#stepping out to his friends who probably after some time has waited for him

[novaimperia]

★ asking roommate!sukuna if you can get a lift to campus

halfway out of the door, your roommate turns his head and lifts a singular brow at you, the piercing there glinting. keys hanging off his finger, backpack slung on over one shoulder, you’re glad you caught him right before he left – his long legs make him impossible to catch up to. 

“no.”

and then he leaves.

you run after him. “oh, come on. why not?”

not slowing his pace down at all, he lifts up a hand, counting down. “one, i’m not a taxi. two, i don’t want to. three, it’ll become a habit. four, you’re annoying. and five, i don’t want to.”

he’s probably not wrong; since his car is much, much nicer than the public transport available, and quicker too, you’d likely get too used to the comfort and plead to make it a regular thing. although, you’re not really convinced it’d be so bad. “please? there’s a creepy man on the bus and i don’t want to run into him.”

at his car now, unlocking it with his key, he opens his car door, throws his bag inside, climbs in, and slams the door shut in your face. shooting you the most unamused look in the entirety of humanity’s existence, you’re sure, he drawls, “so then walk.”

you watch his car disappear out of the car park.

five minutes later, you’re grumbling about how he’s the worst roommate ever and how, if given the chance, you’d gladly suffocate his irritatingly handsome face under a pillow. just because he’s rich, naturally smart, effortlessly athletic, crazily popular even though he doesn’t want to be, he thinks he can do as he pleases. and yeah, guess he can. but still!

the past couple weeks since you’ve met him, you’ve been good to the bastard. you say hi, you keep clean and tidy, never make too much noise, don’t invite yourself to any of his plans, and you don’t snoop or invite friends over. by his standards, you’re the perfect roommate. whereas he’s been rude – he doesn’t accept any of the baked goods you’ve offered him, doesn’t watch movies with you, or even share dinner at the same time. too often have you caught him walking around in just his boxers or in a towel after he’s showered and he doesn’t apologise, just smirks when you get all flustered. the monster doesn’t even look at you when you cross paths on campus; he just pretends he doesn’t know you.

“hey, sweet’art. you live ‘round here?”

oh, great, there’s a crackhead limping towards you. despite this being the main street, there’s not many cars or people passing by. it’s just you and a creepy old man ogling at your body. whether on the bus or off, it seems you attract weirdos on a spiritual level. fantastic. 

“leave me alone.”

that doesn’t go over well with him. a scowl darkens his raggedy features. his steps hasten. you stagger back. 

beep!

“fuck off, you dirty old geezer.” a familiar car pulls up beside you. sukuna sneers at the man, who backs away a little frightened. huh, it’s quite easy to forget that people tend to find your roommate’s energy off putting. that’s pretty useful. those heated eyes slide over to you. irate, he jerks his chin. “what are you waiting for? get the fuck in.”

beaming, you squeal. “thank you!”

perturbed by your cheerful disposition despite how your morning’s going, you can only assume, he mutters some half-hearted insult under his breath and pays you no mind whilst he has a hand on the steering wheel and the other on your headrest, fingers drumming. 

satisfied when he hears the click of your seatbelt, he drives off. “you finish at three today, right? meet me at the parking lot by the gym at quarter past three. if you’re even a single second late, your broke ass is getting left behind, clear?”

“crystal.”

grimacing at your sudden laughter, he groans. “fuck this year’s gonna be a long one.”

and he couldn’t be more right.

[lovemni]

i had to speak about this because this is genuinely eating me alive. so fucking disappointing and upsetting.

i swear, some of y’all are the most disrespectful, entitled people i’ve ever seen. what the actual fuck is wrong with you? the kids are finally on the south american leg of their world tour, their first time in brazil, and instead of giving them the love and respect they deserve, some of you are out here acting like complete clowns.

stalking their hotel? crowding outside and filming them while they’re on the goddamn balcony? are you kidding me? they can’t even step out to breathe without a fucking camera shoved in their face. that’s not admiration, that’s obsession. and not the good kind.

and then they go to the beach, probably thinking they could relax and enjoy a moment of peace.. but no. y’all are out there too, filming them like they’re fucking zoo animals. make it make sense !!!!! what part of the word 'privacy' is so hard to understand? these are real people. human beings. the level of audacity is insane. do you even realize how suffocating that must feel? they’re literally on the other side of the world from home, wanting to meet their fans, their supporters from around the world, excited but probably exhausted, and this is how you treat them? so fucking disappointing.

but no, it doesn’t stop there, because of course it doesn’t! let’s talk about the absolute vile shit that happened after the chile concert. some of you had the nerve, no, the fucking gall.. to bash chan. over what? ghosting bubble for a week? after his group was mobbed at the airport? after one of his teammates nearly fell because of fans trying to stick to them? really?

a line of enlightenment, he’s not your personal entertainment service. he’s a human with a life, responsibilities, and feelings. he needed a damn break. he deserved it. maybe he was tired. maybe he just wanted to exist without the constant pressure of pleasing millions of people. but no, that’s too much for some of you to comprehend.

and then, when he finally comes back, the first thing he does is check in on his home country. because, in case you missed it, oh wait, you didn’t, you just didn’t care— sk was dealing with wildfires. literal, destructive wildfires. but y’all wanted him to just pretend that didn’t exist? the man asked if the weather was okay in his home country, and you psychos lost your shit.

calling him slurs? cursing him out? saying he only cares about k-stays? because he dared to check on his country? some of you even said you’re selling your concert tickets like that’s some sort of punishment. quite frankly, do it, i dare you. better and sensible stays are out there who actually deserve to attend their concert. go sell your tickets. stray kids don’t need “fans” like you there.

and what makes it worse? chan probably saw all of that. every disgusting comment. y’all made him feel like shit. you really sat behind your screens and tore down the most caring, selfless man who has done everything for his team pretty much his family, those around him, his company, and the fandom. after all the sleepless nights, the constant work, the emotional labor, this is what he gets? and then he comes back to bubble. those messages. are you fucking serious? that broke me. that genuinely broke me.

chan doesn’t deserve this. none of the guys do. i’m so goddamn tired of this toxic shit. y’all claim to love them, but the second they don’t cater to your every whim, you turn on them like a pack of wolves. being a stay isn’t about getting constant attention. it’s not about thinking you own them. it’s about supporting them, respecting them, and appreciating everything they do. if you can’t do that, leave. nobody fucking wants you here.

and before anyone says, 'but i didn’t do any of that!' — good! then this isn’t about you. but if you ever catch yourself excusing this behavior, staying silent while your so-called stay-friends act like actual bitches, or brushing it off as 'just criticism,' then yeah, you’re part of the problem. and i’m done sugarcoating that shit.

protect skz. respect skz. and for the love of everything, leave chris alone. i’m fucking done.

[allsteddie]

Car Problems [Steddie]

Based on this Mechanic!Eddie AU and @whathehonestfuk suggestion of Garage Owner!Wayne. [Now on AO3]

Usually, Wayne prefers to keep out of his nephew’s business. As long as Eddie is doing his job in the garage, his chores at home and is not committing any crimes in his spare time, Wayne tries not to bother him too much.

Their little system has been working very well since Eddie was a teenager, thank you very much, and his life has been quiet and good and without any major events, as life as a garage owner in Hawkings, Indiana, is expected to be.

That is, at least, until the Harrington kid comes into the picture.

Wayne has known the Harringtons for at least twenty years, and he’s fairly sure Eddie and the Harrington kid had not been friends when they were in school. That seems to have changed, though, because it’s been three months since the kid has been showing up at the garage with “car problems” every other week.

That’s bullshit, in Wayne’s humble opinion.

The guy drives a fucking BMW and his family is loaded. He could replace the fucking thing faster than Wayne can climb the stairs that separates the garage from the apartment he shares with his nephew, there’s nothing wrong with his car.

The Harrington kid is here for Eddie. Wayne knows it, everybody who works in the garage knows it, Eddie knows it. The only problem is that Eddie isn’t doing anything about it.

That wouldn’t be a problem if his nephew had no interest in the other kid, but he has. Wayne knows that easy smile and little cocky attitude Eddie puts on whenever Harrington is around, he’s seen him act the same way around Jamie Landon, at least for the couple of months they had dated in High School.

(He can’t say he knows Steve Harrington that well too, but no one would pretend to have car problems so often just to chat with a mechanic if they didn’t have any ulterior reasons, really.)

And yet, here’s Eddie; clearly interested in the Harrington kid, knowing that the other guy is also interested in him and doing absolutely nothing with that knowledge.

Wayne promised himself that he wouldn’t meddle once he noticed his nephew’s predicament. Whatever Eddie wanted to do with his life, Wayne would let him.

But that was before Wayne had to endure, for three months, his nephew and Harrington flirting and exchanging longing glances in the middle of his garage. As patient as Wayne considers himself to be, there’s no way in hell he’s letting this shit go on for much longer.

He doesn’t have to wait much to take action. A week after Harrington’s last visit, on a Saturday morning, from where he’s working on the Parkers’ minivan, Wayne sees the kid’s car approaching.

Harrington parks outside and makes his way quietly in the garage. Wayne just watches as the kid looks around the shop, probably looking for any sign of Eddie. His face drops a little when he doesn’t see Eddie anywhere.

“Can I help you with anything, kid?” Wayne asks, cleaning his hands in a rag as he walks around the minivan and steps towards the boy.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Munson,” Harrington says, with a small wave. “Is Eddie working today?”

“Yes, he is, but he’s on break. Why? Having problems again?”

Harrington hesitates, looking around once more. There’s a blush creeping up his cheeks and he doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands.

“I… er…”

Wayne sighs. He finishes cleaning the grease off his hands and stuffs the rag in his back pocket, before lifting his gaze to look Harrington in the eye.

“Do you like my nephew, kid?” he asks, bluntly.

“What!?”

“Hey, I’m not judging. I just wanna know. Do you like my nephew?”

There’s hesitation there again, and something close to panic, but the Harrington kid is no coward, apparently, because after the first shock, he seems to get a grip on himself and nods.

“Yes,” he says, face so red someone could mistake it for a sunburn. “Yes, I do.”

Good enough for Wayne.

“Do you want to come by tonight for dinner? I’m meeting some friends at Joe’s, but Eddie’s gonna be home. You boys can talk things over then.”

Whatever Harrington had been expecting when he decided to drop by the garage this morning, Wayne Munson asking him on a date on behalf of his nephew was clearly not it. He doesn’t utter a word.

“Harrington,” Wayne presses and the boy snaps out of it, large eyes staring at Wayne with a mix of shock and wonder. “Do you want to come over tonight for dinner?"

“Yes!” He squeaks. Clears his throats, then tries again. “Yes, Mr. Munson. I’d love to come over tonight.”

“Very well. I’m heading out at seven, so you should stop by seven thirty.”

“Okay.”

“Good,” Wayne agrees. “Now, please, stop pretending you’re having problems with that fucking car and come back when my nephew is not on the clock. I’ll let him know you guys have a date tonight.”

“Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!”

“Just go home, Harrington.”

“Right, sorry.”

With a few more apologies, Harrington gets into his car and gets the fuck out of there in record time, the vehicle driving smoothly and without a single weird noise, as Wayne well knew it would.

Car problems. Yeah, right.

“Was that Steve’s car?”

Wayne turns around and sees Eddie walking back to the shop after his break. The disappointment clear as day on his face.

“Yes, it was. Looks like there was nothing wrong with his car this time after all,” Wayne says.

The frown on Eddie’s face deepens and Wayne gathers all the self-control he’s got to stop himself from laughing.

“Good for him, then,” Eddie mutters, displeased.

“Yeah, good for him,” Wayne agrees. He pats his nephew on the shoulder as he passes him, then stops when Eddie finally looks at him. “Oh, and before I forget, Harrington is coming over for dinner tonight.”

“Wha- are you… what!?”

“I asked him if he wanted to come over for dinner tonight and he said yes. He’ll be here by seven thirty.”

“What do you mean!? You’re going out with your friends tonight.”

Wayne finally lets out a laugh. “I know, but you’re not. Congratulations, Eddie, you’re finally getting a date with Steve Harrington.”

He pats his nephew’s shoulder again, then goes back to work.

@nicememerino, tagged as promised.

[darkmatilda]

𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: when spencer was dealing with a migraine, he definitely preferred staying home with a good book or just going to sleep. but after losing a bet to morgan, he couldn't escape—he had to show up for a blind date.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid (s6-7) x diva/bombshell!female reader, spencer's pov, alcohol consumption, suggestive content comes back in flashbacks, scratch marks.

𝐚/𝐧: okay, question for you — what kind of bet could spencer possibly lose to morgan?

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6.5k

Spencer could offer anyone one piece of advice.

If, at any point during your— let’s face it, pathetically short — lifespan (the average human life expectancy is approximately 73 years, though this varies depending on environmental factors, lifestyle choices, genetics, and a laundry list of other variables you probably skimmed past in some middle school biology textbook) you ever get the idea to make a bet with a man like Derek Morgan, stop yourself immediately.

Seriously.

Tuck your pride deep into your pocket, crumple up your honor like a piece of paper, and toss it straight into the trash. Not every moment of your life has to be spent proving to the world that you’re always right. Especially when there’s even the slightest chance you might not be. Save yourself the humiliation.

You could spend this Friday night at home, nose buried in a book, instead of perched on a stool in some dimly lit, cramped bar, the kind where you keep glancing over your shoulder, half expecting someone to jump out and stab you in the ribs. Okay, maybe that’s dramatic. Spencer just really didn’t want to be there.

On this date. This blind date.

This blind date with some friend of Morgan’s whom he had never seen before, didn’t know what she looked like, what her name was, or what she did for a living…he knew nothing about her. And that, among other things, made him feel like the meeting could only go terribly.

The second reason was his migraine, which decided to strike that day, bringing that awful pressure back to his temples and turning him into a snappy, irritable jerk. The third reason was that his date was already twenty minutes late. How could he expect to spend meaningful time with someone who didn’t even respect him enough to show up on time?

At least he was in a relatively quiet bar instead of some nightclub bursting with lights. He probably wouldn’t have survived that. At least here, he could lean his elbow against the bar and press the cold glass of his drink to his temple, hoping it might soothe the awful sensation pounding in his head. He had specifically asked for the drink to be served with as much ice as possible.

He glanced at his watch. Twenty-three minutes and forty-seven seconds...

Someone slid onto a barstool. Not right next to him—there was one empty seat between them. Spencer cast a fleeting glance at the woman and almost snorted. That definitely wasn’t her.

Sure, he didn’t know what she looked like, and she didn’t know what he looked like. But Morgan wouldn’t have set him up with…someone like that. He wouldn’t be that cruel.

This woman looked as if someone had just fallen to their knees in front of her, begged her to step out of the pages of a high-fashion magazine, and graced the room with her presence. Or like the kind of person you stumble across while flipping through profiles of major mob bosses on Garcia’s computer and click on the tab labeled wife. Calling her pretty in this context would have been the greatest insult, a blatant lie, and a complete disregard for her actual presence.

No one in their right mind would have set someone like him up with a woman like this. An average-looking brainiac, often losing his train of thought and completely getting lost in his own words. Awkward. Currently also irritated and exhausted, but that’s beside the point.

Besides, the woman didn’t look like she was waiting for her date to show up. She sat facing the bar, not looking around, not scanning for anyone with her eyes. In fact, her gaze was fixed on one spot. On her phone, which she kept tapping on with her long nails. It couldn’t be her.

However, there was no other woman in sight. So, his date was already thirty minutes and twelve seconds late…wait, hold on. Had he really been staring at her for six seconds and twenty-five minutes? That was almost creepy. He was really being strange that day.

He shook his head in pity at himself and…still waited.

And waited.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her adjust herself in her seat. Her posture straight as an arrow, her thighs widening from the pressure on the seat. Long fingers with long nails, incessantly clicking away on her phone. Her jaw slightly clenched. What could be so important that she was completely ignoring the world around her? Some exciting gossip from her best friend? Or maybe when you look like that, you simply stop paying attention to your surroundings because it doesn’t deserve it? Or perhaps he was just projecting the irritation he had built up onto a woman who hadn’t done anything to him, creating degrading assumptions about her based solely on her appearance?

He placed the untouched glass with his drink on the counter. The ice clinked. Since he’d already wasted so much time preparing and leaving his apartment, it would be foolish to waste it even further without saying a word to his, well, potential date? Besides, he already felt humiliated. Why not embarrass himself even more?

"Hey," he said, fixing his gaze on her again. Damn, his voice sounded weak. She didn’t even flinch, probably hadn’t heard him. He cleared his throat and restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Of course, she hadn’t heard, she was too absorbed in her phone. "Hey, are you…are you maybe Morgan’s friend?"

Without rushing, she finished typing a message on her phone, then rested her chin on her hand, stretching her long fingers over it. Spencer tried to decipher what that unfazed look in her eyes meant. Boredom? Disdain?

"Spencer Reid," she said after a moment, nodding almost imperceptibly to herself. Her gaze drifted over his figure, leaving behind the faint trace of something—some kind of shiver—that he worked hard to ignore. He preferred to focus on something else. She knew his name, but he didn’t know hers? “I was starting to think you wouldn’t speak up.”

