ll vanish. His lips were warm, a little chapped, but absolutely perfect. Your heart pounded, hands sliding up to cup his face, and you poured everything into the kiss - every apology, every feeling you’ve been too scared to say.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were panting, and his eyes wide, like he’s just seen a miracle.

“W-what… what was that?” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

You were still catching your breath, your forehead resting against his.

“That,” you said, “was me shutting you up because you wouldn’t listen.”

You stepped back slightly, but kept your hands on his shoulders, grounding yourself.

“Jisung, I’m not with Minho. We’re not together. We never really were…not like that. It was… arranged, by our parents, and I broke it off. He’s just my friend now. A really good one, but that’s it.” you said, and Jisung blinked, processing, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Wait, so… you’re not… with him?” His voice was small, hopeful, but still wary.

“No,” you said firmly, your thumb brushing his cheek, and he leans into it, almost unconsciously. “I’m not. I broke it off with him, because I love you, Jisung. A lot. And I’ve been trying to tell you, but you keep avoiding me, and I thought maybe you didn’t feel the same -”

“Feel the same?” he interrupted, his voice rising again, but this time it was laced with disbelief. “Y/N, I’ve been in love with you since you stole my pen! I was losing my mind at that party, thinking you’d just…ugh, I’m such an idiot!”

He groaned, tipping his head back, but his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer. You laughed, the sound shaky with relief, and leaned into him, your arms looping around his neck.

“You’re not an idiot. Well, maybe a little. But a cute one.” You bit your lip, your heart racing. “So… you like me too, then?”

He stared at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Like you? Y/N, I’m obsessed with you. My roommate’s ready to kick me out because I won’t shut up about you,”

He cut himself off, blushing furiously, and you couldn’t help it - you kissed him again, softer this time, but just as needy.

He moaned into it, a low, soft sound that sent heat curling through you, and you’re both stumbling back until you hit his bed, collapsing onto it in a tangle of limbs. His hands roamed your back, and the kiss deepened, all tongue and need, until you’re both gasping.

“Okay,” he panted, “so we’re… we’re doing this?”

“Yeah,”

“For real?”

“For real.”

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes

[earthtooz]

in which: alhaitham resorts to lying on top of you in order to get you speaking to him again.

quick alhaitham thought i needed to get off my mind, making out at the end lol, potentially ooc

there were a lot of things you didn’t expect when entering a relationship with alhaitham. you didn't expect him to have kaveh as a roommate, you didn’t expect him to overthrow the government, and you didn’t expect him to resort to pettiness in order to end the silent treatment you were giving him.

it’s suffocating beneath him, squished into his soft mattress with his body weight, muscles wrapped around you like a python whilst one arm is extended outwards, balancing a book. you wonder if he’s actually reading it, but you can tell he’s enjoying himself regardless, evident through the way he often turns his head to place a kiss on your exposed collarbone, burying his face into your warmth from here to there. 

for the umpteenth time, you grunt, losing your mind just a little. his body warmth was getting too much, and you’ve been lying here for who knows how long, just staring at the ceiling of his bedroom.

you want to protest, berate him for flattening you before shoving him off, but that would mean surrendering, and this time, you want alhaitham to be the one to give up first. 

as if hearing your thoughts, your grey-haired lover then glances up at you, sleepy gaze filtered through messy strands of hair that have fallen in front of his eyes. you almost cave at the domesticity of it all, only just stopping yourself from brushing his bangs away. 

“still upset?” he murmurs, putting his book face-down to wrap his arms tighter around your torso. “fine. have it your way, i’m going to nap.”

“no-” he perks up at the sound of your voice, raising an eyebrow as a mask of smugness gleams over his face. you shut your mouth immediately, cursing at yourself to slip up so easily, but you really needed to stretch out your legs and the other discomforts of lying like an unmoving plank beneath alhaitham. 

“what was that?” challenges your boyfriend. you don’t answer him, merely staring him down as he sits back, grabbing your wrists. “oh come on, i know you want to say something, out with it.” 

shaking your head, he scoffs at your stubbornness as if his isn’t just as frustrating, and gently caresses your hand. his touch is tantalising, urging you to give in, and paired with that lidded look of his, it’s practically impossible not to.

not many people get to see alhaitham like this, you realise. most know him as an indifferent, closed off, and unapproachable scribe, turned grand sage, turned scribe, yet you get the honour of seeing him as this. “talk to me already,” he demands gently, not letting his grip waver even as you keep trying to pull your hands away, only slipping away so far before he’s holding you again.

there aren’t many battles you can win against him, you know that, and one of them was a battle of strength. as he holds your wrists tight to your sides, his face so close to yours, you feel his earlier playfulness melting into something sincere. 

“are you still mad?” asks alhaitham, furrowing his eyebrows slightly as a pout appears along his lips. the response you give him is a petulant turn of your head. he sighs through his nose. “i’m sorry, okay? i was out of line, i should have listened to you, alright?”

his tone is uncharacteristically kind and warm, warm enough for you to give in to his pleas.

“you mean it?” you tease, grinning widely at him. in the blink of an eye, the tension from alhaitham’s shoulder seeps away like sand, and he sighs with relief before agreeing, a solid ‘yes’ slipping through his mouth. “then i accept your apology.”

“you minx, enjoying the sight of me like this, aren't you-” he murmurs, and you swallow his brewing snide remarks with a kiss, closing the gap by firmly pressing your lips against his. alhaitham is not surprised by your sudden affection. rather, he welcomes it, melts into you wholly as a hand holds the back of your neck to keep you against him. you're warm and precious and everything he could ever desire, so he can't help but let his hands wander, searching for more.

as your mouths slot together, there’s a delicate exchange of apologies that words cannot express; ironic, since alhaitham knows of several ways to apologise in a multitude of languages. nevertheless, he thinks that this is the best method.

with the way you move in sync with him, he can tell that this is your favourite too. 

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[balrogballs]

I have never had a normal thought since I realised Aragorn/Estel would have been around 10 years old — more like 7/8 considering his heritage — when Thorin's Company passes through Rivendell, so here are some brainrot headcanons (continued under the cut):

Estel is obsessed with Thorin. Just completely obsessed. Follows him around everywhere like a cat, begs him to play with him, offers to run errands for him. Literally every elf in Rivendell is completely stunned at the behaviour because Estel is, normally, a card-carrying ankle-biter.

The Dwarves, on the other hand, are shocked by the fact that by a few days into the visit, Thorin seems to like Estel too. Gloin would have sworn that he expected Thorin to throw the child off the banisters the minute he made him hold his pet python. Thorin didn't just hold said snake, but played with him, let him do little odd jobs, even letting him sit up with him at the dining halls. On two evenings, he even takes Estel out with a wooden sword, to show him how to "fight like a Dwarf lord". All the Dwarves are just as shook as the elves, minus Kili and Fili, who knew Thorin as Uncle Thorin and are completely unsurprised that he is so wonderful with little Estel.