He frowned, and an unidentifiable sound escaped his throat. Somewhere between a startled sigh and a derisive scoff.

“You knew it was me?” he asked, immediately regretting the stupid question. She had just made it blatantly obvious! For reasons he couldn’t quite grasp, he felt as though there was a strict limit to the number of sentences he was allowed to exchange with her. And he’d just wasted one of them. “So why didn’t you say something first?”

She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was tapping something else into her phone. He rolled his eyes, not even bothering to hide it. After all, she wasn’t paying attention to him anyway.

“I saw that,” she said, still not looking at him. “It’s rude to make faces behind someone’s back.”

Spencer had this particular trait: he was quick to form opinions about people. His job, after all, involved noticing patterns in others’ personalities and using that to predict their next moves. This time, though, he abandoned the idea of a deep psychoanalysis and focused on one simple thing.

Her insolence just plain pissed him off.

To the extent that, instead of getting up from his seat and leaving the bar with a sarcastic thanks for the date, he slid off his stool and onto the one that had been separating them. His drink stayed in its original spot. Not that it was doing anything for his headache, anyway.

“It’s also rude to be late for an agreed-upon meeting time and ignore the other person in favor of your phone,” he shot back, this time without a hint of hesitation.

Either he imagined it, or a brief tremor took control of the corners of her lips.

She turned off her phone and placed her hand over it, as if to show that while she wasn’t using it at the moment, she could always pick it back up whenever she felt like it. Once this fleeting interest in him had run its course. It was like throwing down a challenge to the court jester. Entertain me.

“You’re right,” she admitted, without a trace of remorse. “It is rude.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other in complete silence. He tried not to swallow at all, even though saliva was pooling in his mouth. She seemed like an incredible observer, the type who would notice the slow, too-slow movement of his throat if he dared to let it happen. He had no idea what to say. No clue why he’d even joined her, why he was prolonging this conversation. He felt that if he spoke first, he’d seal his defeat in this interaction.

Not that he wasn’t already standing on that losing ground. And though he couldn’t believe he was actually saying it, sitting under her gaze was somehow worse than the potential humiliation. He cleared his throat.

“Morgan set us up,” he said.

“A blind date.”

“You lose a bet, too?”

She laughed. With that slight raise of her brow, it seemed like a genuine reaction. To his surprise, Spencer regretted his words. Maybe he shouldn’t have admitted to the woman he was on a date with that this was just the result of a wager. No matter how brazen or mean she might have been.

“Don’t worry,” she said, catching the look on his face. “It’s new. A completely exciting novelty, really. To be on a date with a guy and know he’s only there because he has to be. Not because he just wants to fuck you.”

Spencer shifted slightly in his seat. Once again, she was putting him in a position where he had no idea how to respond. For a moment, she watched him, her gaze piercing, her lips slightly parted to reveal hints of her teeth. But when he hesitated too long to say anything, she turned back to her phone. He’d lost her attention. Not that he particularly cared to keep it. Well, maybe he cared a little, but not in the most obvious sense. He saw it more as a game, a test of who she was.

She might not have been the most pleasant type of woman, but there was something undeniably fascinating about her. With that appearance, with that magnetic aura, she had to be used to crowds of men trailing after her, trying to impress her. He wondered how long it would take before she completely stopped paying him any attention. How susceptible to boredom she really was.

In the meantime, he let out a quiet sigh, turning to retrieve the drink he’d left at his previous spot. When he returned to his seat, however, he nearly spilled it on himself. She had shifted. Where before she had been angled toward the bar, only glancing at him sideways over her shoulder, now she was directly facing him, her knees nearly brushing his. She was entirely exposed to his gaze.

Earlier, Spencer had mostly registered the aura she projected—commanding, cool, utterly detached. Her beauty was breathtaking, but it had felt... out of reach. Untouchable. Now, up close, with more time to truly look at her, she became tangible. A shape—every curve and detail of her figure. Her lips, which, despite the sharp-edged words they formed, looked incredibly soft in texture.

He felt a bit pathetic for the fact that the first two things he noticed were her figure and her lips. But, in his defense, he’d already dissected everything else about her earlier.

“Sorry,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. She gestured vaguely toward her phone, the motion dismissive. “People won’t stop bothering me. My subjects.”

She uttered the word with a hint of sarcasm, her face lighting up as if she were joking, but considering her earlier behavior, Spencer found it genuinely difficult to tell whether she was serious about calling them that.

His mind should have been focused on sorting through the information, filing it neatly into the overstuffed yet impeccably organized shelves of his thoughts. He should have added the detail about her being someone’s boss to the appropriate folder, then used it as a springboard for conversation. After all, he didn’t know a single meaningful thing about her yet.

But instead, he was far too preoccupied with staring at her exposed knee like some pathetic fool.

Another second of silence, and she’d stop looking at him again—he’d already learned that pattern. He didn’t hold back and let out a short laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, shaking his head. But then he added, “Do you call your employees subjects? Like you’re, I don’t know, Catherine the Great on the Russian throne?”

“I knew you’d latch onto that. Just didn’t think you’d compare me to her.”

“Were you hoping for Cleopatra?”

The sound of her laughter caught the attention of the men at the table in the corner of the bar. Spencer wouldn't have been surprised if one of them approached her right then, completely ignoring his presence. Her head tilted slightly back, exposing her neck. He hurriedly took a sip of his drink, hoping the alcohol would dull his perception and stop him from paying such religious attention to such details. At that moment, he wasn't sitting there because of the lost bet. He was there because the chair physically had a grip on him.

“You’re cute,” she said.

Another surprising choice of words. A buzz filled his head, possibly a mix of his migraine and alcohol, or maybe something else entirely.

"Weren’t you supposed to say funny?" he muttered.

"I know what I wanted to say. I’ve never been on a date where someone compared me to two such powerful women."

He felt strangely pleased, and tried to push that feeling away as far as he could. She’d said one nice thing, and he was forgetting about the rest.

"But once, I was called the leader of a group of real angels," she added almost immediately, glancing at him with a small smirk. "So you could always try harder."

So many potential sarcastic replies flashed through his mind that he ended up saying nothing at all. Their knees were touching now. When did that happen? There had been a few inches of space between them earlier. Had he moved closer to her, or had she moved closer to him?

He considered pulling back, but that would have been an admission—both to her and to himself—that her touch was making it harder for him to think clearly. And after all, one of the defining traits of Spencer Reid was that nothing could cloud his intellect.

"Well, considering how biblically accurate angels look, I’m not sure if that was a compliment," his lips answered for him, without much consultation with his brain. They consulted instead with the center of humiliation, and received its approval.

Her eyebrows rose again as she slightly leaned toward him.

"Are you saying it was an insult?"

Being this close, she didn’t even need to raise her voice. Her words barely brushed the air, yet they were still audible. She was preventing him from interrupting her. How could he do that when he was barely able to come up with anything reasonable?

Without taking his eyes off her, he reached for his drink. The glass appeared between them, becoming an object that separated them, allowing him to—what a paradox—clear his thoughts for just a moment. He took a slow, tiny sip.

"Maybe the guy had good intentions," he replied with a feigned, dismissive shrug. "It’s just that his execution kinda gave him away. What I’m saying is, you should appreciate my compliment more." A bit of the drink remained on his lower lip, which reflected in her eye when she turned her gaze toward it. Spencer felt like he was on some kind of roller coaster, speeding in an unknown, slightly dangerous direction, not knowing how to stop it. Did he even want to stop it? He definitely needed to slow it down somehow. Before it crashed. He inhaled deeply, thinking of something that could, if only for a moment, give him control over the conversation. "Although maybe it shouldn’t even count, since this isn’t a real date."

"A compliment is a compliment. By the way, in your case, it was the other way around. The execution turned out well. The intentions, not so much. You didn’t want to make me feel good, right?" She tilted her head slightly to the side, curling the end of her sentence.

"I’ll leave that up to your interpretation," he replied after a moment. He was staring at her so intently that he almost unconsciously copied her movement. Control over the conversation, yeah, right! It was a struggle to swallow. "Does...does this not bother you at all? That this isn’t a real date?"

Constantly reminding her of that fact felt like clutching a damn sharp razor while drowning.

Her short huff synchronized with a roll of her eyes, a flash of white.

"I’m devastated by that fact," she groaned theatrically, tapping him seriously on the knee for dramatic effect. A shiver ran from his leg all the way through his body, the glass trembled in his hands. "I’m falling apart, I swear. Will you let me rest my head on your shoulder so I can cry?"

She looked at him from under lowered lashes, pretending to beg. Spencer was finding it increasingly hard to resist the buzz in his head and the thoughts that often wandered in strange directions. The tips of her long nails were still brushing against his leg through the fabric of his pants.

"Sarcasm," he muttered, struggling to tear his gaze away from them. Struggling to breathe. "How original.”

"I know this isn’t a real date, you don’t have to keep reminding me, Mr. Grumpy," she said, ignoring his mumbling remark that didn’t really mean anything. "By the way, even if it wasn’t obvious that this was a lost bet, I would’ve figured it out right away. All it took was one look at you when I walked in."

For a moment, Spencer managed to ground his feet in the reality beneath him. He furrowed his brows.

"What do you mean?"

She made some gesture with her hand.

"You were sitting here like you were being punished. Head down. Irritated look. Posture suggesting people shouldn’t approach you." She tried to demonstrate, slumping her previously perfectly straight back. It looked incredibly unnatural on her. "I’m so glad Morgan invited me here instead of some sweet, affectionate girl. She would’ve run away crying."

"That...is not true," he blurted out, shaking his head. "Okay, I admit, I didn’t want to be here, but I definitely didn’t suggest people should stay away from me."

"Maybe not you," she shrugged. "But your body language did."

He snorted.

"Look who’s the expert in reading body language."

“So now you want to be here?"

"What?"

"You said you didn’t want to be here. So, do you want to be here now?"

With some refined calmness, she followed his face. Their knees were almost touching, one of her legs was practically between his. Their bodies were facing each other, heads leaning toward one another. A glass in his hand. He tightened his grip on it, slightly pulling his shoulder blades together. He tried to escape the sphere of her scent, her gaze, her overpowering presence, which he was still relentlessly sinking deeper into. He couldn’t stay in that separation for long and soon returned to his previous position, placing them closer than ever before. Something in her eyes flashed with challenge.

"Apparently, you know a lot about body language," he said slowly, watching the flash in her eyes with the same breath. Surprisingly, he sounded quite confident. "Won’t you figure it out yourself?"

She hadn’t blinked for so long, yet her eyelids didn’t even flutter. After his question, there was a moment of silence, during which the corners of her lips curled up progressively. During this relatively short meeting, he’d barely seen a smile on her face, and none of them were like this one. In its way, it was ruthless, victorious, in its way cruel, in its way addictive.  It made him want to take some kind of action, to tear it off her face in a radical way.

He felt the drink slipping from his hands. For a moment, he was afraid he’d lost control over his limbs, and it would fall to the floor. But soon it dawned on him that her fingers were slowly beginning to wrap around the glass. Slowly, but surely, she took it from him.

"I could," she admitted, taking a sip. Spencer stared at the movement of her lips as they slowly embraced the glass, leaving their mark on it. "But why should I bother when you can tell me yourself?" she asked. She tilted her head slightly, and the next statement that came from her mouth was almost amused. "I don’t chase."

In the silence that fell, he felt as though she was listening, in some wicked way, to the sound of his heart beating. Like in some movie, where the world around fades into insignificance, other sounds melting into the atmosphere.

It seemed to Spencer that his voice had caught in his throat in some defensive gesture, trying to stop him from responding before properly considering his words. At the same time, so many sentences rushed to his lips—not just those that made sense. His mind was veiled by a black curtain of unbreathable fabric. In that moment, he could’ve just as easily recited the formula for the sum of an arithmetic sequence.

He swallowed hard.

"I don’t chase either," he finally replied, not breaking their gaze.

For a moment, she continued to stare at him. Her expression unreadable, the smile long forgotten. She shifted the glass in her hand, then tilted it to her lips, drinking the rest of its contents in one go. She set it down on the counter again, with force.

"Fuck you, then," she said indifferently.

For a moment, Spencer had no idea how to react; he couldn’t process it. His jaw slightly dropped, but he had no words to follow. And before he could add anything, she simply stood up from her seat, effortlessly untangling herself from their complex positioning, then walked away.

He sat there for what felt like an eternity, unmoving, until he was finally forced to take a breath. It was only with that rush of air into his lungs that he was able to somehow, in a distorted way, begin to rationalize everything.

First, he felt strangely disappointed.

Then, he found himself swept up in a wave of ordinary irritation towards her. The same kind of irritation he'd felt at the beginning of their conversation, which had subtly slipped out through the back door as the talk continued. And now, it had returned with double the force. He remembered her face, and when he imagined looking into those eyes, all he saw was the grotesque expansion of her inflated ego.

In its own way, it was justified. She was damn attractive, unattainable. Some level of excessive self-admiration was almost natural for her. At least, not surprising. That didn’t make it any less frustrating.

Spencer rubbed his eyelids as if waking from some dream. And then he saw it. Her phone on the bar. Left behind by her.

And although he grabbed the phone and even turned his body toward the door, he hesitated for a long time, unsure if he should follow her. She’d practically ignored him during the first few minutes of their conversation, absorbed by that very phone. On the other hand, it was supposedly some business matter. On yet another hand, he didn’t care in the slightest. When he left the bar, it wasn’t out of some deeply ingrained sense of altruism. He did it because his legs demanded it. His subconscious. The blood pulsing in his temples and the rapid breaths nervously coursing between his nose and mouth.

He stopped outside the bar, surrounded by the nighttime quiet. A yellow cab zipped past him, so close he could feel the air ripple in its wake, as he wondered which direction she might have gone. How was it even possible that she’d vanished so quickly? For a moment, he stood there, feeling a growing sense of pity for himself. He slowed his breathing, as though that might help him catch the faint sound of her heels striking the pavement somewhere in the distance. He wanted to hear it.

His grip tightened on the phone as he turned back toward the bar. He’d leave it there, hand it over to the bartender, and then go home. She’d figure it out eventually, realize where she’d last used it, and return.

But just as he took a single step, he noticed a silhouette leaning casually against the building.

Watching him. And smiling with triumph.

*

"Once again, why exactly are we, profilers, being called in for a contaminated water case?" Spencer asked, clearly frustrated with himself.

He couldn't focus. And he was hungover. Well, no, he wasn’t. He’d had less than one drink two days ago on Friday night, and now it was the start of the week, and he was at work. He’d gotten a decent amount of sleep last night, had an excellent coffee, and even eaten breakfast. So why did he still feel like there was some dull, persistent throbbing buried deep in the recesses of his skull?

The entire team stared at him for a beat too long in silence.

"This is the third such incident in the past two months," Hotch finally spoke, his tone patient. "The first time, a chemical contaminant got into the water supply of a small town, causing mild poisoning symptoms in a handful of people. The second incident was nearly identical, except more people were affected. The third time, it happened in a different, more populated area, using a much more lethal toxin. And now, we have fatalities."

For a moment, Spencer stayed silent, processing the information. In front of him lay a case file, its contents neatly compiled. He focused his gaze on the first page, his expression thoughtful. But as he read the words, they seemed to blur together, offering little clarity and yielding no significant conclusions. A bitter urge to scoff at his own incompetence bubbled up within him. He was distracted.

“You forgot to mention this is a top, top, top-secret case,” Rossi chimed in, breaking the silence.

Spencer furrowed his brow. Was there a hint of irony in Rossi’s tone, or was he imagining it?

“Sorry, man, but what planet have you been on for the past thirty minutes while we were going over this?” Morgan asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his head, his tone light but teasing.

He tried to avoid his gaze. He had this strange feeling that Morgan could see right through him. After all, he was the only one who knew about his date. Well, in theory. The details and the outcome were still unknown to him, and they were meant to remain that way.

“There’s suspicion that all these contaminations are the work of one person or organization,” JJ spoke up, glancing at him from the corner of her eye with some pity. Not mockery, it’s worth specifying. “They’re testing the effects of various poisons, their toxicity, as well as gathering data on the response times of emergency services, procedures, and residents' reactions. And that, in turn, could mean…”

“Mass panic,” Prentiss finished.

JJ nodded at her, agreeing.

Thanks to this explanation, everything began to slowly form in his mind. Another case shrouded in secrecy, meant to be kept hidden from literally everyone, starting with the public, and even ending with other agencies.

“We’ll meet at the jet in fifteen minutes,” Hotch informed them, standing up from his chair. “We have a field interview to conduct. A chemist will join us to collect samples of the poison.”

Spencer dragged himself up from his seat, but before he could follow the others out of the room, Morgan stopped him with a gesture.

"You're staying, man. We need to talk." He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression full of curiosity.

Spencer sighed.

"Hotch said—"

"Fifteen minutes, if I heard right."

"Well, fifteen minutes is more than enough time for someone to drink contaminated water and end up six feet under."

"The water system's been shut off, so slow down with the doom and gloom. Besides, this conversation wouldn’t be happening if you’d called me back over the weekend," Morgan said, his tone firm but without any real anger—just pure, friendly curiosity. A grin spread across his face. "So, how was it? Did you have a good time? Did you like my friend?"

He knew that question was coming, yet he hadn’t prepared for it. He had no idea how to answer, no clue how to summarize an encounter that had somehow lodged itself so deeply in the recesses of his mind. It kept surfacing, unbidden, pushing certain images into his vision—and sensations into his awareness.

Spencer hit the doorframe with his shoulder.

Or maybe it was her? Either way, there was a sound of impact, one of them must have collided with something on the way. The way they both traveled, immersed in each other's faces, bodies heading out on a trip despite the layers of clothes separating them.

It was probably him after all. It was from his mouth that this short, sharp sound escaped. It didn't take them long to cover the distance between the bar and his apartment. They needed little conversation to shift from the topic left in the phone to the joining of impatient, curious lips. Curious whether they could once again tap into the tension created just moments earlier, when they sat across from each other on the bar stools.

And when the initial curiosity was satisfied, they couldn't stop. It was replaced by a need, driven out by the surging desire, as if they both had drunk a poison that clouded and darkened their minds.

How else could one explain that, despite barely knowing each other, going to bed together had suddenly become an unquestionable priority, one that didn’t concern such mundane things as doorframe or furniture?

Even now, his hand twitched as if instinctively reaching for his chest. Beneath his buttoned-up shirt and vest, his skin bore faint, fading marks that, while diminishing with each passing day, were still visible. Sometimes, they even felt tangible. When he thought about them long enough, he could almost feel the stinging sensation of sharp nails dragging across his body.

He shrugged slowly. Something he’d learned in the past few days—sometimes the best way to deflect was to redirect the question right back.

“Morgan, why did you set me up with her specifically?” he asked, his tone serious, genuine curiosity lacing his words. His friend furrowed his brows slightly in response.

“I mean, what was the goal here? I bet you have plenty of friends, but you chose her specifically,”

When he referred to her with that pronoun, it carried a weight of unspoken adjectives. Her. So attractive, so alluring. Confident to an intimidating degree, capable of making him feel like the most extraordinary man in the world and a complete nobody—all with a single glance.

Morgan didn’t get a chance to respond before Spencer continued, diving headfirst into what had consumed far too much of his thoughts lately.

“Did you hope I’d, I don’t know…embarrass myself in front of her?”

“Did you?” Morgan countered, his brow twitching upward. He quickly sobered, though, when he noticed Spencer’s serious expression.

“Listen, man. I don’t know why you’d think that. We’ve known each other a long time. She set me up with her friend once, so I figured she’d be open to it. Besides, I had a feeling you two would get along. She’s incredibly smart. I just wanted you to have a good time—you’ve been so…withdrawn lately.”

He felt a little guilty for snapping at him like that. After all, Derek could have used his lost bet for far more devious purposes instead of trying to give him a good evening. Spencer sighed, apologetically.

“Okay, sorry, I was just curious.”

He shifted uncomfortably, hoping this would be the end of the conversation.

“No harm done, man. But now spill—did you have a good time? Was it worth crawling out of your den? What did you two do? Stay in the bar the whole time, or did you end up taking her somewhere—or maybe she took you…”

“We…” Spencer hesitated, swallowing hard. He didn’t know why it was so difficult to admit it—especially to Derek, of all people. Maybe because casual, one-night encounters with people he barely knew had never been his thing. And this one…this one felt different. She lingered in his mind so vividly, and he was terrified that saying anything out loud might make her slip away, like a fragile dream dissipating at dawn.

“You are—”

His fists clenched from the feeling that lingered within him, a feeling so intense that he doubted he could physically find any outlet for it.

“I am, what?” she asked, her words a mere murmur between rapid, heavy, and loud breaths. But despite their softness and their blending with other sounds, she managed to imbue them with a tone of unmistakable assertiveness. 

Spencer couldn't respond, his forehead resting momentarily on her collarbones. He felt a shiver rising up his shoulders and then his entire back as the tips of her nails barely perceptibly sank into his hair. They gently glided through the strands until they tightened around them when a short, hiss-like moan broke out her lips.

"What, you won't even say it out loud?" she asked, sliding her fingers down his neck. The trail she marked caused his back to straighten, tension building from the delicate, burning sensation of her touch. "You were more willing to compliment me earlier. Or maybe you wanted to say I'm rude again—"

"You’re incredible," he interrupted her with a sudden exhale, lifting his head finally to meet her gaze. Her lower lip stayed slightly parted the whole time, and he couldn’t ignore the invitation, nor refrain from placing a chaotic, messy kiss on them. "And rude, but I feel you so well..."

She laughed into his mouth, which turned into a sudden, pleased sob when he accidentally bit part of her lower lip. 

"Sorry," he muttered instinctively, before it dawned on him what a wonderful sound had escaped her when he did it. Before it dawned on him that he wanted to hear it again.

She gently shook her head, as if in disbelief.

“You’re cute,” 

"Yeah, we stayed at the bar," he finished his thought, briefly rubbing his forehead. Lying was so incredibly stupid in this situation. She was Morgan's friend, for crying out loud. He’d undoubtedly ask her the same question, and she’d give an entirely different answer—because unlike him, she wasn’t an idiot afraid to admit they’d slept together. Where had his so-called brilliance gone? “And it was fine. It was a good night. And you’re right…she’s smart, interesting. We had a good conversation.”

If only he sounded believable. Derek’s eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, he stayed silent, watching Spencer intently.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” he said briefly. For a moment, they stood there, Spencer certain that Derek would say something else, waiting for it. But he just merely nodded toward the door.

“Okay, time for us, I guess. Before anyone decides to brew themselves a cup of tea, unaware of the special ingredient.”

Spencer watched him head toward the door.

“You said the water supply’s been shut down?”

“In small towns, you never really know.”

*

“I don’t want to say anything, but we should probably get going,” he started, glancing at his watch. The fifteen minutes that Hotch had mentioned were still firmly planted in his mind.

Even though Hotch stood right next to him, waiting as well. It was hard to tell if he was starting to feel impatience with his stoic expression.

Prentiss sighed, her hands resting on her hips. The rest of the team was already on the jet, with only the three of them left waiting for the arrival of the last passenger. The most crucial one for this case.

Spencer understood, though barely, that people could be late for personal reasons. But at work? That should always be a priority, to get there on time and do the job. His mind wandered back to when he’d been leaning over the bar, counting the minutes and seconds, with a cold drink in front of him…

“Is that her?”

He looked at Emily, unsure why there was such surprise in her voice. Then he glanced toward the person they’d been waiting for and asked himself why the universe seemed to enjoy playing tricks on him so much.

Of course, it was her.

Hotch, as the head of their team, extended his hand towards her. Her gaze never fell on Spencer, but not because she was avoiding him, rather because… she seemed lost in thought? Dressed in formal attire, just as striking as that evening, with a slightly furrowed brow and a less playful expression on her face.

“SSA Aaron Hotchner,” he introduced himself briefly, shaking her hand. Then, he gently shifted his gaze towards the two other members of his team. “Special Agent Emily Prentiss and…”

“Can someone explain to me why I couldn’t bring my team with me?” she asked in a firm tone, as always standing perfectly upright.

She looked at each of them in turn, this time not skipping over Spencer. But her face didn’t even twitch when their gazes met. Something that couldn’t be said about him.

Just to be clear, it wasn’t that he was staring at her like some lovesick puppy. After all, they shared only one night, not a twenty-something-year marriage. It was simply that reconciling such a twisted turn of events took him a moment. Her pretentious tone didn’t even irritate him that much. He was too busy staring at her face, comparing the sophisticated silhouette in the daylight to the one that stretched beneath him when the space around them was still consumed by the night.

He cleared his throat, trying to return to the present moment. And once he did, his lips almost spoke on their own.

“This is a matter that requires particular discretion,” he began to explain. He tried to adopt as neutral a tone as possible, but inside, a sense of amusement began to fill him. The whole situation was almost theatrical, as were their actions and glances. He analyzed her face, still unmoved, listening to his words with complete focus. Wow, she was definitely more professional than he was.

“We're dealing with contamination in the water supply. The information about this could cause widespread panic among the public, something we certainly want to avoid. That’s why you’ve been assigned to this task, and only you. Without your subjects.”

He saw it, that barely noticeable movement at the corners of her lips. When he caught it, a sense of euphoria surged through him. But it was quickly replaced by nerves, as it suddenly hit him that they'd be spending the entire day together. How should he talk to her? Should he treat it all like a regular day, as grown adults should, or pretend it never happened?

As the amusement faded from his face, hers seemed to double. Emily watched their expressions like a tennis match, glancing from one to the other. Hotch, as always, remained stoic, but it was likely that questions were swirling in his mind as well.

“Thank you very much for the clarification, Dr. Reid,” she responded with an overly polite tone, nodding at him as though granting him an honor. And, well, he couldn’t help but feel that deep down inside, that’s exactly how he felt when faced with her smile. “It’s good that you’re here to dispel any potential doubts this case may undoubtedly raise for me. I’m sure I’ll consult with you further. Now, I suppose we should get going.”

She said it as if she were the only boss in the entire operation, giving one last glance over all three of them before walking confidently toward the jet.

They were, more or less, confused.

Hotch was the first to shake himself out of it and followed her footsteps.

Prentiss slightly parted her lips, casting a look of full suspicion at him.

“Wait a second,” she began, pointing at him with a finger. “How did she know who you are, when Hotch didn’t have a chance to introduce you?”

He hesitated before answering, still watching the figure disappearing aboard the jet.

“I guess my scientific accomplishments have finally made me famous,” he replied flatly.

Spencer couldn't deny it. An incredibly interesting day was coming. 

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch @trulymadlydarling @cynbx @penelopegarciaismygf

[heavens-whore]

RIDE

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You and Joel run away together for a fresh start, away from the town you both hate. Along the way, you start to have doubts about your decision, but Joel has a way of persuading you that it’s right for you.

A/N: this is my first fic ! It was inspired by a post my friend sent me that was just a pic of motel steps, captioned "need a cigarette here". And the scene unfolded idk. Also I don't really know how to make my posts look cute yet so please excuse this visual abomination for now. Enjoy!!

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: 18+, unspecified age gap, oral (f receiving), creampie, unprotected sex, cigarette smoking, not wearing a seatbelt (please wear a seatbelt fr), running away, getting fired, getting hated on

The sun shone through the dirty window of the truck and started to dip below the horizon, but the heat stayed hanging in the humid air. Your bare feet were resting up on the dashboard and your eyes watched the rural surroundings of the open road race past as you drove further and further away from your old life. The faint sound of 80s rock from the radio and the hum of the truck’s engine did little to silence the thoughts that tormented you- the thought that running away was a big mistake you would come to deeply regret.

You hated your hometown. The weather, the people, the way they talked, the way they dressed, the things they believed in. You even hated the buildings. So why was it all so hard to let go of? You had always wanted to leave, to run away and leave it all behind, start a new life out West and never look back. Joel was the only person who was willing to give it all to you. He never talked about it, but you could see it in his eyes every time you mentioned the idea of leaving. You knew he wanted this too- probably did from a young age. Some teenage pipedream of his that imploded when his daughter was conceived. So he stayed, started his family business, bought a house and raised her. But now she was all grown up and there was nothing to hold him back anymore. All he was waiting for was for you to say the word. 

And you did, after one particularly rough day. You had gone to work in the morning and come home in tears around midday after being fired with no warning. It didn’t matter, you hated the job anyway; but your parents were enraged, furious that you could let this happen. They called you a burden, said you had no ambition and no future ahead of you. In the early afternoon you had shown up on Joel’s doorstep with a bag packed and tears in your eyes, begging him to take you away from it all. And he did. 

He had one hand resting on your thigh, and the other on the steering wheel. His eyes strayed from the road to look over at you, seeing you gaze thoughtfully out the half-open window in your denim shorts and little tank top. He squeezed your thigh to get your attention.

‘You take your seatbelt off again?’ You looked up at him, your eyes wide and clearly swimming with thoughts. But he didn’t push it. You nodded. ‘Gotta put it back on for me, darlin’. We can’t have nothin’ happening, can we? Ambulance would take forever to get to us out here.’ You didn’t say anything, just took your legs down from the dashboard and pulled your seatbelt back on, the polyester squeaking as it unravelled. Joel’s eyes flicked back to the road momentarily but then returned to you. You were being unusually quiet. ‘You doin’ okay?’

You nodded again, but this time feigning contentment.

‘Yeah. Just hot in here.’

Joel’s dark eyes lingered on yours for a moment before flicking back to the road, definitely unconvinced.

‘Well we’re almost to the next stop anyway. Think this motel’s got a pool, too.’

The heat was definitely part of the problem, because when you finally got to the motel, the cool water of the pool lifted your spirits. You put on that new bikini you had bought at an earlier stop along the way and floated on your back, let the water cool your skin while you watched the sunset paint the sky with bright streaks of pink and orange. Joel watched you swim from the edge of the pool for a while before joining you. He splashed you with the water and pulled you beneath the surface, wrapped your legs around his hips and kissed you with such tender desire it made you want to cry.

Later in the evening, you lay awake beside Joel. His arm was wrapped loosely around your waist and he was fast asleep, but all you could do was stare at the chipping paint on the ceiling. Those regrets had started to creep back into your head, and it felt as though there was a war going on in your mind. You thought of your friends, your family, what the people back home would say about the young girl who randomly up and left one day to run away to California with the old man from down the street. You quietly untangled yourself from his grasp and stepped outside for some air. It was dark but the stars were bright, and the crickets chirped as you sat on the steps of the motel and lit a cigarette. You didn’t know what time it was or where exactly you were. All you knew was that it was late and you were far from home. You sucked in the smoke and watched the neon glow of the motel sign dance on the ripples in the pool. It was quiet, peaceful, but the war in your head raged on. It was impossible, trying to tell if this was just some optimistic dream you had cooked up- that you could run away and find your fresh start on the coast and live happily ever after. What if it all blew up in your face and you were forced to come back home to your parents’ fury, that you could be so reckless and believe in some big lie this dirty old man was feeding you?

The creak from the door opening snatched your attention away from your thoughts, and you turned to see Joel’s concerned eyes watching you. He sat on the step behind you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the warmth of his chest.

‘What’s on your mind, darlin’? Been quiet all day, I know something’s up.’

You took another hit of the cigarette and flicked the ashes onto the steps below you.

‘I dunno. It’s… I dunno.’

He sighed as he watched your troubled expression.

‘We can go back if you want, y’know. Don’t want you to feel like I’m callin’ all the shots here.’

You shook your head.

‘I don’t wanna go back. You know how bad I want this. I just wish I could forget all about home.’

‘You will forget it, sweetheart. Once you see the ocean, you’ll forget all about that town. We’ll start over, yeah?’

You brought the filter back to your lips and inhaled again, your mind still not eased much.

‘What if we get there and we hate it?’

Joel rested his chin on the crown of your head as he held you from behind.

‘Then we’ll go back. Or we’ll go somewhere else. But what if we get there and we love it?’

He had a way of making everything sound so simple and it never failed to blow your mind. 

He plucked the cigarette from between your fingers and put it out, then pulled you to your feet and rested his hands on your waist. ‘S’just a fresh start, darlin’. Nobody’ll know us, nobody’ll look twice when they see us together, they won’t care. We’ll be okay, I promise. And if we ain’t, we’ll think of somethin’ else. Can always go back if we change our minds.”

It was true, but something in the back of your mind told you that you wouldn’t. Joel’s hand stroked your cheek gently, and his dark eyes sparkled under the neon sign as they gazed into yours, full of nothing but intimate affection.

The two of you went back to bed but didn’t sleep. The moonlight seeped in through the flimsy net curtains and illuminated your naked skin as you undressed each other. Joel laid you down on the edge of the bed and stood between your legs, his hands squeezed your breasts gently while his eyes wandered your body, a sigh escaping his lips. He leaned down to press feather light kisses to your neck and collarbones while his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties and slid them down your legs. He gripped your thighs tenderly as he pulled them apart, and knelt in between them.

He licked a stripe up your center while moving your thighs to rest on his shoulders. He wrapped his thick arms around them while he lapped at your seam, the taste of your arousal dampening his taste buds. His tongue swirled around your clit, causing your toes to curl and your back to arch while he watched from his position, his boxers tightening with every second that passed until he couldn’t wait any longer. He pressed a tender kiss to your inner thigh and stood up, shoved his underwear down and lined himself up for entrance.

‘You want this, baby?’ He whispered, ‘You want me?’

You nodded eagerly, if there was one thing in this world you knew you wanted for certain, it was him. He slid into you easily, your juices and his saliva soaking him. Small whimpers and whines fell from your lips, as well as his name, while your nails dug deep crescents into his shoulders. He held still once he bottomed out to let you adjust his length. It didn’t matter how many times he had buried himself deep into your walls, he always seemed to stretch them out more each time, the dull ache blending with ecstasy. His eyes held your gaze and he watched your expression as it twisted in pain and pleasure.

‘You okay darlin’? You with me?’

You whispered a soft but adamant ‘Yes,’ and he pulled out before pushing back into you again with the same agonizingly slow pace, his jaw tense as he groaned in pleasure, the head forcing its way in even deeper.

‘Always so wet for me.. Such a good girl.’