Lindir and Elrond find a content python snoozing in Elrond's study. Lindir and Elrond are both utterly and irrationally terrified of snakes. After much screaming and climbing on sofas, every member of staff swears Estel had been in his mother's quarters all day. Nobody thinks to mention that they saw Bilbo and Thorin hanging about outside the study, because what relevance could that possibly have?

When the company left Rivendell, Estel was understandably quite unhappy because he'd miss them, also they were going to see a dragon, and he begged to go with them. Thorin does what most parents do before going on a trip, and promises to bring him a present from the dragon's lair when they returned.

Bilbo returns without Thorin, but with the promised present for Estel. He visits the boy in his quarters and they hold each other and share their grief. Bilbo then shows him the present. He explains how Thorin wanted to give him something more substantial than a golden cup scraped off the floor of a dragon's lair — he had told Bilbo, the night before the battle, to give the boy Thorin's own solid gold wristband.

On the same return trip, Elrond expressed his condolences over Thorin's death, and enquired if there were other casualties. When he finds out that Kili and Fili had also died in the battle, a strange, terrible expression twisted across his face and he said, almost reflexively, both? both together? good. that's good. The remaining Dwarves and Bilbo were all stunned, thinking it was Elvish apathy at best, and deliberate disrespect at worst. After all, they had no reason to know that Elrond, like his immortal brethren, found it somewhat difficult to gauge the ages of mortal beings — and had thought the two late brothers were twins.

Decades later on the night before the Fellowship were set to depart, the elderly Bilbo Baggins found it hard to sleep from worry, and wandered onto the balcony, and saw a lone man practicing sword moves in the courtyard. He realises both man and combat style seem faintly familiar, like the heavy striding and swinging and slashing are the steps to an old dance he once used to know, which now lives in a deep, forgotten place within him, under layers of unravelling memories. He can't quite put his finger on it. But there is a strange comfort in the sight, so soothing Bilbo's eyes start to close, falling asleep curled up right there on the balcony. He slips off into a wonderful old dream, lulled by the rhythm of fallen leaves crunching in the courtyard — where Aragorn "fights like a dwarf", solid gold wristband twinkling under the light of the stars.

[zwhoreo]

can i request some slutty luffy? just fuck me up fam ☠️

AHH i think this is so beautiful and one of my fav smuts i’ve written!!! :’)

hunger - luffy x f!reader

smut

summary: luffy gets incredibly horny, and he’s confusing lust with hunger

contains: mating press, praise, marking (reader receiving)

words: 2.4k

_______________________________

Luffy’s alone. He thinks, right now, of touch. And his body is sweaty from the day and from his yearning mind, he’s shirtless because an hour ago he lit on fire beneath his skin, he’s been simmering ever since, and it’s healed, somehow, by touch. So his fingers dig into the grooves of his abs, he likes to feel them flex and shift as he traces every corner, mouth open, drooling onto the glass of the porthole. He left his bed an hour ago when he lit on fire beneath his skin. His blanket became too hot, his mind too full to fall asleep. He’s thinking about food now, juicy fruits that drip down his throat, melted cheese, the greasy, fatty pieces of steak that slide so slowly along his tongue.

He rubs his stomach because he’s hungry, that’s it. There’s a burning within him, starvation but if it was beautiful. He needs food right now but he knows, somehow, that food won’t do anything for him, not really. And if he rubs his stomach because he’s hungry then why does his hand go lower, down beneath his waistline, tugging at the hair down there because, why? Why does this feel good? Why is he moaning, little whimpers that fog the glass, what does he need? He thinks of touch. Skin on skin. That’s it, skin on skin.

You’re probably alone. Moonbeams sail one by one from the east with the wind and blackening sky as the sunset turns lilac, fading, gold waves turning silver, copper. Translucent silk the color of the sunset hangs from your shoulders, a slip so loose it barely covers your chest. It isn’t cold tonight and you’re not tired. You saw dolphins this evening and you wonder if you can see them again before the water disappears in the night. Everyone else is already asleep. You hope that when you’re tired you can find Luffy, who’s probably asleep, and curl up with him as everything drifts away.

But as the ocean laps at the ship and you’re calmed by the gentle rocking you feel, suddenly, arms from behind. Arms that run over yours, hands massaging your wrists up to your shoulders. A distinct smell, the feeling of hot rubber, this is Luffy and he’s so, so warm. And his breathing is so heavy in your ear. He places his chin on your shoulder and it’s covered in drool, he begins to slowly lick your neck as he pulls you closer. You haven’t even said hi before he has you in his lap, squeezing your waist from behind. His licks turn to kisses, and then to bites, all over your upper back and then a wet, raw trail up to your jaw. He’s groaning with want, no words yet, he has too many things he wants to say.

“Hi Luffy,” you murmur with a little smile, reaching back to pet his face which is burning up and flushed. His tongue laps your cheek, he’s an excited puppy, you feel his teeth now so you ask gently, “what’s up?”

“Gonna eat you,” he says in a quiet, gravely voice, right into your ear. He whines after this in desire, in hunger, he’s lustful and desperate.

“Yeah?” You lean back against him. His arms are so tight, he’s trying to wrap you up and crush you like a python. And you can feel his heartbeat race in every muscle.

“Mh, ‘cause you’re real pretty. And I’m hungry so I’m gonna eat you.” He’s almost trying to take a bite out of your neck now, his teeth are sharp but his tongue is soothing, he moans because he likes the flavor. “Real pretty…” he hisses again beneath his breath.

You turn so you’re facing him. He needs a kiss right now and he doesn’t hesitate to grab your face and dive in, writhing tongue slipping greedily between your lips. And there’s a gentleness here too, his hand moves to the back of your head, stroking your hair adoringly. He isn’t going to hurt you he just needs you so, so bad and he doesn’t really know how or why or what he should say.

“God, Luffy.” You’re quiet, muffled by his mouth. And just hearing your voice again clouds his mind.

“Love ya, love ya so much,” he says in between moans and kisses. His nails scrape at your chest, delighted by softness, something to grab onto, more to squeeze. “I wanna play, please can we play?”

Trying to get on top of you he’s leaning over you and pulled by instinct, he wants you straddling him but he wants to be on top at the same time. He’s just a tangle of limbs right now, saliva dripping messily onto your neck.

“Of course I’ll play with you.” You’re blushing, eyes closing but he’s squeezing your cheeks and forcing you to look at him, huge sparkling eyes as deep as the Mariana look down on you.

Luffy begins to laugh. Just a breathy giggle at first, blowing air between his teeth in a little joyful hiss. And then his mouth opens, he laughs more, louder, that’s what he does when he’s excited and when he knows he’s about to get something that he wants so, so bad. And then it fades to giggles again, and he stills for a moment, no movement except his chest. Rise and fall, rise and fall. He’s just looking at you.

And then he licks his lips. He dives in.

You make a small sound, surprised and unable to react in time, as Luffy plants his feet firmly on the deck, your thighs slamming his stomach as your legs are thrown over his shoulders. And you’re bent, folding tighter and tighter as Luffy crouches over you. His arms encircle your legs and your back and your waist and constrict again, his legs are spread and ready, twitching, hips pressing yours. He’s forgetting, probably, that you aren’t as flexible as he is.