Your little moans filled the night air as he started to gradually pick up the pace, speeding up slightly with each deep thrust. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in even deeper; and your arms wrapped around his neck, drawing him into a warm and passionate kiss. Joel’s tongue wetted your bottom lip, asking for entrance into your mouth, and you let it. The sound of his hips slapping against your thighs melted into your sweet whimpers of ecstasy as the heat from his body dampened your skin with sweat.

‘I love you, baby,’ He mumbled against your lips, his thrusts never stopping, ‘love you so much.’

You pinched your eyes shut as the stimulation started to overwhelm you. Each of his movements sent shockwaves through your body, and you could feel your legs start to tremble. Joel laced his fingers with yours and squeezed your hands gently, his voice soft and low. ‘Look at me, baby girl.’ Your eyelids fluttered open to see his eyes were burning into yours and sparkling with passion. ‘There’s those pretty eyes.’ He slowed down, reading your expression, and pressed a tender kiss to your lips. His face hovered above yours as he slowly pushed himself in and out, trying to draw this out as long as he could, before building back up to the same speed as before.

The tension in your stomach was growing, the coil tightening after Joel’s thrusts established a steady pace. He pulled back from you to watch your features contorting with pleasure, your back arching up into him, the moisture on your skin glowing in the dim moonlight. His grip on your hands tightened, and his brows furrowed like they always do when he’s close to the edge. You whimpered to let him know that you were too- no words needed. 

‘Where do you want it, baby?’ His voice was low and gravelly, dripping with hunger.

‘Inside. Please.’ You whispered desperately and squeezed his hand.

‘You sure?’ His jaw was tightening and his eyes were dark, and you knew you had to decide fast. But your mind was already made up. You nodded certainly, right on the brink of shattering.

You both fell apart at the same time. His hips stuttered as you felt his warmth blossoming deep within your core, and your desperate whimpers and groans bounced off the walls of the small dim room. Joel pushed himself somehow even deeper into you as your walls clenched tightly around him, choking his length. He leaned down to your face again, your lips meeting in a messy, loving kiss while he tried unsuccessfully to still his hips, continually pulsing within you and filling you up with his climax. 

He didn’t pull out- you asked him not to. He just rested you on his lap and rested his back against the cheap headboard of the bed while you were still intimately connected. The sun was starting to rise and orange rays shone through the parting in the curtain as Joel held you, his fingers running through your hair while drips of his release seeped out onto your inner thighs. It was quiet, the sound of the crickets had subsided and the only noise you could hear was the steady beat of Joel’s heart where your head rested on his chest. It was time to hit the road again soon, but this time your mind was clear, and you knew it was what you wanted.

[heartmix]

❯❯❯❯the grid: how they act when drunk

prompt: how they act when theyre drunk

includes: MV1, LN4, CS55, CL16, LH44, OP81

a/n: REQUESTED. This was hard for the drivers i've seen proof of being drunk, and easier for ones I didn't.

warnings: intoxication. suggestive (for Carlos' part), accidents mentioned (Lando's part), not well proofread

F1 Masterlist / Masterlist

MV1 - Fun + Funny

The only time he doesn’t think of himself as Champion Max Verstappen and just Max while in public.

Everyone has seen Max drunk, and everyone loves it. It’s why they always try to get him to go out. Everyone wanted a chance to be around 'Drunk Max.' 

You loved drunk max. When you knew he was going to drink the night away, you tried hard to stay sober so you could remember everything. (Also, so you could record him and use it as blackmail material.)

One time at a club in Ibiza, you and Max were out with all your friends. The night started off normally with max crackling jokes and telling animated stories using his hands. After about 5 vodka crans and 4 rounds of shots, drunk max was here to party.

"We should pop fireworks!" he exclaimed. Every drunk person cheered him on while you just sat with a puzzled face.

"Baby, we don't have fireworks."

"Wait....I know a guy!" Quickly, he pulled out his phone to make a call. Before you knew it, someone showed up with a pack of fireworks as he ushered everyone outside to witness it.

Of course, drunk max would think to pop fireworks, and of course, he knew a guy who could get them. At least he wasn't breaking down any doors with a hammer.

LN4 - Messy + Accident Prone

He always had the personality of a little kid in a toy store. Sober or not. But it seemed that when he had alcohol in his system, it was as if he was staying overnight in that said toy store - the place being a mess, and somehow, injuring himself.

To others, it may seem like his actions weren't much different from sober him. Sober Lando ate expired food, while drunk Lando almost accidentally stabbed himself with a plastic fork while he was eating chili cheese fries you gave him to sober up.

“It’s like you don’t even know how to eat.” You chuckled as he pouted when he missed the container by a margin.

“I-I…help?”

“You’re lucky you’re so cute.” 

Trying to feed him was like trying to feed a baby. Even though you had control of the food, somehow chili ended up on the corners of his mouth, and non-melted pieces of cheese were falling down his shirt.

By the end of the night, he’s wearing someone else’s glasses, the ones he came with you’re wearing because he insists they look cooler on you, while he's holding on to you for dear life, trying not to trip and fall. He fell earlier trying to go down the steps to the bathroom.

CS55 - Touchy Feely

Carlos claims he’s way too old to get drunk and party anymore. Until he wins a Grand Prix, he suddenly forgot what he said. 

The night started out like any other. Both of you are nursing a drink in your hand for the first hour while mingling. After a while, you made your way to the dance floor with some of the girls. From your spot on the dance floor, you could see the shots Carlos was pounding back and how his drink was never empty. You knew he was going to be plastered. That was when you decided to slow your pace. 

Around 30 minutes later, he joins you on the dance floor, arms wrapped around your waist and head buried into your neck. If you hadn’t memorized his arms and the scent of his cologne, you would have pushed him away. 

A few songs later, his hands start roaming over your stomach, your hips, and thighs. That was your cue that both of you needed to get off this dance floor, or he would do something crazy where everyone could see you.  

When you made it to your booth, he pulled you on top of him. Both his arms have you in a bear hug; you have nowhere to go. And like clockwork, his lips find any piece of your skin. Your shoulder, face, lips, and neck. He couldn’t care who was looking; he probably thought you both were alone and not in a packed club. 

“Bubba, wanna go home?” You asked, trying not to give in to his loving touch. One of you needed to be sensible.

Just for a moment, he pulls away to look at you. Those cute brown eyes everyone compliments are now full of lust behind them. “Take me to bed, mi amor.”

CL16 - Shy + Awkward

This man is awkward already. Awkward smile, awkward laugh, awkward posture. The first time you saw him drunk, you were trying to help him relax and open up. Well, turns out alcohol doesn’t help with that. Not for him.

The more he drank, the quieter he got. Four drinks in, he was just humming to the songs, not even singing them like he was when you first arrived. 

When someone would come up to him, he wouldn’t know how to keep up a conversation. All his responses were limited to ‘mhhh’ and ‘yeah’. If he tried to say more than two words, he would fumble and make it seem like it was his first time discovering what a sentence was. 

Someone could be talking to him about tyre strategies and how he pulled off staying out for 5 more laps, and his response would be “yeah- I mean…slicks right?” You had no idea what he was trying to say, and neither did the person who was talking to him, but to Charles, it made sense.

When that person walks away, you turn to him, a tease already on your tongue: “Who knew how shy you are while you’re drunk.” 

This man turns as red as his Ferrari suit. You’ve never seen him this shade ever before. He turned to look anywhere but you because if he did, he couldn’t stop heating up and smiling from being so affected by you. 

LH44 - Bragging (about you)

He doesn’t get drunk, and there are only a few times you could count where he has. He sees his body as a temple and is very careful what goes past his lips. The few times you have seen him plastered, he’s pulling you everywhere, bragging about you.

To catch this man drunk, you’d have to turn back in time to 2012. The sighting was so rare you could count on less than one hand the times you’ve seen him pass the point of “tipsy.” 

He didn’t even get drunk in his own house. Two glasses of wine will always be his limit. He claims he’s too old and that one of the two of you needs to be sober to take care of the other.

But when he does manage to feel intoxicated, you'd better hope no one there hates you because you're all this man will talk about. You were going to be mentioned in every conversation this man had with every single person there that night. 

“The team is looking to get better upgrades after the break I heard.”

“You know my girl said I should be meaner. Like on the radio and stuff. Said I don’t deserve that kind of treatment, and she’s usually right. She’s right about everything.”

He’s saying all that with you hanging off his arms while he has you in a death grip, refusing you to go anywhere. His answer makes you face-palm. Thankfully, the guy was a good sport and couldn’t help but laugh himself while agreeing with Lewis. 

You were convinced that night everyone knew about you than every before and it wasn’t even from you talking, it’s because Lewis couldn’t stop talking. 

OP81 - Agrees to everything you say

This man follows you around like a dog on a leash. Never in front of you, always in the back so he can watch you. Whenever you guys go out, you're the undecided leader. 

He’s also a lightweight. He can handle a few beers here and there, but once you get hard liquor in him, it’s over.

As the night wears on, with Oscar having one arm always around you, you find out quickly that he will agree to anything you ask of him. 

Oscar usually only drank a one liquor and soda combo. Nothing fancy and nothing that involves different types of alcohol mixing all in one. You, on the other hand, only drank those toxic waste of drinks. So when you decided to test the theory of him saying yes to everything, you started out with drinks. 

“Oscar, baby, wanna try my drink?” You asked with the sweetest voice and angelic smile on your face. You tried hard because the drink in your hand was Long Island, and it included every liquor known to man inside. He nodded before you helped him with the straw so he could have a sip. 

“How was it?” You asked, seeing as he didn’t make a face. He was too far gone to be affected by the taste anymore. 

“Taste good.” He smiled down at you, seemingly not knowing that he took something he always nagged you about for drinking. 

"Think you could skip training with Lando tomorrow?"

"Anything you want, baby." He gave you a goofy smile that you couldn't help but giggle at. He was so far gone from reality.

[solxamber]

Romance Clichés With: Leona Kingscholar

Cliché: Misplaced Jealousy

Others: Azul ; Vil ; Kalim ; Idia ; Jamil ; Riddle

it's gonna be a little series where each of them gets a cliché!

For days now, Leona had been simmering. He’d never admit to caring about something so trivial, but that simmer was rapidly reaching a boil, one muttered “Savanaclaw guy” at a time. Because you—his supposed close friend, the only person he could actually stand around here—had developed some grand crush on… someone. Someone you kept bringing up. Some unknown, nameless, faceless moron in Savanaclaw.

And you just wouldn’t shut up about him.

Leona had been sitting through your monologues, listening to you talk about how strong and loyal and amazing this guy was, and it had started as a minor annoyance. But as you kept going, he realized something deeply frustrating—maybe even painful.

That after everything, you had gone and chosen some other Savanaclaw idiot over him. And it stung, more than he’d ever want to admit, to hear you talking about anyone like this.

But today was the breaking point.

You were lounging in his den, casually chatting with him between classes. As usual, the conversation took a familiar turn, and you sighed dramatically. “I mean, I guess it’s just… this guy, he’s just… I don’t know. He’s got this strength that’s so impressive, and he always knows how to take charge. Like, he doesn’t even need to try, you know? It’s like he was born to lead.” You didn’t notice Leona’s eyes darken or the way his fingers clenched into fists.

“Just the way he’s so confident,” you continued, “he’s got this whole ‘I don’t care about anything’ vibe that’s really charming in a weird way. It’s like he’s always one step ahead of everyone, even when he’s—”

Leona cut you off with a harsh scoff. “Right. Real inspiring. Sounds like a real prize,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “And I bet he doesn’t even realize how perfect he is, right?”

“Exactly! He’s the type who’s always underestimated,” you continued, oblivious to the thunderous look on Leona’s face. “But if people would just give him a chance, they’d see all his best qualities. He’s fierce, but he’s got this heart of gold underneath it all. People just don’t get him.”

“Oh, don’t they?” Leona’s voice was low and strained, a bitter edge cutting through his usual drawl. “Must be nice to be so adored by someone.”

“Hey,” you said, “don’t say it like that. He doesn’t even know I like him. I don’t even know if he’d ever see me like that.” You let out a wistful sigh that was like a slap to his face.

Leona’s patience finally snapped. “Unbelievable,” he snarled, standing up so fast that you jumped. “You’re completely clueless.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Clueless? Leona, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you,” he bit out, eyes blazing. “You’re here—wasting your time on someone who probably doesn’t even care about you while you throw yourself at him like some kind of fool. I mean, what’s it gonna take for you to get it?”

You were stunned into silence, and he kept going, frustration pouring out in a way that you’d never seen before. “After everything, you go and pick someone else?” His voice cracked a little, and it made your heart ache. “I thought maybe… maybe if there was anyone here you’d choose, it would be me.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You were utterly bewildered. “Leona… what are you talking about? It has always been you.”

He blinked, staring at you, completely thrown. “What?”

You took a step closer to him, speaking slowly, trying to get through his thick skull. “Leona, all that stuff I’ve been saying—every time I was talking about this person I liked, I was talking about you.”

Leona looked like he’d been hit by a lightning bolt. His mouth fell open slightly, and he was struggling to catch up, his usual composure completely shattered. “Wait… you’re serious?”

“Yes! Why else would I even talk about Savanaclaw so much?” You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “You were the one who kept assuming it was someone else.”

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, running a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you saw a raw vulnerability in his eyes that he usually kept hidden. “All this time… I really thought you’d gone and chosen some other guy,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Thought at least you’d pick me.”

The way he said it made your heart break a little. He looked almost small, like the thought of not being chosen had left him gutted in a way he couldn’t fully hide. You reached out, gently taking his hand. “Leona, it’s always been you. You’re the one I’ve been drawn to from the start.”

A surge of relief softened his features, and he gave a quiet, almost disbelieving chuckle. His usual swagger returned, just a bit, as he held your hand tighter. “Well,” he murmured, his gaze becoming intense, “then what’re you waiting for?”

You didn’t waste another second. You closed the space between you, capturing his lips in a kiss that was long overdue. He responded immediately, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, pulling you closer. The kiss was fierce, almost possessive, and when he finally broke away, he was wearing a smug, satisfied grin.

“About damn time,” he murmured against your lips, though there was a warmth in his voice that softened the usual sharpness. He looked down at you, his fingers grazing your cheek with an unexpected tenderness. “Next time, just skip all the theatrics and tell me, alright?”

You laughed, leaning into his touch. “I thought I was being obvious.”

“Obvious?” He huffed, rolling his eyes with a faint smile. “Trust me, you’re terrible at ‘obvious.’”

But as he gazed at you, that smirk melted into something genuine, something that showed how deeply he cared. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his voice barely above a whisper. “So… you’re really mine, then?”

You nodded, and he let out a pleased sigh, holding you even tighter. “Good,” he said, his voice low and possessive, like he was finally claiming what was his. “Now let’s ditch these losers. We don’t need anyone else, just us.”

You smiled, resting your head on his chest as his hand gently stroked your back. “Fine by me,” you murmured, happiness bubbling up as you pressed small kisses along his jawline, making him chuckle.

For once, Leona didn’t have any sharp retorts, no scowls or walls to put up. He just held you, his heart finally at ease, the weight of his doubts and insecurities melting away as he finally let himself be happy.

Masterlist

[sunni-stuff]

Ghost can draw.

It's just that no one knows.

He doesn't reveal anything to show that he has the skill or speaks about it at all. In fact, the only time anyone has ever seen him put any type of pen to paper work like that is Soap, who watched his lieutenant carve stick figures into a nearby tree while waiting for ex-fil.

Ghost draws.

In an old beat-up sketchbook, he captures you in drawings. He carefully renders the curves of your eyes, the angles of your face, the fullness of your lips, and the way your expressions change with each emotion. He studies how you radiate joy and how certain outfits compliment your features perfectly.

On your birthday, you find out he draws as he hands you a journal, except this one isn't tattered. You hold the black art book in your hands, its condition pristine, a clean cover from front to back. "You draw?"

Ghost stands beside you, arms crossed over his chest, watching you bobble with excitement. "Sorta." He drawls nonchalantly, and you miss the thrilled look in his dark eyes as your boyfriend starts to approach the gift table. "Go on, open it."

You chuckle at his demand, caught off guard by his gift in the first place. Ghost didn't seem like the type to really care for birthdays, gifts, or parties, yet he somehow found where your friends were holding your birthday bash. "This is so unlike you, Ghost." You commented teasingly.

As you opened up the sketchbook, time seemed to slow down. Your eager fingers flipped back the cover, and on the first page, you were met with a sketch of yourself in the nude.

You were in shock, unable to move or fully process what you were seeing. The first drawing was a highly detailed, full-body depiction of you stepping out of the shower. "Uh– Ghost," You managed to speak slowly, your eyes rising to meet Ghost's gaze, noticing the satisfied grin on his lips. "Keep going."

And you did.

You flipped through page after page, each one a detailed drawing of you in various states of nakedness, scattered throughout your house and in different poses. Nothing was left out by Ghost - every inch, curve, and imperfection of your body was captured on these pages, including the birthmark that only your boyfriend knew about.

You were about to ask Ghost about the drawings in front of you when you heard footsteps approaching. In a quick motion, you closed the book with a loud thud. Your boyfriend walked over and casually draped his arm around your shoulder. "What's in the book?" he asked curiously.