“This is good, Lu, this right here,” you manage to choke out because you often have to remind him what your body can and can’t take.

He mumbles a little apology and does a once over with his eyes, he wants to make sure that you aren’t hurt but, at the same time, he’s letting his gaze linger on your body, on the silk slip that’s fallen as your waist curls upwards and your breasts are bare now, so delicious, he’s drooling again. You’re tasty, you’re his.

This must take so much strength, the way he’s perched on his toes over your body, his thigh muscles clench and ripple against yours. Shared sweat, shared warmth. His balance is perfect even as he reaches for your chest, rubbing, holding, kissing, now he’s kissing your lips, now your neck. He doesn’t want this ever to be over.

And he says, “I love ya so much.” That’s the third time he’s said it.

“I love you too,” you say with such joy even as you’re breathless still, but before you can finish he’s pressing his mouth to yours hungrily. You said you loved him and he wants to taste it — the flavor of those words — it’s all-consuming.

“Tastes so good, mmh,” Luffy gasps as he takes you into this hot, wet kiss, “can’t wait, wanna play now.”

You’re not sure how he did it from this position, but his pants are off, kicked to the side. His cock is aching and leaking already and smoldering against your stomach, you can see it from here, throbbing and waiting, skin so smooth and thin and perfect like auburn moth wings over red-hot iron.

His chest crashes against yours in a tidal wave now because this new vulnerability makes him want to be closer. Now you can’t see it anymore but god, it’s so hard it feels like he’s denting you, so long and thick like a python, he’s still holding you, and squeezing more and more. Like a python.

With so much pressure he wraps his hands around lower, lower, snapping your panties, thrusting against your stomach in a way that shakes your body but he’s got you. You’re in his arms.

Begging eyes so close to yours, mouth on your lips and cheek, breathing so fast and so warm and he whispers, “can I?” And it’s so scratchy and kind and needy so deep in his throat.

So you pull his hair, you kiss him, yes.

Rolling back on his heels he finds his way, sloppy thrusts that don’t quite make it but god when they do, he isn’t going all the way even though his every nerve craves you but you’re his baby and he can’t hurt you.

Thick tip so soft and gentle, butterfly wings and flowers, impossibly hard and aching in heartbeat rhythms against your clit, moving you with every pulse, searching and desperate like a moth to a flame he finds you.

Shivers that make you clench your legs against his shoulders as he rubs and rubs back and forth and hugs your body and bites your cheek and murmurs, “that feel good? Ya like that?” with such curiosity like he really wants to know, he wants an answer.

“Perfect, so perfect. Please, I need you.” Words in his ear like shooting stars lighting up his body like the darkening sky. He’s made of ochre sunbeams.

He smiles and laughs and with another quick kiss he’s finding you more. Muscles flex and as he leans forward onto you he’s there, right there. He starts to moan loudly and whisper about how happy he is but it’s Luffy so it’s not a whisper, really. He’s not even inside you yet. He’s just so, so excited.

“Feels so good, so good. C’mere,” he giggles against you happily and makes sure he holds you as he’s pushing into your body, you’re filled in an instant and more and more every second.

Amid the panting and moaning you can almost hear that heartbeat and those pulsing veins buried in you. You’re dented again but from the inside now. With a little mh, Luffy finds his home so, so deep. You’re in a cocoon of warmth, wrapped in the sun, filled by the sun, melting.

“My girl’s so pretty, gotta bite, gonna bite.” Those teeth again and their practiced, hungry chewing. He swallows on instinct, abs vibrating and tightening against your skin as his stomach purs. And he’s rocking into you, back and forth on his toes, enjoying that deep, tight massage. He’s inside you, he’s trying to eat you, trying to get you inside him, too.

You’re going to be covered in marks but that’s ok. You like hearing him groan and laugh against you, and something about that swallowing, his throat flexing against your shoulder, that’s so beautiful to feel.

“Mine, ‘kay? Mine.” Luffy’s talking the whole time through his laughter and you’re swept away by him as he continues to crush your body from the inside over and over, tidal waves on a cliff’s edge, he makes whirlpools in you.

“This is so fun, you’re so fun, so pretty,” he keeps huffing and you hear this over and over as he squirms and wriggles on your body, thrusts shallower because he can’t bear to pull out of you any more than he needs to. Luffy wants to be close and never leave.

He tries to have conversations with you that just spill into unending praise. You’re too dizzy and lost in this world of feeling to respond most of the time but you kiss him whenever he wants, you tell him he’s beautiful and that he feels so good whenever your voice is there.

He’s swelling in you, veins bulging and rubbing so far up inside you that you feel him throbbing in your stomach, his twitching cock encouraged by your clenching, leaking, every muscle wracked with craving and overstimulation.

“Gonna fill you up ‘cause you’re real pretty,” he laughs against your lips, twisting into you deeper still, “gotta make ya all mine.” He still sounds so sweet and so soft, just a playful little puppy.

Even as he groans and begins to pump you full.

Love feels like this, love is raw and endless like this, love makes you float away. You close your eyes and now he lets you, you just hold him, you let the rhythm carry you and it feels like so long until he’s done. He doesn’t want to pull away but his legs give out. His knees finally hit the deck, he squeals in delight as he’s pulled from you with a wet little sound. But he’s still hugging you, of course.

“Heh, felt so good.” Luffy’s smiling with all his teeth, his chin sparkles with saliva, and your neck is dripping too, “thanks, darlin’. Love ya so much”

“Love you too. I love you, Luffy.” You don’t want to ever leave from his arms and you feel so empty now. But you’re soaked in him, neck and thighs both shining.

His hand rests gently on your back, helping you sit up, your slip falls back down over your body and it’s all wrinkled now. Luffy smooths your hair, he pets you, now is when he just wants to stare at you and not say a word. But when he sees the blooming red and purple trailing from your ear to your collarbone he starts to shake a little bit.

“Aw, this ain’t hurtin’ right?” he murmurs, tracing the bruises and teeth marks with his fingers so softly, carefully. There’s no blood, it’s just glossy with layers of drool, he’s proud but he needs to check on you first.

“No, it’s not bad. Don’t worry, I like it.” You kiss him right next to his mouth but he turns, quickly, because he wants your lips. “Whole crew’s gonna know I’m yours, that’s all.”

This makes him smile. He sees no reason for embarrassment or shame, you’re his so he can bite you when he wants. You feel his muscles twitch against you again as he laughs. And he’s flushed all red, hibiscus on his warm honey skin. Those eyes, dark brown eyes melting with that lavender of the sunset which is almost gone now, fading silently. So orchid blue then, on loving, deep Bulgarian rose.

“Good! I want ‘em to.” he rubs his head against your cheek, still biting just a little. And now he’s moving like he wants to pick you up and carry you, even though you’re both tired. But it’s because he’s hungry, and in that throaty little voice he asks, “wanna go get snacks?”