"Uh, nothing important! Just some beautiful landscapes that Ghost drew," you stammered out, casting a nervous glance towards Ghost who couldn't hide his smug expression. "Yeah, definitely really beautiful," Ghost added with a smirk on his face.

☀️— had this in my head all last night. If it weren't for my brain buddy, @shotmrmiller my head probably would've exploded from holding this in

[mysicklove]

Summary: Going to the fair with older brother Sukuna and toddler Yuuji was bound to cause some sort of trouble. But it was the tiger plushies' fault, not yours!

cw: fem! reader, curse words, sukuna almost hits someone with a ball, sukuna gives bad advice, sukuna threatens ppl, mentions of kidnapping, metaphors that dont make any sense

wc: 4.1k

a/n: i will post the prequel to all of this next! but I thought this was a silly way to show more dynamics between reader n sukuna! hope u guys like it <3

big brother au masterlist + taglist

It was Yuuji’s idea to go to the annual fair. You thought it was a great idea – it was an opportunity to get Yuuji out of the house, and the idea of seeing the toddler giggling on the children’s rides sent you off to your computer and buying three tickets. 

Sukuna was not very fond of the idea, but you could have guessed that. He preferred to go to the fair with just you, but if Yuuji heard, he would probably throw a mini tantrum, and that would just be more work for Sukuna. So alas, it ended up being you three (as it usually was).

Yuuji was beyond excited when the three of you arrived, and Sukuna grips at the boy’s hood, sparing you a glance and rolling his eyes. “We need to get him a leash.”

You grin at him, scoffing but jumping slightly when an older boy shoves past him, making the toddler stumble backward. You grab Sukuna’s hand before he tries to yell at the other child and then pull Yuuji close to you. “There,” you sigh, successfully holding onto both of the brothers, “We all stick together. Don't get separated from us, Yuuji.”

“No running away!” he chirps, and you smile, nodding at him. Immediately Yuuji is distracted by all the flashing lights, and Sukuna has to hold onto the back of his hood to prevent him from accidentally wandering away. Sukuna claims the boy is just dying to get kidnapped, while you blame it on the toddler’s curiosity.

You guys make your way to the children’s side of the park, having to cover Yuuji’s eyes a multitude of times so that he doesn’t see the other rollercoasters. He was still talking about how excited he was to go on the rollercoaster that goes upside down a whopping three times – a rollercoaster boys of the age of four are not allowed to go on. Telling him would probably make him cry, so distractions worked better. Luckily, there were enough lights and stuffed animals around that pointing to something while you scurry past the rollercoasters distract Yuuji for long enough.

The first ride you guys made around to had an influx of people, but they all did, so the three of you stood in line listening to Sukuna’s complaints. Yuuji talked to the little girl who was also waiting in line just in front of him. Sukuna glares at you, listening to the children shriek and feeling the multitude of bodies pressed near him. “We are going home after this one.”

“No, we aren’t. Lighten up!” You try to encourage, rubbing his arm, and trying to ignore his displeased expression. “We are at the fair – look how much fun Yuuji is having.”

He glances at the boy, who, like always, is in the other child's personal space. He was clinging onto the girl’s arm and jumping up and down in excitement while the young girl looked overwhelmed. Sukuna pulls the boy’s hood, causing Yuuji to come tumbling backward. The boy, in return, merely cocks his head to the side, confused as to what he did wrong.

“Keep doing shit like that, and no girls are ever going to like you,” Sukuna reprimands, letting go of the red hood. 

Yuuji frowns, still confused, and you step in, immediately crouching down to his level. “Remember what we talked about? Personal space, Yuuji. You got to give your friend some space to breathe, sweetheart.”

The boy nods, looking at the concrete floor – even if your tone is nice, no child likes to be scolded. But Sukuna just pushes him back over to the girl, ignoring the way he trips and falls, but immediately gets back up. The two children go back to their conversation, but this time Yuuji holds onto Sukuna’s leg so that he doesn’t accidentally get too close.

Sukuna turns his attention back toward you. “Do you think they will take him in?” His head tilts to the parents of the girl.

You roll your eyes but smile. “Uh-huh, and if they did, who would you use as an excuse to go on your favorite ride, the Kiddie Coaster”

“The more you speak, the more you tempt me to just leave you both here,” Sukuna says, but there was no real threat to his words. He leans back on the metal bar handles. “Ah, how peaceful life would be without the brat spouting bullshit. Just the empty house and I, what a dream.”

You lean back on the adjacent metal, crossing your legs and sighing whimsically. “Ah, I can see it now,” you start, and Sukuna raises his eyebrow. “You are gone, and me, Yuuji, and Choso are traveling the world together. What a beautiful lifestyle without hearing any complaints.”

“Ah, and then I hunt you three down and lock you up so that you three can never have fun without me. And I live happily ever after, still alone.” 

You wonder what the couple behind you are thinking, considering they are probably close enough to hear whatever you guys are saying. But ridiculous conversations like these were common for the two of you. They never had real meaning behind the teasing words, especially since when the three of you began to load up on the small rollercoaster, Sukuna very quickly forced his lips onto yours and gives you a cocky grin before loading up next to Yuuji. And that was all the reassurance you needed – sadly, you dont get the last word, this time at least.

You two didn’t even try to sit next to each other, knowing that either way, Yuuji would demand to be placed in between you two. The boy was grinning like a madman, kicking his feet out and wishing that the ride would start sooner. Just before the ride started, Sukuna had made a teasing remark that the boy wasn’t strapped in properly, and could possibly fall out. You were lucky Yuuji was in such a great mood because the second you shut that ridiculous idea down, he immediately went back to giggling with excitement.

And a minute and a half later, the ride was over, and the toddler had more energy than before. He was practically buzzing with excitement, jumping up and down and reenacting how fast the rollercoaster was going with his hands and mouth sound effects.

You nod the entire time, smiling while the toddler babbles on about how much fun the rollercoaster was. It was adorable to watch, to say the least, and you were excited to take him on the next one. 

Sukuna was not excited to stand in line next to children again. He grabs you by the wrist and drags you over to where the fair games are located. Yuuji grabs onto your own shirt and continues to talk to you while the two of you are basically getting pulled into an unknown location. 

Eventually, Yuuji found himself in awe at the giant tiger stuffed animal that hung from the top of one of the tents. He was pointing to it and squealing for Sukuna to get it for him, and at first, Sukuna rolled his eyes and immediately said no, but then he also saw you staring at it. He taps your shoulder with his, rough enough to snap you out of your thoughts. “You really want the stuffed animal? That shit is for babies.”

“You are a pretty shitty boyfriend,” you sigh, not really taking what he said to heart, but still Sukuna immediately denies it. You ignore him and pet the child’s pink hair. “It’s for Yuuji.”

“I’ll win you the stuffed animal.”

“Win Yuuji the stuffed animal.”

“Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!”

Sukuna narrows his eyes at the two of you and then turns back over to the man hosting the game. He hands him some cash and mumbles, “If you scam me, I’ll kill you.” but the music paired with the abundance of people talking made it too loud for the worker to hear his threat. 

The man hands him three balls, and the goal is to knock down a stack of metal cans. Easy enough, but this was a fair game, so there was bound to be some sort of trick to it. A trick that Sukuna does not know.

You and Yuuji stand a couple of feet behind him, cheering him on. Yuuji was now being held by you, sitting on your hip and pumping his fists in the air at the mere idea of owning the giant plush. 

But, as you suspected, Sukuna did not win. He had managed to knock down two cups, and the last ball went flying past the man’s nose when he tried to taunt Sukuna. You could have guessed that would happen. 

This time, you are the one to drag Sukuna because if you didn’t, surely that poor worker would have a broken nose by now. It was their job to taunt people, a part of the fun, but your boyfriend’s temper did not stand for that.

Yuuji was surprisingly fine with it – of course, he did look a little sad about losing the opportunity of owning the tiger, but in the next moment he was fawning over how strong his brother was. He was gripping onto Sukuna’s pants, while the man was borderline glaring at everyone that walks by. “So cool, Kuna! You threw so fast!”

You have to hold back a laugh the entirety of it because only Sukuna would be genuinely upset over losing a fair game. But you remain quiet and let Yuuji continue to babble on to his older brother. 

Finally, after some time, Sukuna does look at his younger brother. He turns to him and grabs at his little shoulders. “This is a learning opportunity, so listen up, little brat,” he starts, and you furrow your eyebrows. Yuuji immediately perks up, ready to absorb anything his idol says. “Never trust anything. Life is a scam, and people are always trying to fuck you over.”

“Okay, yeah, so no. Yuuji–”

“Everybody is trying to steal your tiger.” Sukuna talks louder than you, and at this point, Yuuji’s eyes are wide as saucers. “Dont trust anyone or anything. Understand?”

Yuuji nods, not understanding anything that his brother is saying but trying to appease him. You pinch the bridge of your nose, also knowing that the boy is too young to understand anything. “That’s horrible advice. You are going to give him trust issues. And what’s with the tiger?”

“It’s a metaphor.”

You stare incredulously at your boyfriend. “Metaphor for what? That’s the worst metaphor I have ever heard.”

Sukuna shrugs. “Metaphor for life. Maybe you aren’t smart enough to keep up with my intellectual comparisons.” He holds a teasing smile, waiting for your own bite back.

“I dont want my tiger stolen!” Yuuji pipes up, and you spare him a glance, shaking your head and reassuring him that his tiger plush, which he does not own, will not be stolen from him. Sukuna continues to taunt him, and the two of you begin to bicker back and forth. Not with harmful intent, simply mindlessly arguing over something stupid such as a tiger plushie and the definition of metaphors.

Yuuji doesn’t say anything, head whipping back and forth to try and keep up with the conversation that he barely understands. But, eventually, after a minute of listening, he grows bored with the lack of attention on him, so he raises his hand and says, “I need to go potty!”

Sukuna groans, knowing that you will now be preoccupied with the boy again and has successfully lost your attention to a toddler. But you ignore the man and pick the boy up again, slightly frowning at him. “You need to go to the bathroom?”

“Uh-huh!”

Sukuna makes a show of how annoyed he is, but he also needs to go, so he doesn't complain too much. The three of you walk over to the moveable trailers that house the restrooms, with Yuuji holding your hand behind you as he points to every tiger stuffed animal you guys see on the way. 

When the three of you arrive, you nod at Sukuna before walking yourself and Yuuji over to the women’s restroom. The boy always came with you, being too young to go into the males alone. 

But Sukuna loves to make a show, so the second the two of you start walking in the opposite direction from him, he says, “Brat, where do you think you are going?”

Yuuji turns to him, still holding onto your hand, now with his head cocked to the side. “Potty?

Sukuna grabs onto the boy’s hood and starts pulling him away from you. “You are a man. You go to the men’s bathroom. Let’s go.”

The toddler was not considered a man under any circumstances, so you raise your eyebrows at Sukuna. It only meant that he was now the one to help Yuuji. So, you shrug, wave him goodbye, and say, “Good luck!” before you turn back to the women’s restroom. 

Yuuji seems to look concerned as he was dragged away from you, considering he always goes with you to the bathroom, but he quickly grabs onto Sukuna’s pants, knowing that he may be left behind if he doesn’t. 

And so the two of them went on with their business.  The toddler nearly runs out of the bathroom, excited to go on the rides once again, but Sukuna barks a command for the kid to stay close, causing the boy to whine, but grab onto Sukuna again. The two of them wait for you in front of the women’s restroom. 

Five minutes go by, and you are still not out. It took a long time, considering that the two of them took longer than usual because Sukuna sucks at helping the kid. But, Sukuna knows better than to complain; it could be “girl” problems like you often say.

Ten minutes go by, and now Sukuna is tapping his feet against the pavement while Yuuji presses his face to Sukuna’s side, fingers inside his mouth from nerves. “Brother, where is she?”

Sukuna ignores the boy, and calls your phone. He hears the annoying sound of your ringtone come from his back pocket, and he tilts his head back and groans. Of course, you would leave your phone with him in this situation. Yuuji blinks at him, confused as to what is happening. But then, Sukuna takes a step forward to an elderly woman approaching the bathroom, describes your appearance, and tells her your name so that she can help look for you in the restroom.

Two minutes go by, and the woman comes out and shakes her head. You weren’t in there. Sukuna’s eyes widen, before he tears himself from the wall with a sigh. He mumbles out, “If your ass goes missing, I am going to kill you.” and Yuuji’s own eyes widen at the prospect.

“Y/N m-missing?”

Sukuna grabs onto the boy’s wrist and begins to drag him away from the bathroom. “Not for long. Dont be useless. Keep your eyes open for her.”

And so, the two of them began to walk around the park for you. Yuuji had whined out that Sukuna was walking too fast and was holding onto his wrist too tightly, but it was just due to the stress of the situation. So, without letting the boy prepare himself, Sukuna reaches down and snatches him up, placing him onto his side. “Dont get used to it. Your ass is just too slow. Keep looking.”

Yuuji just nods, frowning and resting his head on Sukuna’s shoulder. If this were any other circumstance Yuuji would be buzzing with excitement, loving being held in general, paired with being close to Sukuna. But you were missing, and Sukuna was incredibly tense, so Yuuji didn’t feel comforted at all.

They had been walking for ten minutes, and at this point, you were missing for almost twenty-five minutes. Sukuna was cursing under his breath, scanning the fair that housed so many people and was successfully blinding him from you. It was getting dark at this point too.

Sukuna hears sniffles in his ear, and he quickly turns to his brother, hissing out, “Dont you dare cry right now.” The last thing he needed was sobbing in his ear. 

Yuuji grabs onto Sukuna’s shirt and shakes his head, trying to hold back the tears. “W-Wont cry. Won’t. Where is Y/N? Brother, I want Y/N.”

The elder, in return, grabs the back of his hair and presses the boy’s face into his neck. He holds him there while Yuuji squeezes his eyes shut and latches on tighter to the man, feeling slightly better now that he is pressed close to his brother. “I am going to find her. Just focus on not crying; I dont want snot on my neck, little pest.”

Sukuna begins to rewalk his steps, heading back to the bathroom. He was glaring at everyone who walked by that looked concerned for the toddler who was holding back tears. Sukuna just holds the boy tighter and continues to scan the crowd to no avail.

The entirety of it, Yuuji is mumbling out, “No crying. No crying. No crying.” while tears slip down his cheeks. He also tries to look for you, but the second he pulls away from the man’s skin, he seems to want to cry even more with the lack of security. So the boy remains placed in Sukuna’s neck, mumbling out to himself while Sukuna ignores him and continues to search. The hand hasn’t left the back of Yuuji’s hair.

But, at last the two of them make it back to the bathrooms where you originally were supposed to be. Sukuna spots a figure sitting on the curb, looking equally as stressed as the two of them felt, but with two stuffed animals in their hands. He lets out a deep breath, relief washing over him and his rapidly beating heart.

Yuuji turns his head to the side when Sukuna pauses, and immediately the boy’s eyes widen. His finger points to you, and he lets out an “ah!” sound. The boy begins to stir in his hold, trying to squirm away so that he can run over to you himself. But Sukuna doesn’t dare let him go, and he skylines straight toward your mopey figure.

The high-pitched sound of your name snaps you out of your thoughts, and before you can even process completely who it is, you are engulfed in a hug. The familiar scent of your boyfriend surrounds you, and you are pinned to his chest, nearly suffocating from the force of it.

Yuuji switches from Sukuna and on to you, squeezing you at an unreasonable force for someone of the age of four. He was sobbing into your shoulder while Sukuna’s hand gripped the back of your neck. But after a long moment, Sukuna pulls away and glares at you. “You idiot. Dumbass. Where the fuck did you go? Are you trying to get kidnapped? Look at what you did to the kid. Are you trying to piss me off?”

He continues to insult and curse at you, demanding an explanation. He was worried about you and this was the way he was expressing it to you. You have to simultaneously comfort the two brothers, who seemed to be a mess without you. Yuuji had you in a death hold, and you had to try to sush his cries, questioning why he was chanting, “Dont cry. Dont cry,” while nearly hyperventilating from tears. Sukuna’s hand grips your shoulder, and he is still scolding you, but every once in a while, would stop himself and force his lips onto yours for a second before pulling away and cursing at you.

Sukuna demanded you explain yourself, and so you sighed and told him the story. You didn’t need to go to the bathroom, and you saw a smaller tiger plushie at a game stand down the line. So, you headed over to the booth, wanting to surprise Yuuji with the tiger. But you continued to lose and eventually got completely absorbed into the game. You did not even know the time had passed and that your phone was not with you, having put it in Sukuna’s pocket last ride. But, after about fifteen minutes, you won not only one but two tiger plushies. When you walked back to the bathrooms, they were gone. And so you waited for them, hoping they would come back soon.

You must have came back right when they left to find you – an unlucky turn of events. Sukuna simply shakes his head at your explanation and then leans forward to rest his forehead on your shoulder. “I am going to put a tracker on you.”

You try to lighten up the mood, petting both his and Yuuji’s hair, who is finally beginning to calm down. “It won’t work if I leave my phone with you.”

“I wouldn’t put it on your phone,” Sukuna remarks, grabbing your hand and grinning at you. 

You dont have a clue what that means, so you just shake your head with a sigh. Yuuji’s eyelids are growing heavy from all the walking, the crying fit he had, and the fact that he didnt have his nap today. He leans onto your shoulder and begins to doze off, even with all of the noises.