[cncity]

heres some mgpam human stuff

[junkpuppet225]

warning: smut, you’re responsible for the content you consume

-

It took nearly two weeks before you were alone with Daryl - by then he’d lost his nerve, keeping his head down around you once again. Carol was in the kitchen the night of your hangover offering water and ibuprofen then before long Rick showed up and pulled a reluctant Daryl away to discuss important information about the community. By the time Daryl started going out with Aaron to find more people whatever you thought may happen between the two of you was just a memory.

Until it wasn’t. The night Rick killed Pete changed everything. The night Daryl brought Morgan to Alexandria you sat staring into the bonfire while everyone gaped at the consequences of the doctors actions - the single deafening shot still ringing in your ears as Rick stands staring down the barrel of his colt python to Pete’s lifeless body. You were cold or possibly in shock, trying to push the horrid images from your mind as you focused on your shaking hands. Concerned voices were just murmurs around you as you closed your fingers into fists and tried to will the panic away, sending a single tear down your cheek as you blinked and Daryl’s handsome face came into view.

He was knelt before you - blue eyed wide and unfamiliar. You’d never seen this emotion on his face before. Daryl was afraid and that sent another surge of adrenaline through you - allowing your limbs to join in on the shaking as you placed your palm to his arm, eyes widening when he doesn’t flinch away from your touch. “You alright?”

No. You just watched a man slice through another man’s larynx then take a bullet to the dome for his trouble. Deanna is going to banish you all - send Carl and Judith back into the horrors of the world. Just when you thought you could start something important here your group would be thrown back to the dead.

“Answer me.” Daryl’s words aren’t demanding, they’re soft and pleading as another tear betrays you. “Y-yeah. Im okay. Are you okay?” You’d seen Rick kill people before - that wasn’t anything new but this look on Daryl’s face, the disparity swimming in his ocean eyes makes it hard to breathe. “I am now.” He whispers offering his hand as he lifts you to your feet and holds you close to his side. Rick is trying to explain himself to Morgan and the others while the rest of the group share your worried glances that all of this will soon be taken away.

“Come with me?” You look up to Daryl’s soft words and nod without thinking. You would go anywhere with him, especially if it’s somewhere away from this nightmare. He slips his warm hand in yours, his palm searing against your icy fingers as he guides you silently to the house Deanna gifted your group weeks ago. Daryl doesn’t speak until you’re standing in the darkness of the kitchen, your hand still held tightly in his as the other comes up to cup your cheek - brushing his thumb against your jaw as he searches your eyes.

The raw emotion in his gaze tightens something in your chest, bringing your hand to his bicep as you try to steady yourself and make sense of what has him so upset. Daryl’s always been brave but standing here in the shadows he looks truly terrified.

“We almost died out there today.” The words come rushing from his lungs as he shakes the thought for the millionth time and lets his head hang, pulling you closer as he drops your hand to grasp your hip. “…if it wasn’t for Morgan…” Tears blur your vision at the thought of losing him, your breath catching in your throat as his words turn into soft whispers. “…never gettin’ to see you again - never… touchin’ you again.” Daryl sinks a hand into your soft hair and brings your face to his, bringing your foreheads together as his eyes close tightly. “…scares the shit outta me.”

Slowly you bring your hands to his neck before slipping them into the back of his hair as a low desperate groan escapes him and he lifts his eyes to yours - grasping at your hip as he pulls you flush against his chest and leans into your parted lips, kissing you slowly.

Everything but Daryl melts away. The worry of losing this place - of losing this, it slips into the deepest parts of your mind and there’s just him kissing you like his very life depends on it. His rough hand slipping into your shirt to grasp at your soft skin as his tongue moves against yours slowly, your quiet gasps stirring something deep inside of him.

His hand moves further up your shirt before he hesitates just below your breast as you whisper against his lips to please touch you. The growl that leaves him vibrates in your chest as his fingers brush against the rough texture of your bra before moving on to join his other hand in your hair.

The terror in Daryl’s eyes shift, still lingering in their depths but somehow shadowed by white-hot desire that takes your breath away. “Daryl?” His own breath hitch’s as your lips graze his. “Y-yeah?” The word is barely audible. “Do you want me?” You watch his eyes fall to your mouth with a grunt that sounds like a yes.

“Show me?”

Daryl lifts you to the counter with ease while your arms wrap around his shoulders and he pulls you to his chest - his kiss more desperate as you tighten your fingers in his hair. Your heart is hammering in your chest, fear that someone from your group is going to burst through the front door and demand Daryl’s attention pulls you away from him. “Take me upstairs?” You whisper as another growl escapes him and he pulls you closer to his chest - turning to the stairs as your legs wrap around him - his mouth finding yours as you rake your fingers into his hair and cling to him. He doesn’t stop until you’re lying on his bed and he’s looking down at you with that terror in his eyes again.

I can’t lose you too.

“Daryl…, it’s okay. I want this… want you.”

In a hundred years he’ll never understand what he did to deserve you - to deserve this but the thought of denying you anything sends a different kind of ache through his chest so he kisses you, sinking his body into yours as you grasp at his waist to push his shirt over his head - letting your hands fall to his back as he takes in a quick breath, his body going rigid from your touch.

Daryl lifts his head slowly as your fingers trace the raised lines across his back, your eyebrows pulling together in concern. “Daryl…?”

“It’s okay.” He whispers holding his breath as you return your fingers to his hair while his teeth graze your jugular. “…happened a long time ago.” That doesn’t ease the ache seeping into your bones from the thought of something hurting him but his tongue against your skin blurs the line of pain and pleasure.

“Daryl.” His name slips quietly from your lips bringing another low growl against your skin as he pushes your own shirt over your head before dipping his between the valley of your breasts - placing a line of kisses down your torso as a gasp escapes you. Daryl groans out your name, griping at your hips to tug your shorts down your thighs. You arch your back to him as his mouth finds yours - like he can’t stop kissing you but is desperate to be inside of you - his head hanging to watch you undo his belt. “A-are you sure?” He whispers, lifting his eyes to yours slowly.

“Yes.” He’s kissing you again, sinking his hands into your hair as you grip his sides while he pushes inside of you resting his forehead against yours with a whimper. “Y/N…, feels…” Your eyes meet - his gaze sobering as he whispers how good you feel around him with each thrust, his arm sliding under your back to bring you closer. The soft moans and quiet gasps that fill his head pushing him further, fucking into you harder as his own groans fill the room.

“…oh god, Daryl…” Your body is humming with pleasure, fingers gripping his shoulders as he pours years of need into fucking you, lifting his head slightly as his name falls from your desperate lips again as your body tightens around him. “…fuck…, that’s it… gonna make me…” You grip the back of Daryl’s hair, pulling hard as he groans against your throat - moving faster as stars dot your vision and you feel yourself come undone around him - leaning into his shoulder with a cry as his grunts turn to whimpers and he loses himself inside of you, gripping your hips so hard you know he’ll leave bruises in their wake. All you can hear is the pounding of your heart in your chest and his heavy breathing as he buries his face in the bend of your shoulder.

“W-was that okay? Did I hurt ya?”

Daryl lifts his head quickly - searching your cock drunk gaze as a lazy smile spreads across your beautiful face. “It was beautiful.” You assure him softly as his own rare grin lights up his ocean eyes. “You’re beautiful.” You watch his eyes go wide as the words slip from his lips quickly, a warmth spreading through you at the slight rush of pink that creeps up his neck and into his cheeks as you card your fingers through the back of his hair.

[wibben]

BIRTHDAY SUIT — NANAMI KENTO

↳ Summary: It's Nanami's 35th birthday, and he swears he doesn't want anything. This is unacceptable.

↳ CW: established relationship, suggestive, can be read as g/n

↳ WC: 1.4k

↳ AN: Happy birthday to my glorious blonde king who deserves all of the softest things in the world. My contribution to the "Happy Birthday" prompt for Nanami Week... but it's an international holiday anyway.

Kento insisted he didn’t want anything for his birthday.

“It’s not about the number,” he said. “Thirty-five is just thirty-four with slightly stiffer knees.”

Then: “I just don’t want a fuss. No gifts. No reservations. No singing, fuck — anything but the singing.”

This, as he spread marmalade over his toast at the breakfast table.

You squinted at him over your coffee. “Not even cake?”

He paused. A single breath’s worth of consideration.

“...Cake is fine,” he allowed. “But only that. And you.”

A gentleman’s compromise, you supposed.

He was never someone who wanted much. He kept his desires manageable, and the small hankerings that did emerge in the day to day were either indulged immediately or squashed as they sprung up.

And what enjoyment was there to be derived from prolonged social interaction anyway? Prolonged social interaction in which he, Nanami Kento, was the sole focus and center of attention? Where people watched him squirm, pretending to be touched while they handed him things he didn’t need and would only collect dust in the closet, and the god awful singing where he didn’t know what to do with his hands much less his face—

But that didn’t stop you from trying every tactic at your disposal: whining, bargaining, seduction, moral seduction, weaponized snuggling. You coiled around his shoulders like a lovesick python in linen pajamas, chin on his shoulder complete with wide-eyes and a wobbling lip. 

“Just one present?” you asked sweetly. “A balloon? A silly hat? Come on, baby, work with me here.”

He smiled indulgently, patting your hand with firm resolve knowing damn well he wouldn’t budge but respected the effort anyway. 

“Don’t waste money,” he rumbled through your ribs. “I’d rather take you on vacation soon.”

“But it’s your birthday,” you pleaded. “Don’t you want to be adored like the special little guy you are?”

Kento did not so much as blink.

You tried again over dinner. Again while brushing your teeth. Again, nuzzled into his neck in bed like a cat, hoping sleepiness would pacify him into acquiescence.

“Adulthood is a punishment,” he slurred into your hair, “and I already celebrate the only good part of it every day.” 

(You elected to take that as a compliment.)

So you let it go. Kind of. 

No dinner reservations or wrapped boxes, no group texts. No glittery “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banners that would shed sequins into every corner of the house for an eternity and a half. You behaved.

Mostly.

Your rebellion was quiet. A siege disguised as surrender.

You woke early to press the coffee extra dark. You cooked him breakfast, arranged it prettily with a vase of trimmed daffodils from the garden box in your yard, and hummed your way through packing a bento — slipping in extra ginger chicken and cutting fruit into stupid little heart shapes.

When your arms looped around his neck to kiss him goodbye, you whispered Happy Birthday against his lips like it was drive safe.

He smiled, pinching your chin to tilt your face up to him in order to kiss you once more. 

You pressed into him, standing on your toes to drag your body up the length of his, letting him feel every inch of you.

His hands tightened reflexively, kneading handfuls of your hips like they’d been fitted to his palms. You felt his breath hitch, then falter entirely when you kissed him deeper, tongue and teeth and a filthy little whimper in the base of your throat for good measure. He groaned into you like he’d forgotten there was an outside world out there. 

You pulled away first and he made a choked, strangled sound in the back of his throat. He still hovered in the nip of your waist, stunned by the sudden absence of you.

“Gift enough for me,” he said hoarsely, sweeping his tongue across his lower lip. His pupils were blown black and hungry. “...Until I get my hands on you later.”

You let him make it to the door.

Then, just before it clicked shut, you called sweetly after his back:

“If you want, I’m more than happy to do that thing you like later, too.”

The keys in his hand paused mid-jingle. 

He didn’t turn around. Kento stood there, the tips of his ears going a lovely shade of pink. He cleared his throat.

“… Yes,” he said, voice rough, like he wasn’t thirty-five years old now and hard as a rock. “Please.” *

Evening arrived with nothing suspicious. No unsolicited affection aside from your usual eagerness to clamber directly into his lap before he’d taken his shoes off. 

You watched him sort the mail, and watched him unbutton his cuffs and slide off his harness in his nightly striptease for an audience of one. You listened to the water hiss, then muffle against his skin while he disappeared into the shower.

You scurried to the bedroom on the balls of your feet.

Kento emerged, towel slung haphazardly around his hips, hair wet and dark against his temples. “I was thinking,” he mused aloud, “I'd like to order in tonight. I’ve been craving that Thai place we went to—”

He was still rubbing his hair dry with one hand when he turned the corner into the bedroom.

The towel in his hand stilled. Then fell. The one at his waist gave a valiant wobble, saved only by the grace of his hipbone and a weak knot.

Because this was not where he left you. Much less how.

Back straight, legs crossed, flipping lazily through a book you absolutely weren’t reading (it may have been upside down), dressed in what could generously be described as lingerie, and more accurately described as a bow pretending to be clothing. Absolutely the sort of outfit you had to first psych yourself into buying, and then harder into keeping.

There were bows. There was lace. There was barely anything else.

Kento froze, tawny eyes fixed on you. His nostrils flared. His jaw twitched once, then locked, the herculean effort of restraint forcibly cranked into place. 

His gaze swept over you like he meant to memorize it — thighs, the decadent dip of your waist, the ample swell of your chest not even pretending to be veiled by translucent lace. His throat bobbed, and his hands creaked into fists at his sides.

You snuck a glance at him and caught the faintest, involuntary shiver ripple down his spine, goosebumps raising the hair on his arms to stand at attention. (It wasn’t the only thing…)

He looked physically pained — like you were some lofty thing kept high on a pedestal, and not the gifted goddess you were laying readily in his bed. Oh yeah, you felt a lot more confident in your purchase now.

You didn't look up. You turned a page nonchalantly, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from giggling and kicking your feet.

“...Well,” he said, his voice dry, his pupils not. “It must be my lucky day.” 

You hummed. “Mm?”

Somewhere behind his eyes, Kento’s higher reasoning was being chewed to confetti by the hungrier parts of him. He was short circuiting — that sharp mind of his fatally-jammed between thighs and act civilized.

“I said no gifts,” he rasped. “You’re—this is not—”

You finally looked up, all innocent doe-eyes and fluttering lashes, liquid affection in your syrupy smile.

“This?” you echoed. “Kento, please. I wear this all the time. You’ve just never noticed.”