The two tiger plushies remain on the curb. You sigh and pick them up, holding onto Yuuji’s for later, and giving Sukuna the other one. He gives you an unamused glance. “Why would I want a toy? I am a grown man.”

“Because I won it for you and to prove that not everyone is trying to steal your tiger. ” You quote, referring back to his ridiculous metaphor from before, that holds no meaning.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “It doesn’t really work.”

“Hm?”

“The metaphor. Doesn’t make any sense.”

You raise your eyebrows, surprised he admitted defeat. He must have been in a good mood since he had found you. “Yeah, I know. You failed English three out of the four years of high school. No wonder you dont know how to use metaphors.”

He pauses for a moment, thinking, and then shrugs and doesn’t say anything. You call it a win for you. The two of you exit the park, now that Yuuji was asleep and Sukuna could not be any happier to leave. You probably won’t be returning to the fair for a couple years, knowing him.

When you get home, you tuck Yuuji into bed – he was already completely out, drool coating his chin. You place the tiger stuffed animal next to him, excited to see his reaction to it in the morning.

And you were right – he did have a reaction, way too early in the morning. At 6 AM, the door of you and Sukuna’s shared room flies open, and toddler squeals fill the air. He jumps on your bed with the stuffed animal in his hands and chants, “Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!” while the two of you groan out.

Sukuna, in his half-awake state, grabs onto the boy’s ankle, sending him tumbling onto the bed when he tries to jump. But the boy merely giggles, and this time Sukuna steals the stuffed animal, places it under him, and goes back to sleep. 

You are awoken with two mini hands placed on your face and the sight of Yuuji pouting. The first thing you hear that morning is, “Kuna stole my tiger!” 

A second later, two tiger plushies are being chucked at the boy. The boy falls back again with an “umph!” from the force of the throw, and the bed rumbles from Sukuna’s laughs. 

“If only you used that aim on the fair game,” you mumble, eyes still closed and trying to snuggle into your pillow.

“Just didn’t have the right target.” You hide a smile, not wanting to give Sukuna the satisfaction of making you laugh by insulting Yuuji.

Yuujis giggles echo in the room, and you blink at the boy. He was sitting on Sukuna’s chest now and shoving his stuffed animals in his brother’s face. “Two tigers! Two tigers!”

Sukuna groans out, shaking his head and wishing desperately that he was sleeping. “Your tigers are about to be headless in a minute if you dont stop talking.”

Yuuji shakes his head and pushes the plushies into Sukuna’s neck. “Tigers say, grrrrrrrrr! Wake up Kuna, grrrrrrr!” 

The tigers somehow mysteriously go missing three hours later. You could only hope that their heads were still intact – knowing Sukuna, they probably were not. 

[shaiyasstuff]

pretend | zayne

synopsis : In a tale of academic burnout, fried chicken, and poor impulse control, chaos incarnate—that’s you—somehow convinces your emotionally constipated med-student best friend to drink half a beer—which, shockingly, nearly kills him. Queue: slow realization that maybe, just maybe, you’ve both been idiots in love this whole time. content : fluff, drunk zayne, i wrote this with absolute zeal in mind, college!au

“Yes!” you exclaim, throwing your hands in the air like you just won an Oscar for Most Sleep-Deprived Human Alive.

Across the table, Zayne lifts a brow and smirks—annoyingly composed for someone who just witnessed you spiral through caffeine-fueled thesis chaos.

“I’m finally done,” you announce dramatically, like you just ended a war. “Let’s go out tonight. I need meat on sticks and bad decisions.”

Zayne closes his book with a soft thud, taking off his glasses in that maddeningly slow, deliberate way—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to your blood pressure.

“I pity the skewers who will die by your hand tonight,” he deadpans.

You snort. “I pity you, who’ll have to witness me demolish a six-pack like a college frat bro on a redemption arc.”

It wasn’t a dig. It was a fact.

Zayne doesn’t drink—ever.

You’re convinced his blood is 80% black coffee and quiet judgment.

So, naturally, you’d assigned him the title of Sir Zayne, Protector of Drunk Y/N, a role he never officially accepted but continues to perform with the patience of a long-suffering saint and the sighs of a man who has seen too much.

Honestly? If that’s not love, you don’t know what is.

But you and Zayne never crossed the line.

Not because he didn’t want to—at least, you hoped that was the case—but because you never let it happen.

Courtesy of your own sparkling cocktail of overthinking, self-doubt, and the lingering fear of ruining something good.

Zayne was tall, handsome, smart—the kind of man who made professors nod in approval and grandmothers sigh wistfully.

And you? You were the chaotic best friend with a penchant for questionable snack combos and emotional repression.

You’d watched him grow up beside you, shedding his shy, bookish shell to become the quietly confident man sitting across from you now.

The same man who still gave you his hoodie when you complained about the cold and remembered your coffee order down to the sugar granules.

And sure, you said you loved each other. Threw it around between jokes and “don’t die today” texts.

But it was always buffered by a safe, platonic bubble wrap. You never dared to mean it the way your heart did—aching and wistful, quietly begging for something more.

Because admitting it out loud?

That would change everything.

And some things felt too fragile to risk breaking.

“I’m gonna take one very relaxing shower and meet you there, cool?” you say, slinging your backpack over your shoulder like the protagonist of a teen drama walking off into the sunset—except sweatier and more sleep-deprived.

Zayne gives you a look, all cool and composed as usual. “Don’t make me wait again.”

You gasp, offended. “It was one time!”

But he’s already walking off like he just won that round—he probably did, and you’re left chasing after him, muttering something about false accusations and revisionist history.

Back at your dorm, you kick the door shut with your foot, strip off the layers of thesis-fueled misery, and step into the shower.

The hot water hits your skin, and for the first time in weeks, your shoulders unclench.

Your body, a battlefield of all-nighters, instant noodles, and bad posture, finally starts to forgive you.

Maybe tonight wouldn’t just be about beer and skewers.

Maybe, just maybe, you’d let yourself hope for something more.

You step out into the cool night air, tugging your hoodie sleeves over your hands and rubbing them together like a gremlin summoning warmth.

The city hums quietly around you—streetlights flickering, distant honks, the occasional bark of a dog that clearly has beef with the moon.

It doesn’t take long to reach the barbecue stall, that familiar greasy heaven you and Zayne have treated like your unofficial therapy spot for years.

And there he is, already seated inside, calm and collected like he hadn’t just been abandoned seventeen minutes ago. Your favorite order of fried chicken sits next to him, still warm.

Because of course it does.

You beam, tapping him on the shoulder before plopping down beside him. “Was I late?”

He doesn’t even look at you. “By 17 minutes, yes.”

You snort, already digging into the chicken like a woman possessed. “Big deal,” you mutter through a mouthful of food, completely unapologetic.

Zayne simply shakes his head, the corners of his lips twitching in the ghost of a smile.

You were chaos, and somehow, he always made room for it.

“So, what are your grand post-thesis plans, Doctor Zayne?” you ask, popping open a can with a dramatic pshhht that echoes like a battle cry into the night.

Zayne glances at you, then at the can in your hand like it personally offended his morals. “Hopefully not babysitting a tipsy gremlin.”

You raise your can in mock salute. “Too late. You signed up for this the day you let me copy your homework in seventh grade.”

He exhales through his nose, which is Zayne-speak for you’re unbearable, but I’ve made peace with it. “I’m thinking of applying for that research position at the hospital. Maybe specialize in cardiac surgery.”

You pause mid-sip, impressed. “Heart guy, huh? Makes sense. You’ve already stolen mine.”

He gives you a slow, pointed look.

You grin. “Kidding. Kind of.”

He doesn’t reply, just leans back and sips his coffee—the man’s choice of poison—and you wonder, just for a second, if maybe your heart wasn’t the only one on the table tonight.

Who were you kidding? Of course it isn’t.

If there was anything Zayne was good at—aside from saving lives, surviving on black coffee, and giving you judgmental looks—it was being honest. Blunt, even.

The guy didn’t know how to sugarcoat if his life depended on it.

So if he felt anything beyond friendship, he would’ve said something… right?

He wouldn’t just sit across from you night after night, remembering your order, walking you home, and quietly watching over you like some emotionally constipated guardian angel—unless it really was just friendship.

Right?

You shove another piece of chicken into your mouth, suddenly feeling very attacked by your own thoughts.

Maybe you were reading too much into it.

Maybe the long stares and rare half-smiles meant nothing.

Maybe he looked at everyone like that.

…Or maybe he didn’t.

But knowing Zayne?

If he wanted something more, he would’ve told you.

And that’s the part that hurts the most.

You finish your chicken in record time, like a seasoned warrior who’s trained her whole life for this exact moment.

Zayne watches you with the mild horror of someone witnessing a natural disaster unfold in slow motion.

“With all that grease you eat,” he scoffs, sipping his drink with far too much elegance, “it’s a wonder you’re still so thin.”

You wipe your mouth with a napkin and flash him a smug, greasy-lipped grin. “Courtesy of late-night study marathons and crippling stress. Better than any diet plan.”

He shakes his head, muttering something about clogged arteries and self-destruction, but the corners of his mouth twitch in that way that tells you he’s more amused than annoyed.

You lean back, arms stretched, feeling the food coma start to settle in. The air between you buzzes with something unspoken—comfortable, familiar, and maybe just a little tragic.

Like always.

You take a long sip from your beer can, eyes narrowing playfully at him over the rim. “You know, you should really start seeing someone.”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. He just turns his head, gives you that pointed, deadpan look—the one that says I’m humoring you, but only barely. “I am perfectly fine, single.”

You snort. “Yeah, perfectly fine sitting alone in your apartment reading medical journals and judging me for my life choices.”

He raises a brow. “Someone has to.”

You laugh, nudging his leg under the table. “Seriously, though. You’re handsome, smart, stable. Tragic levels of emotionally unavailable, but that’s practically a dating app requirement these days.”

Zayne doesn’t respond right away. Just takes a calm sip of his coffee, gaze lingering on you a second too long.

“Maybe I’m just waiting for the right kind of chaos,” he murmurs.

And just like that, you forget how to breathe.

You quickly look away, composing yourself with the grace of someone pretending not to be internally combusting.

The heat crawling up your neck? Yeah, definitely the alcohol. Totally not because of that look or that line.

You take another sip, stalling. “Seriously? I always thought you’d go for the quiet, put-together type. You know, the kind who alphabetizes her spice rack and drinks herbal tea.”

Zayne hums, eyes still on you. “I already have enough order in my life. Why would I want more of that?”

You blink, caught off guard. “So… chaos is the goal?”

He tilts his head slightly, a rare glint of mischief in his gaze. “Not chaos. Just… someone who makes life feel a little less dull. Someone who challenges me. Keeps me on my toes.”

You let out a breathy laugh, unsure if it’s the beer, the tension, or just him.

“Sounds exhausting,” you mutter.

He smiles. “Not if it’s the right person.”

And suddenly, you’re not so sure you can blame the warmth in your chest on the alcohol anymore.

You push all your thoughts aside—shove them into that dark mental closet labeled Feelings: Do Not Open.

With a practiced grin, you raise your can in mock toast. “Well, be sure to send me an invitation to the wedding,” you quip, voice light, smile lighter.

For someone who lives and breathes chaos, you’ve gotten remarkably good at pretending things don’t get to you.

Zayne just smirks, as if he sees right through the performance. And then—without a word—he reaches for a can of beer.

Pop.

The sound cuts through the air like a record scratch. You freeze, staring at him like he just broke the laws of physics.

“Wait, are you—what—you’re drinking?”

He shrugs, raising the can to his lips. “It’s just one.”

You gape. “You’ve lectured me for years about alcohol rotting brains.”

He glances at you, his voice calm. “Maybe I just needed a reason.”

And this time, it’s not just your cheeks that feel warm. It’s everything.

You cough, almost choking on your drink. “Are you sure?”

Zayne glances at the can in his hand, then back at you with that maddeningly unreadable expression. “What, afraid I’ll lose my sense of control?”

You blink. “Yes! That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Who are you and what have you done with ‘water-only’ Zayne?”

He takes a slow sip, completely unfazed. “It’s just beer.”

“You say that like I didn’t once watch you refuse soda because it had too many bubbles.”

He shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Or maybe you’re trying to impress someone.”

He doesn’t answer. Just leans back in his seat, eyes still on you—calm, unreadable, dangerous in the way that makes your heart skip.

And now you’re the one who needs another drink.

Soon enough, Zayne learns the harsh truth of his choices.

Because not even halfway through the can, the damage is done—his face flushed a deep, telltale red, his breath coming in shallow little huffs like he’s just walked through a wind tunnel.

You glance over at him mid-sip, eyebrows shooting up.

“…You good?”

“I’m fine,” he says, voice stiff and defensive—classic Zayne—but he’s blinking too much, his back too straight, like he’s focusing really, really hard on staying upright.

You stare. “You’ve had half a can.”

He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the collar of his shirt as if the night air suddenly turned tropical. “I didn’t eat much today,” he mutters, clearly struggling to save face. “Also, the ground feels… uneven.”

You nearly snort beer up your nose. “The ground is fine. You are uneven.”

His glare is valiant, but his ears are glowing, and he’s gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing tethering him to Earth.

“I told you this would happen,” you say, half-concerned, half-delighted. “You’re like a lightweight legend.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his flushed face. “Remind me never to do this again.”

You lean your cheek into your palm, grinning. “Remind me to never let you not do this again.”

He exhales sharply—half sigh, half chuckle—and despite the mess he’s in, there’s still that look in his eyes.

Soft. Open. A little reckless.

And God help you, it suits him.

The night carries on, as nights with you usually do—spiraling steadily into chaos.

One of your many bad decisions includes convincing Zayne to finish the rest of that cursed can. He protests, of course—weakly, half-heartedly, with the conviction of a man who already knows he’s lost.

“I really shouldn’t—”

“Just a little more,” you grin, shoving it toward him like it’s a dare and not a crime against his entire system.

He sighs, long and resigned, then tips the can back with the tragic acceptance of someone walking into a trap they dug themselves.

Moments later, he’s slumped over the table, forehead resting on his arm, a soft groan escaping him. “I think I’m dying.”

You? You’re no help.

You’re already tipsy, which means your moral compass has long since clocked out. You’re doubled over with laughter, wheezing uncontrollably at the sight of composed, stoic, impossible-to-rattle Zayne looking one sip away from meeting God.

“You look like a Victorian lady with the vapors,” you cackle.

“I hate you,” he mumbles into the table.

“This is love,” you giggle, nearly falling off your stool.

And despite the headache he’ll definitely have tomorrow, he doesn’t argue. Not really.

After a few more cans—questionable choices all around—you find yourself leaning back in your seat, finishing the last of your skewers with drunken determination.

The stall’s almost empty now, the night stretching quiet and still around you, save for the low hum of streetlights and the occasional car passing by.

Zayne, meanwhile, is completely knocked out beside you.

Head lolled to the side, glasses tucked away somewhere, lips parted slightly as he breathes slow and deep.

His usually sharp features are softened, flushed, and peaceful in a way that makes your chest squeeze a little too tightly.

If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked cute like this.

But you do know better, so you just shake your head and smirk at the very real mess you helped create.

Tossing the empty skewer stick aside, you slide off your seat with a wobble, then crouch beside him.

You nudge his shoulder gently. “Come on, let’s go,” you whisper, voice low, a little fond, a little guilty.

He doesn’t budge.

Just lets out a tiny groan, eyelids fluttering like he’s having an incredibly dramatic dream about betrayal and liver damage.

You sigh, laughing under your breath. “This is what I get for enabling you, huh?”

Still, you loop an arm under his and begin to help him up—because even if he’s heavier than you remember and absolutely no help at all, he’s still your idiot to carry home.

And for once, he lets you.

You somehow manage to haul him upright—well, half-upright—his arm slung over your shoulders as he leans most of his weight on you.

He mumbles something incoherent against your hair, something that sounds like “never again” but could also be “chicken skewers are evil.” Hard to tell.

His dorm’s way too far, and in his current state, he’d probably collapse somewhere tragic and inconvenient—like the middle of the sidewalk or a bush with questionable origins.

So, you make the executive decision.

“My place it is,” you mutter, shifting his weight and starting the slow, awkward shuffle back toward your dorm.

He stumbles once or twice, groaning like a disgruntled old man, and you stifle a laugh.

“This is karma,” you tell him, breathless from both the effort and the ridiculousness of it all. “For every time you judged my life choices.”

He doesn’t respond, just leans more heavily into you—like he knows you’ll carry him anyway.

And you do.

Step by step, wordlessly and willingly, until your dorm door finally clicks open and you ease him inside, one breath, one stubborn heartbeat at a time.

You finally manage to plop him down onto your bed with the grace of someone who’s done this exact thing zero times and is running purely on muscle memory and spite.

Zayne flops back like a ragdoll, one arm splayed dramatically over his eyes, as if the sheer emotional weight of the night has bested him.

You shake your head, chest heaving, cheeks still warm from your own drinks. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Crossing the room, you grab your water bottle—your trusty, slightly dented savior—and take several deep gulps yourself before crouching at the edge of the bed.

Then, without thinking twice, you press it gently to his lips.

“Here,” you say, voice softer now. “It’ll help you feel better.”

Zayne makes a vague, pitiful noise. But he drinks, eyes still closed, brows faintly scrunched like he’s never tasted water before in his life.

You hold it steady, watching him carefully, your expression torn between amused and quietly tender.

It’s such a stupid, intimate moment.

And somehow, it feels like more than it should.

To your horror, he downs the entire bottle. Every last drop.

“Hey—hey! That’s mine!” you protest, trying to pry it from his hands, but Zayne holds it like a lifeline, drinking until it gives a dramatic little hollow gulp at the end.

He sets it down with an exaggerated sigh, flopping back against your pillows like he just climbed a mountain.

“You have legs,” you grumble, snatching the empty bottle. “The water dispenser is literally down the hall.”

“It’s too far,” he mumbles, eyes closed again. “Your bed is nice. I’m dying. Let me die hydrated.”

You roll your eyes, turning to set the bottle aside—and then pause when you feel the weight shift beside you.

Zayne suddenly sits up.

You glance over and freeze. He’s staring at you.

Not blinking. Not swaying. Just… staring.

A little too intently. A little too seriously.

“…What?” you squeak, completely thrown.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just keeps looking at you like you’ve said something outrageous.

Or like he just realized something important.

And suddenly, the room feels a little too quiet.

A little too close.

He stares into your eyes, and for a moment, everything else fades—the buzz of alcohol, the low hum of the city outside, even the dull ache in your limbs.

Then, slowly, his hands reach out and grasp your arms—not rough, not urgent, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. Before you can say a word, he pulls himself to his feet, swaying just slightly, and starts walking.

Pushing you back with each quiet, deliberate step.

You move without thinking, heart hammering in your chest as your knees bump into the edge of your desk.

You’re trapped between the wood at your back and the look in his eyes—sharp, unreadable, burning through the haze of the night.

“Zayne…” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper, unsure if you’re warning him or yourself.

He doesn’t answer. He just stands there, too close, the heat of him bleeding into your skin, his hands still lingering on your arms like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

And in that moment, you swear the entire world narrows to the space between you.

And whether it’s the alcohol or the truth breaking free—

You can’t tell the difference anymore.

“Uhm… are you okay?” you ask, your voice uncertain, breath catching in your throat as you stare up at him.

Zayne shakes his head, just once. “No.”

You blink, concern flaring. “What’s wro—”

But you don’t get to finish.

He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat, hands moving to cradle your face as his lips crash against yours.

It’s not soft. Not hesitant.

It’s hungry.

Like he’s been holding it back for far too long. Like something inside him finally snapped loose.

Your back presses harder against the desk as he leans in, kissing you like he’s afraid this moment will slip away if he doesn’t take all of it now.

And for a second—just a second—you forget everything else.

The drinks. The laughter. The years of pretending.

All that exists is the heat of his mouth on yours and the staggering, undeniable truth of it.

His lips crash into yours before you can even finish your sentence—urgent, messy, filled with too much longing and too little clarity. It catches you off guard, your breath stolen, your thoughts scattering like the loose papers on your desk.

At first, you freeze.

Then your hands move to his chest, trying to push him back. “Zayne—wait—”

But he’s already pulling you closer, an arm slipping around your waist, the other sweeping across your desk in one rushed, careless motion—books, pens, everything clattering to the floor.

He grabs your hips and lifts you effortlessly, placing you on the desk like it’s instinct, like he’s done this a thousand times in his head.

“Zayne, stop!” you protest, voice sharp now, your palms pressed firmly against him.

And just like that, he halts—everything in him going still.

His breath is ragged, face flushed, eyes wide with a dawning realization as he looks at you—really looks.

Silence stretches between you.

Then he slowly steps back, as if waking from something he didn’t mean to fall into.

“…I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, shaken. “I shouldn’t have—”

You don’t answer right away. You’re still catching your breath, still feeling the echo of what just happened.

Because part of you is furious.

And part of you is trembling.

And somewhere, buried beneath it all, part of you wanted it.

But not like this.

Not drunk.

Not blurred.

And certainly not like something he’ll regret in the morning.

You try to steady the shaking in your voice, the racing in your chest, and force out a laugh—thin, awkward, strained.

“See?” you say, trying to make light of it, to patch over the tension like you always do. “This is exactly why you should get a girlfriend. Someone to… I don’t know, handle all that bottled-up intensity.”

But he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away.

Instead, his gaze sharpens—sober, unwavering, cutting right through your joke like it never existed.

“I don’t want one,” he says.

Simple. Final.

The room falls quiet again. The words hang in the air, heavier than you expect.

Your smile fades a little, the humor faltering on your lips. “Then what do you want?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

But his eyes never leave yours.

And that silence says more than words ever could.

“I want you,” he says quietly, each word deliberate, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

His eyes stay locked on yours as he takes a step closer.

“Only you.”

Your breath catches—completely, helplessly.

There’s no teasing in his tone, no drunken slur, no hesitation.

Just the raw, unfiltered truth of it. It lands in your chest like a drop of ink in water, spreading fast and uncontrollably.

You should say something. Anything.

But your voice is gone, swallowed by the weight of his words and the way he’s looking at you now—like you’re the only thing in the world worth reaching for.

You’d spent so long convincing yourself that he didn’t feel this. That he couldn’t.

But now?

He’s standing in front of you like he’s known all along.

And like he’s finally tired of pretending he doesn’t.

You open your mouth, stammering, grasping for something logical to say—anything to bring the air back into your lungs, to slow your racing heart.

“Zayne, you’re—this is just the alcohol talking, you don’t mean—”

But he cuts you off, his voice low and steady.

“I’m done pretending.”

The words hit you like a sudden shift in gravity.

There’s no hesitation in him now.

No trace of the usual restraint he always wore like armor. He’s standing there—bare, honest, and dangerously close.

You search his face for some sign of doubt, some crack you can cling to. But there’s nothing.

Just the truth laid out between you, heavy and real.

And your heart doesn’t know whether to run or leap.

“I don’t want this to happen just because you’re drunk,” you whisper, barely able to look at him.

It comes out softer than you mean it to—fragile, almost trembling—because beneath all the banter, beneath all the years of pretending, you’ve always been afraid of this exact moment.

Of wanting it too much and it not being real.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens—his gaze steady, clear, unwavering.

“I’m not drunk enough to forget this,” he says quietly. “And definitely not drunk enough to lie.”

You look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, you don’t see the walls he always kept between you. They’re gone. Just like that.

What’s left is him.

And the truth you’d both been trying so hard not to touch.

His hand reaches up, fingers brushing against your skin as he gently tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. His touch is careful—soft in a way that makes your chest ache.

“It’s hard to see you trying to push me away,” he says, voice low and raw. “All the time.”

Your eyes widen, guilt and surprise rushing in at once. “I just thought…”

He leans in closer, his breath warm against your lips, eyes searching yours like he’s waiting for you to see what he’s been trying to show you all along.

“No more thinking,” he murmurs.

Then he kisses you again—but this time, it’s slow.

Careful. Like he’s trying to tell you everything he couldn’t say with words.

And when he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far. His forehead rests against yours, the space between you now completely, irreversibly gone.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “about earlier.”

A pause.

“But I’m not sorry for this.”

And just like that, you close your eyes and let it all fall away—the fear, the doubt, the need to overthink every moment.

Because for once, the truth is simple.

He’s here.

He chose you.

And despite everything you tried to convince yourself, despite all the ways you kept your heart guarded—you want him too.

You exhale, slow and shaky, forehead still pressed to his, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like an anchor.

No more pretending.

No more running.

You let yourself fall—not blindly, but willingly. Into him.

Into this.

Into whatever comes next.

masterlist

[dark-raven-666]

Hello !

Can I ask platonic fluff for homicipher?

Like, reader is a little child who falls into this other world. And the reaction of Mr crawling, Mr scarletella, Mr Hood, Mr silvhair, Mr hugeface and Mr chopped upon seeing thus little raincoat wearing child, walking around with a crowbar.

Thanks !

Homicipher guys find a child! HC

Platonic fluff!

Mr Hood and Mr crawling getting best dad awards!

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Mr. Crawling

Confused at first, this is the first time he's ever seen a human this tiny.

Sure humans have come and gone into this world but this one is so small, and seems to have big eyes.

Once he sees how helpless the child is, protect mode is on!

Probably lets you nap on his back as he crawls around.

This man is the creator of those baby wraps. He found a sheet and thought.

Baby nap on back, but baby fall, tie baby, baby no fall.

Now you're Inna baby wrap on his back as he crawls around.

You've been adopted.

Mr. Scarletella

Would not do anything because he would never bring a child into this world, but let's say the child just appears there or gets in by accident.

No care in the world, it can survive on its own.

I'm sorry but this man doesn't care.

Mr. Hood

Just like Mr. Crawling he takes on the protector/dad role.

Constantly carrying you around in his arms. You're just so tiny and could get hurt or stepped on!

Takes the responsibility of teaching you their language.

Probably asks Mr Gap to get him those mom magazines. You know the ones that day microwaves give cancer and naps are a must.

Poor man believes all of it and gets even more protective.

When nap time comes you're sleeping soundly as he pets your back repeatedly.

Over all sweetheart trying his best.

Over protective.

Mr. Silvair

He has experience taking care of something small that gets in trouble, after all he is close with Mr. Chopped.

Loves to research you, why are you chubbier in the arms? Why are your cheeks puffy? Why are your eyes so big?

His brain says human, but his eyes say different.

Why are you so different from other humans?

Why are you... Stupid?

You're stressing this man out and making him doubt his knowledge of humans.

Mr. Chopped.

HE is baby.

He cannot take care of one! He doesn't have a body! (Or maturity to take care of one)

Probably seen as a toy by you and dislikes you like he dislikes the Hooded child.

Mercy on him.

Let's say he has a body.

Did you see those claw-like fingers? He's not safe to be around for a baby!

Will probably accidentally hurt you.

Also I believe that he hides and doesn't interact with people in his odd, violent state.

But what if he's normal? Normal personality but with a body!

He's still baby.

He's dramatic and childish.

Will pout if you pout.

Great... Now Mr. Silvair has two headaches

Mr. Hugeface

Ohhh?!!

You're so adorable!

Accidentally commits child abuse.

Doesn't realize that a child needs protection and love and help.

You bump into something and cry? He thinks it's adorable.

Yeah don't let a child around him.

Mr. Gap

Sees them and goes "nope! ".

He's not dealing with that.

Oh wait... Did you just smile at him?

Did you just laugh?

He tries to jump scare you for little reactions but you only laugh?!

Confused, frustrated, he likes you but won't admit it.

Will not raise you but would love to hang out with you.

Scaring people together. Making pranks and causing mischievous stuff.

Won't ask for body parts. This is his special friend

Mr. Machete

WHY?!

Why is there a child within 10 yards of this guy?!

In all fairness would probably just ignore you.

What's that? A weak being? Meh.

This world is filled with weird stuff, like that black ball that bullies Mr chopped.

You're just another oddity.

Mr. Masque

Oh? Intriguing.

You clap and enjoy his show?

He is most delighted!

If he decided to take care of you your life will be filled of wonder.

Magic everywhere. Will probably grow up to know some of his tricks and some are just impossible for a human to do..

I think he's very gentle and has a great charm

(Can you tell I like him??)

[deadly-diminuendo]

A Fitting Reunion

a tailor (spawn) astarion x fem!tav reader fic | nsfw | ~13.7k words

(dividers by @saradika-graphics)

Summary: After a rather embarrassing experience at the reunion party, you have been nervous to see Astarion again. You manage to gather the courage to visit his tailoring shop for dress alterations—and to be a better friend to him. And maybe there is just a little part of you that still hopes for something more. But he couldn’t possibly want that—or could he?

Tags/CW: anxiety, piv sex, oral sex (both ways), post-game, fluff/smut/mutual pining

Read On AO3

Or read below...

Breathe. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. Then again. And again.

You can do this.

He is your friend.

A friend you used to sleep with.

A friend you never stop thinking about.

Ever.

Hells.

You have not seen Astarion since Withers’s party. The one where you drunkenly suggested you would not mind taking a stroll together back into the woods where the two of you once used to go. You could still remember the way.

You might have phrased things a little less delicately at the time.

And of course he said no.

“Darling, flattered as I am, I think it’s best we get you to bed. Your own bed, to be clear.”

A more gentle rejection from him than you perhaps deserved. What must he have thought of you? Coming on to him like that when you knew a night of passion was probably the last thing on his mind? You are supposed to care about him, not treat him like a piece of meat.

Not that you ever thought of him that way—but still you worry how it seems.

Fuzzy though the details are, you remember enough to know Astarion was the one to ensure your safe journey home that night. The one to step through the portal with you, to help you up the stairs, to tuck you under the covers. And how did you repay him?

You made yourself a stranger.

You should have gone to see him sooner. Apologized. Been a real friend.

Granted the party happened only a month ago. A month is not too long a wait, is it? People live busy lives. Some of your friends you only see a few times a year.

Or maybe it has not been long enough. Maybe you are making too big a deal of this, and you will only be making an even greater fool of yourself by doing this now.

The garment bag draped over your arms feels heavier and heavier. Maybe a purely social call would have been a wiser choice than this transactional one. On the other hand, you do want to show your support for his new business venture. Any friend would do that, right?

Breathe, you remind yourself. Just breathe.

You repeat your exercises as you try to calm your rapid heartrate. A near impossible task knowing he will be able to hear it the second you walk through that door. Gods, your heart is hammering so hard that you worry he might already hear it through the walls. Curse his vampiric senses.

You can still turn back around. Come back another time. When you are ready.

Who are you kidding?

You will never be ready.

But, if the choice is between now or never—between the shame of showing your face or the pain of never seeing his again—you know what you have to do.

Swallowing your pride, you manage to free a hand enough to turn the handle, lean against the door, and push.

The bell rings.

Its shrill announcement of your arrival sends you spiralling. You think of running. Hiding. Just dropping to the ground and crying.

But there will be no escape because the second you hear that achingly familiar voice sing out the word, “Coming,” your feet are frozen to the floor.

Then comes the inevitable moment, when you see him and he sees you, and you look away, and you look back, and you try not to avert your gaze, and you try not to stare, and gods help you through this for his beauty stuns you still.

He briefly mirrors your silent stupor before you see the crinkle of his eyes and the crook of his charming smile. “Hello, darling.”

Frantically you ask yourself what this means. You sift through every detail you know about the man before you as you try to deduce the thoughts running through his mind. Whether he is truly happy to see you or if he only pretends to be. Whether this is his real face or once more the mask.

You have imagined this scene a million times, practiced every possible variation of it in your head, but when you try to think what to say your mind runs blank. You settle for a few words that are simple and true. “It is good to see you, Astarion.”

“And same to you, my friend,” he says, and you manage a small smile. Are you really worthy of being called his friend after all this time apart? Is an honest-to-goodness friendship even possible between the two of you?

You do not speak so he continues. “And might I add that you are looking more delicious than ever.”

Oh. He is flirting with you. Falling back on old habits, perhaps. Or maybe he seeks to lighten the mood, to ease you into a conversation that clearly makes you feel awkward. Nothing more. Still your heart flutters as it always used to back in those early days. 

Back when you were foolish enough to believe he might be your forever.

“I was hoping you could help me,” you tell him, trying to get yourself back on track. “I have a gown that needs alterations. I take it you have heard about the upcoming Ravengard ball?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, reaching out to take the garment bag from you, and though you are glad to be free of its weight, you are not quite sure what to do with your hands. “I have been invited myself, but honestly, I expect the whole affair to be dreadfully boring. I suppose I could always introduce a little chaos into the mix myself, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll likely just skip it.”

“You’re not going? Not even for Wyll?”

Not even for me? That third question burns in your mind but you dare not ask it.

“We were not exactly the best of friends if you’ll recall.”

That is true. You remember many a tense exchange between them—Wyll needlessly cruel at times, Astarion spitting back with an understandable but equally vicious venom—no real surprise that the unlikely alliance between a monster hunter and a vampire spawn would also be an uneasy one.

The fact that you once shared a dance with the Blade did nothing to help matters. The tenderness in his touch and the awe in his eyes told you he wanted something beyond friendship. A true love, a happily ever after, a tale straight out of the pages of a storybook—tempted though you were, you could not envision that future with Wyll. Not while you were still spending your nights tangled up with Astarion.

Even knowing now how it all turned out you would not have chosen differently.

You consider encouraging him to attend, expressing how much you would appreciate having his company there, but you let the moment pass as you follow him deeper into the shop. “It seems you have done quite well for yourself,” you comment—your words still feel more stilted than you would like, and your gaze meanders about the shop rather than meeting his—but at least you are here.

And he really has done well for himself, you think. The front of house proudly displays a tasteful array of apparel—a combination of carefully curated selections from local clothesmakers and his own elegant and inventive fashions. Perhaps you should have commissioned him to design your dress in the first place.

“I have, haven’t I?” He lets out a little hmph as he considers it. “I thought this life might be a little, uh… pedestrian, for my tastes, but… to my surprise, I like it. It suits me rather well.”

“I agree,” you say with a genuine smile as he stops you in front of a series of curtains—the dressing rooms, you assume. Sure enough he pushes one open and gestures you inside, hanging the garment bag on a hook.