Kento scoffed, the towel pitched forward with visible betrayal as he stalked toward the bed, hiking up the knot at his hip with one hand.

His hand found your ankle, then curled around it softly. He dragged his touch upward, savoring the slow expression of your freshly waxed calf, knee, thigh — yeah, you even waxed, too.

“You spoil me,” he swallowed thickly.

“Uh huh,” you chirped.

“You haven’t even unwrapped your present—”

With no warning, he grabbed your foot and yanked.

Your book flew. You shrieked. Kento chuckled — low and delighted, growling menacingly as you slid like silk down the mattress.

Kento climbed on top of you, broad shoulders blotting out the light, furiously nuzzling your neck into the mattress and layering hungry, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, pinning you under the full weight of his appreciation; he growled his pleasure like a satisfied animal.

“Hush,” he murmured against your skin, grinning and nosing against the lace at your collarbone.

“Let me unwrap my gift, then.”

[siriuslysmutty]

Bait Dog - (S. R.)

Summary: Simon's got a crush.

Warnings: descriptions of gore, Simon's a little freak, boners, sado-maschist Simon. Shome shmutty shmut at the end (f recieving and intercourse), abrupt ending cause I can't be bothered.

Bait dogs are the one's they use to get the fighting dogs riled up before they truly fight. To let them practice. They'll use docile things so their fighting dogs won't get injured.

Simon was raised to be a fighting dog. His whole world was fight to survive. The only difference from now to the shit childhood he grew up in is that he escaped in a way. Now he fights for Captain Price. Now it's directed and meanful and he can leave when he wants. Retire. Quit.

He doesn't think he will. He was born to die in pain and misery.

Sometimes he sees rescue dogs on the street, torn to hell, scars like his, scary and ugly and he get's jealous of the thing. It's usually a woman in his experience smiling down at the beast like it hasn't known blood and death in it's maw, giving the pup some kind of treat.

He thinks if he did retire. That would be the life. Curled up and pampered. But even those women crowd away from him, like he's still drenched in blood and grime. Like the smell of gore has imbedded itself so deep it'll neber wash out.

Bait dog.

He clocks when he first sets eyes on you. Like a lamb tied up for slaughter, oblivious. Naivé. Innocent. White wool not yet soaked in blood.

The medic cross on your sleeve as you climbed aboard the same flight for deployment. A new uniform. Crisp.

Your smile when Gaz cracks a charming joke at you is a flare in the dark. A firework screaming and exploding in the night sky with the message, sink your teeth in I'm like soft caramel.

Too pretty. Too sweet. It makes his cock ache a little.

You stay with exfil. And everytime they infultrate your patching up the injured, casting mournful eyes over ones that didn't make it, counting corpses and then - one day he sees it.

Corporal Johannes had been on exfil when they arrived. Blood pooling beneath him, his leg shreded and shortened. Hard to tell what was flesh and what was fabric. A tourniquet stained in blood as he whimpered in your arms, skin greying, gasp rattling, soft moans for his mother silencing the incoming troops. The ride back had the soldiers gathering around the the both of you, where his head sat perched in your lap. Nothing you could do anymore. But your eyes, had silent tears rolling as you softly wiped blood from his face. No one said a word against the soft lullaby you were singing. Not a tease, not an irritated quip. Just a boy crying for his mother and you substitiuting with a quiet, french lullaby.

That makes his teeth ache.

Soft, gentle eyes on injured pups. You're a fixer and he wants to feel those healing hands on every tattered part of him.

The first time he get's your attention on him he's certain you've been avoiding him. Ducking, slinking low and shy. Docile. It makes him salivate.

He watches you with that unsettling stare and you don't quiver. You also don't meet his eyes. You just work. It's dilligent and quick. Nothing unnecessary. Careful. Methodical. Practiced.

He's gritting his teeth the whole time you sew up the 'scrape' of a knife on his tattooed arm. A voice crying out baitdogbaitdogbaitdog.

His hair stands on end when you swipe a delicate thumb over the inside of his wrist when it's bandaged with cheep cotton gauze and hum, "Did great for me."

You don't look back at him when you clean up. If you had... you'd have seen the his cock chubbing painfully down the leg of his already tight tac pants. Seen the slide of a python down the seam, cramped so tight it'd look strangled. But you slip away with the needle carefully in hand.

Oh, docile pup.

He watches you. Wanting to tear you apart. Sink to his gums and *shake*.

It's been nurtured in him. Violence is every part of his make up. He chubs when he sees you, especially when your gloves are saturated in gore. You pretend not to see him, pretend not to notice when he stares too hard.

Johnny and Kyle thinks it funny. But Price, he's nervous. Going as far as grabbing his vest to side bar him and hiss commandingly, "No, Simon. She's off limits." Tells him that officers can't fraternize with enlisteds.

It's fine, he'll just watch you.

It crumbles down though when he sees a shadow smack your arse in the mess. He's standing the second that hand is rearing. A crowd of hungry fighting dogs curling to watch like they always do at the little bait dog moving within reach with sharp teeth.

His vision blurs when the smack rings out, so hard you stumble forward. Too hard on his sweet lamb. He's got no plan in his head, just painting pictures of skinning that hand, peeling his tendons away and cauterizing it all with a blowtorch.

But you whirl and for the first time, it's not sweet innocence gracing your face, it's the crazy eyes of violent rage. Your tray drops from your hands, not even a thought and your hand is quicker than the shadow can lean away.

It hits the shadow across the face so hard he flips out of his seat and tumbles across the ground at Ghost's feet. The red hand print is welting and Simon stares at it. The imprint of fingers. It wasn't a punch. It was a smack. Openhanded brutality.

And once again, Simon sports an erection. He can hear the mutterings as he shamelessly stares at you and your beautiful rage. At the sweet lamb peeling lips back to sport shiny, bloody teeth.

His hand finds the shadow's hair and he yanks him up as you return to your fallen tray, plucking up the mess you made with your hands. He wants to make the idiot lap it off the floor but knows it's more trouble than it's worth when Graves rises with narrowed eyes.

So Simon opts for. "Any of ya touch 'er again and I'll break every bone in yer fuckin' 'and." And tosses the man aside as you rise and storm from the mess hall.

His bait dog has sharp teeth. And it's terrible how badly he want's to sink his teeth into you next, just to feel you bite back.

Price's warning falls on deaf ears as he slips from the mess and heads after you to med bay.

He spots you and you glance breifly but a sour expression carries and he doesn't linger at the edge of the room. "Don't fuckin' tell me I'm about to get in trouble for smacking that- ... that..."

He crowds over you as you trail off and sink away from him. You can smell the dangerous radiation leaking off him. The ooze of something wicked as he leans down into your face with that unblinking stare and grunts.

You finally look up at him with those woeful eyes, a little wet on the waterline. You give him the best treats.

Price is pushing through the tent, with a barking "Riley, I told you-" but it falls on deaf ears as Simon yanks his balaclava up onto the bridge of his nose, it reveals a chunk of his mauled face.

Your eyes widen and instead of scuttling back with fear, initial shock fades to sweet, sweet sympathy. Perfection.

Finally, he's found that rescue.

Simon kneels before you, submissively as Price curses and tries to yank on his tac vest to drag him away. To break that stare of his like a starving dog with a chunk of meat.

He grips your wrists in his hands, engulfing part of your arms in those gloves. Gently, so gently, he paws your hands closer. Your dominant hand red from the force of your delivered blow.

His mangles maw finds your palm to kiss is reverantly just as Price hauls him back. No matter. His eyes never leave you, even as Price wrangles him from the tent like an out of control dog. And you watch him, agonized eyes as he's skirted off.

Price has the audacity to put him on a watch. Posting Garrick at the door like that would stop him. The first time he gets out, he makes it to the medbay only for you to be gone from there.

It takes both Garrick and MacTavish tackling him to subdue him. He never fights them, at least, not in a violent matter. It ends with him leashed. And by that, it's meant that Price cuffs him to a post.

Simon watches him pace and rant. Watches him repromand him. But again it falls on deaf ears. The last thing Price mutters as the behemoth lounges back against the pole is, "Christ, Simon. You're out of your damn mind."

It's nightfall when he escapes again, this time with a dislocated thumb.

You're spooked when you wake in your tent to him looming above you. You don't get the chance to scream, because he kneels before you like it's a rite.

Slowly, sitting up, bewildered as he holds out his hands, one still dangling with handcuffs, the other with the terribly dislocated thumb. And you go soft for him again.

Salvation tastes sweeter tham the pain as you correct his dislocation. Cooing softly at him. All sympathetic once more. It's delicious. His sweet little lamb.

He lays his head willingly in your lap. It makes you heave a nervous laugh and whine. "Lieutenant, I think this is a little inappropriate..."

But you protest a lot less once he's got you on your back, legs dangling over his shoulders and his mouth between your thighs. He drools into your cunt, laving his tongue where ever he can get it, pawing at the fat of your thighs and whining into you. It's messy as he slurps and nips and he'd suck if the gnarly cleft in his lip could allow hims suction.

God himself couldn't order him away, and you certainly don't. Not even when he's on top of you, not even when he's rutting into you like the mutt he is. No, you claw him closer, whimpering and begging him not to stop. And when his blunt nails dig into your hips and make you bleed, he'll lap that up too.

Price finds him the next time, docile in your arms, draped across you. His only complaint is that he isn't discharged for insubordination. He'd like to start his retirement as soon as possible. Ideally with his new owner showing him his new home.

[amica-aenigmata-naboo]

Comfortable

Vinnie Hacker x Y/N - Drabble - 1.4K WC NSFW 18+

Masterlist

Warnings: slight angst, dry humping, setting boundaries, consent checks, Vinnie being sweet, lust, SMUT, i really cooked with this one guys - it slaps harder than your mom, female reader, praise like a mf because you deserve it pookie bear, moaning, absolutely pathetic man - as they should be, L bombs, no penetration

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You smiled politely, thanking Vinnie as he held the door open for you. You’d been to his house before but today was different. He had asked if you wanted to stay the night for the first time. Initially you were excited thinking of all the fun stuff you and him could do and not have to worry about going home. Now… all you could feel was nervous. Your friends had convinced you that his intentions weren’t all pure. Obviously he expected something physical or else he wouldn’t have asked you to stay. You liked Vinnie. A lot. Begrudgingly you were even starting to consider the forbidden L word. And he had been nothing but a gentleman, never pushing you beyond your comfort. Yet your mind swam with anxieties of what you would do or say if things got to a point you didn’t want to pass. You set your bag down with your shoes once inside, looking around at his decorations. The house smelled like him, sweet but gentle and earthy. You felt Vinnie’s arms sneak around your waist, nuzzling his nose in the crook of your neck where he placed a gentle kiss. You smiled, enjoying his presence.

Turning your head, you kissed his cheek “Wanna watch a movie?” you asked.

“What movie?” he mumbled. 

“Labyrinth, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, or Princess Bride?” you said giving him options.

“Princess Bride, hands down.” he said, squeezing your hips. 

You chuckled, turning out of his grip so you could go to the living room. You flopped on the couch, enjoying the many blankets Vinnie had thrown out before you got there as he mentioned building a pillow fort. Vinnie walked into the kitchen as you went and sat on the couch. 

“Wanna put your pajamas on while I make the popcorn?” he asked as he took out a bowl and grabbed the microwave popcorn bags.

You nodded with a smile, happy he wanted you to be comfortable. When you returned from changing in the bathroom you saw Vinnie in the kitchen without a shirt. How did he look so hot doing the most mundane tasks? “Popcorn needs to be made shirtless?” you sassed.

Vinnie laughed, “The butter exploded.”

“Rookie mistake.”

Vinnie brought the giant bowl of popcorn over, sitting it on the two of your laps so you could cuddle. Towards the end of the movie your eyes felt heavy, not in a sleepy way but in a relaxed way. Completely comfortable and happy. The warm expanse of his chest against your cheek, his arm circling your waist. You never wanted to move. You leaned up, kissing his cheek sweetly. 

“What is it baby?” Vinnie said, his eyes tracing every curve of your face. He smiled seeing how relaxed you look.

“I’m just… happy.” You said with a content sigh.

Vinnie ran his hand up and down your waist, his warmth made you lean into him even more so your foreheads were touching. His hand stilled on your hip, letting the tips of his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. Your breath hitched, your hand flying to his. 

“Sorry…” was all you could think to say.

Vinnie’s eyes softened, his hand moving from your waist to cradle your face, “Baby, you never have to be sorry for having boundaries. We never have to do anything you don't wanna do.” he smiled at you sincerely. 

You breathed a sigh of relief, “I just…  is this the only reason you wanted me to stay over?” you asked, not meeting his gaze, your voice felt small. 

“Honey, of course not. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I guess I just… wanted to make you feel… good?” he said, sounding a bit shy. A slight pink settling on his cheeks. 

You sat back a little bit, your mind was stunned with that little revelation. Nobody had ever done that for you before. Focused on your pleasure more than theirs. You looked between his eyes and his lips with want.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered.

You nodded.

“I need you to say it baby.” he said, leaning in slightly.

You closed the gap, your lips meeting his gently. But you wanted more; you wanted to devour him and be devoured by him. 

He responded to your touch, holding your angelic face. You gave into yourself - fuck what your friends said. You wanted him just as much as he wanted you. You sat up, as did Vinnie so you were both sitting up on the couch instead of laying down. You straddled his lap as he leaned back against the cushion, admiring the view of you taking control. 

“Is.. is it ok if we just make out?” you asked.

“Of course,” Vinnie said, holding your hips. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Feel me, kiss my neck… Please…” you stuttered slightly, already wildly turned on by him. 

Vinnie nodded, leaning forward to kiss up your stomach before pulling you closer and pushing your hips down so you were flush against his lap and finally face to face. One of his hands clasped around your throat but didn’t squeeze, he wanted to guide you. He gently pulled you to him, kissing you softly before you sped up, needily feeling over each other. Your tongues tangled together before he moved on to kiss down your neck sloppily. He gave you a slight nip, testing the waters. When you moaned at the contact he gave you another, and another, and another. Smoothing his tongue over them to relax the slight pain. Your breaths were erratic, your heart pounding fiercely. 

“You ok?” he asked, checking in with you.

You smiled at him hazily, still lost in the feeling of him. You nodded slowly.

“Words baby.” he said, kissing your neck softly trailing up from your neck to your cheek. 

“Please don’t stop.” you said, out of breath.

Vinnie bit his lip as he looked up at you. You were flush, looking needy for him. Your eyes looked hungry, feral. Vinnie slowly pushed your hips down so you were grinding against his clothed cock. He was unbelievably hard. “How’d you get hard so quick?” you chuckled softly. 

“Because it knows you want it.” he mumbled, his voice deep and heavy with lust. His hands gripped your hips tightly, slowly starting to rock you back and forth. The thin fabric of your shorts doing nothing to dull the pleasure the grinding was doing for you. You let your eyes roll back, letting him take the lead and guide your body - as long as it pleasured you. 

“So pretty baby… so so pretty… so good…” he mumbled between kisses he left over your chest. “Can I suck your tits?” he asked.

You moaned at the very thought, quickly lifting your shirt, not wearing a bra under your pj’s. 

Vinnie attached his lips to your chest, kissing and sucking over your nipples. He never stopped moving your hips and you felt the heat in your lower belly start to spread. Your legs started to shake, unable to hold you up. Vinnie held your waist to keep you up while his other hand kept grinding you into him through your orgasm. When you slumped against him trembling and twitching he relaxed his hold on you and stopped grinding into you. He placed a few soft kisses on your cheek as he held your face in his hands. 

“You look really pretty when you cum.” he smiled at you.

You covered your face, for some reason you felt embarrassed.

Vinnie laughed at your shy antics, “And you feel so soft, every part of you.” he said, trailing his hand to your breast before giving it a slight squeeze making you let out a squeak.  

“Did you feel good? Like everything we did?” he said, checking in with you.

You nodded, “Yes.”

Vinnie kissed your cheek once more before gripping the back of your thighs and carrying you to his bedroom. He set you down on the bed. Admiring you as he looked down at you. “Wanna cuddle?” he asked.

You nodded, crawling under the blankets. Vinnie smiled hopping in with you. He pulled you close so your head was resting on his broad chest, his hand tangled in your hair as he massaged your scalp. His free hand rested on your waist to keep you close. 

Right on the verge of sleep, completely vulnerable you let it slip. “I love you.” you said barely above a whisper.

Vinnie hardly heard you over the TV but his eyes snapped down to look at you. Your face was so peaceful, your breaths even and relaxed. “I love you.” Vinnie whispered before kissing the top of your head. He settled in letting himself slip away as well, enjoying the feeling of you next to him as he drifted off.

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Naboo's Note:

this man has me in a chokehold unfortunately - enjoy cookies <3 XOXOXOXOXOOXOXXOXOXOXOOXOXOXOX!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[dakusan]

hi there, new reader! I love the aftercare series so much! I was thinking who would be the most clingy in terms of sleeping after sex? Like, say you have to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, but they just dont want to let you move, and when you do break free, they whine and say you're taking too long. MTL. I know Jisung would be the most whiny ☺️

OH??? you walked in, said “Jisung would whine if you left the bed,” and LEFT NO CRUMBS.

you think you’re just going to pee? nah. you just triggered a post-nut cling spiral. suddenly you’re a traitor. a flight risk. Jisung’s sobbing. Chan’s gripping air. Hyunjin’s writing your eulogy.

Let’s rank these needy bed barnacles. you asked. i’m answering

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🛌 MTL : CLINGY SLEEPY LOVERS WHO WHINE WHEN YOU GET UP AFTER SEX

1. Han Jisung 🥇 King of Koala Mode™ Post-sex Jisung is cling incarnate. You’re not a person—you’re his emotional weighted blanket. If you dare try to slip out for a bathroom break, you’ll get a muffled “Where are you goiingggg 😭” from underneath the covers, followed by a pout and a sleepy tug on your arm. He sets a timer on his phone the second you leave. If you're gone more than 3 minutes? "You DIED in there didn’t you." Dramatic. Delirious. Deeply in love.

2. Bang Chan 🥈 The Velcro Dom Chan acts like he’s chill about it—“Go ahead, baby, I’ll be right here”—but the moment your warmth leaves his chest, his hands do that sleepy, automatic reach. Groggy puppy eyes track you across the room. If you're not back in five, he sighs loudly, stares at the ceiling like you’ve personally wronged him, and mutters “Took you long enough, I missed you.” Once you're back, he wraps around you like a python and says "You're not allowed to move again. Ever."

3. Lee Know (Minho) 🥉 Secretly the Neediest™ He pretends he’s fine. Rolls over, even. But the second you’re not in bed, his hand flops around looking for you, and when he doesn’t find skin, it’s instant betrayal. When you return, he tugs you in tight, hooks a leg over yours, and grumbles “You smell like the bathroom.” Translation: "Don’t leave me again or I’ll perish."

4. Hyunjin 🌙 Poet of the Sheets He’s so emotionally full after sex that your absence feels like a gaping void. He’ll whisper “Where are you, my moon?” like he’s starring in his own tragic period drama. If you take a bit long, he sends a voice memo: "Come back, my limbs are cold, and so is my soul." When you return, he throws the covers open like he’s inviting you back to heaven.

5. Felix ☀️ Soft Sunflower Burrito He’s definitely cuddly, but he’s not too pouty unless he’s extra tired. He whines a little (“Baaaabyyy, you’re cold, come backkk”) but falls asleep waiting for you and snuggles even harder when you return. He wraps his entire soul around you, nuzzles your neck, and hums like a content cat.

6. Seungmin 🧸 Grumpy Baby Mode: Activated (Rare) Mostly fine with it—but if he's in one of those post-sex moods where he’s all soft and exposed, he might whimper if you take too long. Then deny it. “I didn’t whine. You imagined that. Go brush your teeth or whatever.” But he’s curled into your pillow until you come back.

7. Jeongin (I.N) 🌙 Baby Cub Who Sleeps Hard Aftercare Jeongin is sleepy and sweet, but once he’s out, he’s OUT. You could rearrange the furniture and he wouldn’t notice. That said, if he wakes up halfway and you're not there, he’ll blearily text: u ok???? did u fall in. miss u. come back before i turn into a ghost. Then he falls asleep again mid-text.

8. Changbin 💪🏽 Surprisingly Chill (but still warm) You’d expect him to be #1 but nope—post-sex Changbin is knocked out. He’s all cuddles before sleep, but once he's out, he's out. If you get up, he might twitch a little or mumble something like “Don’t forget me…” dramatically, but he’s asleep again before you’re even out the door.

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dear anon: thank you for the ask—you were so correct it physically hurt. sorry it took me 84 years and 3 emotional support snacks to respond

pls never stop enabling me 💋🛏️