“Well, darling, let’s get you out of those clothes and into that dress, hm?” Your breath hitches. You almost let your imagination run away with you, but of course he gives you your privacy. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

You peel off each layer one by one, trying not to think about the fact that your former lover is on the other side of this curtain, trying not to remember the slow and sensual ways he used to strip you bare.

But you do think about it. You do remember.

You are just friends now, you remind yourself. No more. And no less, you hope. To be without him all this time has left a hollow in your heart. You want to fill its empty spaces with his presence. You want him to be part of your life again.

So why does being here only make your heart ache harder?

And why are you still so godsdamned nervous?

You sigh and slip into your gown, admiring its A-line silhouette and its delightful shade of purple. Not quite the right fit, but that is why you are here after all. Astarion can surely fix that for you. He does work wonders with his hands.

Hands that you now realize will have to lace up the back of your dress because there is no way you’ll be able to accomplish that by yourself.

Hugging the loose garment tight against your chest, you call for help. “Astarion?”

“Yes, dear? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to fall into peril right here in my dressing room. You do seem to have a knack for finding trouble wherever you go.”

“Just… come in, please.”

He pushes through the curtain and you are instantly and acutely aware of just how snug this little space is.

“Ah, you need to be tied up, I see.”

Of course he would choose to phrase it like that. Now you are thoroughly convinced he is thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment. He always did like to make you squirm. In more ways than one, the Astarion in your head adds. Ugh. You feel a fleeting sense of relief as you spin around, but the mirror betrays you, putting your mortified expression on full display while the look on his face remains a mystery to you. The chuckle you then hear at least helps you picture his smirk.

He takes his time with you. Like he always did. Words he once said echo in your mind. A treat like you deserves to be savoured. Does it tempt him still to be so close to you? To sense your blood pumping through your veins? To see your neck so deliciously exposed? You ponder and you reminisce and you catch yourself tilting your head to one side.

It seems the tempted one is you.

You wonder if he noticed. He may be ‘tying you up’ as he so eloquently put it, but you feel more like he is undressing you. Like he is uncovering you bit by bit, inch by inch, piece by piece. Like he could reach into your mind and read your most intimate thoughts even though the tadpoles are long gone.

“There we are,” you finally hear him say, snapping you back to reality. You pause in front of the mirror together and you wonder what it isn’t telling you. What he thinks when he looks upon you. 

“A fine choice, my dear,” he says as you both step out of the dressing room. “Much better than those hideous rags and that horrid armour you wore on the road.”

You roll your eyes at him. “That horrid armour kept me alive. Forgive me for picking function over fashion.”

“Oh, come now, fashion need not be sacrificed. Yours truly had both, thank you very much.” He gives you a playful bow.

You snicker—and then a full-fledged grin spreads across your face. To have this bit of banter with him again feels right. A bit of good-natured ribbing is something you can handle. What you do not know quite how to handle is—

“Luckily for you that smile more than made up for your questionable wardrobe.”

And just like that you no longer know what to say.

Astarion guides you over to a fitting platform, circling you as he sizes up what needs to be done. And though you know this is all about your dress and not you, you begin to fidget under his intense scrutiny.

“Much too long, obviously,” he remarks. “Typical. It should be taken in at the waist, too. We must do justice to that pretty figure of yours after all.”

Another flirtatious comment from him, another internal panic for you. You are not given much time to ruminate on this one though before he asks you a question that catches you off guard.

“Did you bring your shoes?”

“My shoes…?”

“Shoes, darling,” he says, elongating the rounded vowel as he repeats the word. “You have heard of the concept, surely. They come in pairs? You wear them on your feet?”

“I know what shoes are,” you insist, glancing towards the open dressing room where your trusty boots remain on the floor.

He follows your line of sight, and you nearly laugh when you look back to witness his eyebrows raise in horror then furrow again in exasperation. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. You will not be wearing those ghastly things to a ball.”

“They’re comfortable, and no one will be able to see them,” you say with a shrug and a smile, and this time you do laugh at the indignant noise he makes in response. Really, you did plan on wearing something more suitable—but you are enjoying this little opportunity to vex him.

“Absolutely not. As an upstanding citizen of this fine metropolis, I cannot stand idly by while you commit this outrageous crime against fashion.”

“Upstanding citizen, huh?”

“Of course,” he says with that mischievous smile of his. “I’m hardly the ‘help every poor unfortunate soul in sight’ type—that, my dear, is unique to you and you alone—but perhaps a smidgen of your do-gooder nature has rubbed off on me. Now,” he continues, returning to the matter at hand, “let me find you some decent shoes. We’ll need them to measure the length.”

Ah, that makes sense. You pout and you nod, playing your little game, but you do look forward to a new pair of shoes. Your adventures did leave your boots well-worn, not to mention covered with so much gore and grime that not even repeated scrubbings could remove all the stains. Your boots really did see everything.

He disappears into another part of the shop then reappears with a few options in hand—a selection of flats and modest heels you can actually picture yourself walking in—all simple but elegant. He knows just what you like.

“Sit and try these on,” he says, extending a hand out to you—an offer to help you down from the platform you presume—and you take it.

His touch is pure electric shock. Or maybe it is only the chill of undeath that leaves you shivering. And then you think on it, that pleasing tingle, the texture of his skin, the way his long, slender fingers interlock perfectly with yours, and your heart is fluttering, and he lets go all too soon, and you are lost. Empty. Incomplete.

And right now you are not ready to consider what that means.

You push your confusion out of your mind as you take a seat on the edge of the platform, refocusing on the task at hand. You pick out a pair of off-white kitten heels and try them on, and you find yourself pleasantly surprised by how comfortable they feel. To be sure, you take a few steps, you test other pairs, you return to the first—yes, these will do.

“Satisfied?” Astarion asks, and you nod. “Good. Back up you go, darling.”

You step onto the fitting stand once more—without assistance this time, which is somehow both a relief and a disappointment. Astarion sets about his work, pulling pins out of the small cushion tied to his wrist and pushing them through the hem, all while you stare into space and contemplate whether or not you should say anything.

You should say something, you decide. You did manage to catch up with him a little at the party last month before your drink got the better of you, but you are doing a poor job of it now. You’ve barely even talked. Not really. How can you call yourself his friend if you cannot even gather the courage to speak to him?

“How are you?” you blurt out. Those few trite words do little to express how much you truly care for his well-being, how every day you wonder if he is fed, if he is safe, if he is happy. Quickly you add, “With the whole ‘vampire tailor’ thing, I mean. No monster hunters at your door, I hope?”

His nature clearly isn’t a secret. The many mirrors give him away if nothing else.

“Not a one,” Astarion says, glancing up at you from where he kneels. “I am, after all, one of the great heroes of Baldur’s Gate. The fact that I also happen to be a vampire spawn is not so much a threat, but an… eccentricity. And a bit of eccentricity is right at home in this city.”

“I’m glad no one is giving you any trouble,” you say. Another question needles your mind, one you are almost afraid to know the answer to, but you ask it anyway. “And… are you feeding well?”

“I have my sources.” Oh. Good. That is good. Yes. Definitely. Not like it matters who or how. Not like the mere thought of him sinking his teeth into someone else crushes you. Not like the scene plays out in your mind no matter how much you don’t want it to. Your eyes shut. Your stomach twists. Your heart sinks.

“None quite like you,” he adds, and beneath that sultriness he so likes to tease you with, you detect a softness there. Or maybe it is only a trick of the imagination. A pretty lie you tell yourself.

And yet, when your eyes flicker open, all you can see is his boring back into yours, staring, seeking, searching.

Breathe. You must breathe.

And then the moment is gone, and he shifts out of your sight, concentrating his efforts on the back of your dress.

The minutes pass in screaming silence.

You wish he would fill your ears with little jokes, or idle chatter, or something, anything to save your mind from spiralling. Anything to save you from you.

You regret all you have done wrong and all you have failed to do right. And yet, you want, and you yearn, and you hope.

“It really has only ever been you, you know.”

His words shock you back to your senses and suddenly he is standing on the platform with you, mere inches away.

“Oh,” you say. Gods, what else can you say?

All is quiet between you. He fusses with your straps, and the fabric of your bodice, pins everything into its proper place. A hand lingers at your waist.

“You once told me that the world can be a kind place. That has been truer than I expected. But no one has been more good to me—and good for me—than you.”

What?

No. Whatever you think this is, you are wrong.

“I’m not so sure about that,” you protest, your heart pounding. “That night at the party… I wasn’t thinking, I… I know it wasn’t what you… I’m so sor—”

He stops you, shushing you softly. “Oh, no, no, love, you will not apologize for that. A little drunken fancy is nothing to be ashamed of. You were nothing but sweet. And it was sweet of you to worry. Unnecessary, but sweet.”

Your head is spinning. You were far from a good friend that night. You did him wrong. You were so sure.

But he does not seem offended in the least.

Quite the opposite, really.

“Although,” he says, and you hear the mischief in his voice as he leans in to speak into your ear. “I am rather curious about those pretty words you said when…”

The bell rings.

The two of you startle and separate.

“Oh, Astarion, dear?” a voice calls out, singsong yet sharp.

The scowl that then sullies his features tells you all you need to know. He curses under his breath before singing out an answer. “Just a moment, Lady Furrington. I am finishing up with another client.”

Astarion is all business now as he checks over his handiwork, and as he ushers you to the dressing rooms, and you cannot help but to mourn what could have been had no one else stepped foot through that door. You wonder what he would have done. What he would have said. What might have sparked between you.

You will lie awake tonight wondering and wondering and wondering.

You pause together just outside the dressing room, and he says, “My apologies for the abrupt finish, darling. Her requests are endless, but her coin purse is bottomless. Enough so that an extra charge here and there goes unnoticed.”

“You have to do what you have to do,” you say with a shrug. You take a step into the change room, and to your surprise, he follows you inside. You shoot him a quizzical look.

“The laces?”

“Uh, yes. Right. Thank you.”

He reaches around you as he begins to pull them loose. He is close. Impossibly, maddeningly, enticingly close. His gaze falls to your lips and, gods, you can almost taste his.

“Astarion?” cries out that same shrill voice.

He steps back. Another moment lost forever.

“Come back tomorrow night?” he asks.

Sooner than you thought, but you do not question it. You simply say, “Yes.”

You leave. You start your trek home. And, as you walk, an inkling of something forgotten—something you wanted to forget—itches within your brain. What was it he mentioned about that night? Something about ‘those pretty words’ you said?

You think, and you think, and you think, delving deep into your fragmented memories, searching for the missing pieces you need to complete the puzzle.

You stop in your tracks.

You remember.

That night, as he put you to bed, at the height of your foolishness, you told him the most mortifying thing you could have told him.

But in wine there is truth.

You felt it. You said it. You meant it.

You love him.

It was the right choice. The right choice. The right choice.

How many nights have you lain awake, desperate to believe in the truth of those words? You thought one day they would sink in and soothe you. Instead their endless echoing always felt more like a pulsing headache.

Funny that, last night, the very opposite thought is what kept you awake.

What if, all this time, you were wrong?

You were so sure back then that friendship was the right choice. A hard choice, but the right choice. Never had anyone given him anything without the expectation for more. You could be that person, right? You should be that person. You wanted to be that person. A friend was what he needed. What he deserved. That superceded any silly notions of romance you had in your head.

Your offer of friendship meant everything to him, or so it seemed. Not a friend in the world until you, he said. His sincerity and his soft words melted your heart, and when he took your hand in his, and gazed into your eyes, you knew you were hopelessly in love with him.

You fought it. You denied it. You cried and cried and cried over it.

Still your feelings stayed the same. And so you did the only thing you could do. You resolved to keep your secret hidden under lock and key.

As if anything in this world under lock and key is safe from the likes of Astarion.

You love him. You have always loved him. You still love him.

And it seems he knows it, too.

And maybe, just maybe, there exists the teeniest tiniest trace of a possibility that he might be interested in you?

No, no, no. Surely you are mistaken.

He thought about kissing you, though, didn’t he? You saw him glance at your lips, right? Or did you?

No, no, no. A figment of your wild and wishful imagination, nothing more.

He would never want you.

Still you primp and you preen before the mirror like you are prepping for a date, not a dress fitting. Still you want to impress him, enamour him, pretend you stood a chance with him. Still you wonder and you worry that, maybe, improbable as it seems, you did once stand a chance with him, denied him and deprived him, denied and deprived yourself.

“You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

Those words of his still echo in your memories. You thought, then, that friendship was the realest thing you could ever hope to share. But, if you let yourself try, you could have been something more, couldn’t’ve you?

Maybe he did want you, could want you, does want you.

And if he does…

No. Do not let yourself go there. Do not get your hopes up. Never get your hopes up.

You take a moment to breathe, pull yourself from the mirror and leave through the front door. You will go to this appointment and you will be normal and you will be sane and you will be the friend you promised him you would be, not some gawking idiot full of foolish desires.

Twenty minutes is what it takes to walk from your place to his. Twenty minutes of exercise? A good thing, of course. Twenty minutes of cycling through these same tired thoughts ad nauseum? A not-so-good thing. That will not help you through this.

Maybe it won’t make much of a difference. After all you are quite capable of sending yourself into a frenzy in a mere twenty seconds let alone twenty minutes.

When you finally arrive at his door your head is still swimming.

Breathe. Just breathe.

You did it yesterday. You can do it again today.

The bell rings.

The silence that follows is enough to deafen you.

Well, it would seem you underestimated yourself before. You thought it would take twenty seconds to achieve total panic? More like five.

Astarion appears in the blink of an eye, all elven grace and vampiric mystique, emerging from what feels like out of nowhere but in reality must have been somewhere back of shop.

He is somehow even more gorgeous today, if that is even possible. His hair, perfectly coiffed; his vest, exquisitely embroidered; his whole ensemble, impeccably tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and slender waist. His sleeves are rolled up, and his shirt is a little more open than it perhaps needs to be at the chest, and gods, are you blushing?

You are here for a reason, and that reason is not to ogle him, tempting though it might be.

“Darling!” he says, greeting you with that brilliant smile you so adore. “I’m glad it is you, and not a certain patriar that so rudely interrupted us yesterday. There is only so much of that particular displeasure I can endure. My patience is thin enough as it is.”

“And yet you have managed to endure,” you remark, laughing a little at the thought of him attempting to navigate customer service. “The coin is that good, huh?”

“Oh, it is. Satisfying as it might be to deny my services to the worst offenders, a few of these annoying but harmless ones must be tolerated. Bad for business otherwise. Today, though, I made a point of keeping my schedule clear of all other distractions. My only priority now is you.”

You. The way he purrs out that one little word sends a thrill throughout your body.

But you must not read into that. You must temper yourself.

Be normal. Be sane. Be his friend.

“Alas, your gown is not quite done yet, though. I was just finishing up the hem when I heard you come in. It won’t take long. Follow me into the back, if you will?”

“Oh, uh, of course,” you say. You had expected more or less a repeat of the previous day—trying on the dress, making sure it fits correctly, changing back into your regular clothes, returning home. A nice, predictable order of events.

You like predictable. You like all its safeties and comforts. You like how it acts as a balm to all your anxieties. If you can predict, then you can prepare.

Unpredictable, though. Unpredictable is unnerving. Downright terrifying, even. And yet it is rife with possibilities.

The best things in your life have come from unpredictable. The greatest adventure you’ve ever had. The happiest memories.

The man you love more than anything.

Even if what passion you shared was fleeting. Even if this platonic connection is all that remains. Even if that glimmer of hope you cannot quite quash, no matter how unwise you think it, crushes you one day. You will still tend to and treasure your bond in any and every way you can.

So you take a deep breath and you follow him.

Astarion leads you into a room just big enough to double as a work area and a storage space. Rolls of fabric, diverse in colour, pattern and texture, fill the shelves lining the walls. What you notice most, though, are the in-progress projects draped over the mannequins. You would love to watch him at work. You suppose you will get one little taste of that now.

You also spot the base of a staircase in one corner, and that sparks an even greater curiosity within you. This lower floor is his business, but that upper floor is his home. A place entirely his own, and you hope he has filled it with anything and everything that makes him feel safe and happy and free. Maybe he will invite you up those stairs someday—you are friends after all—but for now you both seat yourselves across from each other at his work table.

“A good thing you came to me for this, darling,” he says, and you try not to stare as he licks the tip of his thread and pulls it through the eye of his needle with ease, “—else you would have been out of luck. Wait times are usually much longer than this.”

That is true, and you know you should have planned for this better. The ball is only a tenday away. “Oh, I’m sorry for the rush, you didn’t need to—”

“Hush, hush, my sweet,” he says, a gentle chiding that reminds you of yesterday. “It was not a bother. Not in the least. Although…” He pauses and smirks. “You haven’t paid me yet.”

Aghast, your mouth drops open, but he stops you before you can blurt out your hundred apologies.

“Now, I know that one so honest as you would never make such a mistake on purpose. Our time was cut short after all. Then again, not all of our gold was acquired by honest means, was it?”

“Thanks to your thievery,” you remind him. “Gods, you practically cleaned out the whole Counting House.”

“And yet I don’t recall you objecting. True that I picked many locks during our adventures, and why was that I wonder?” He makes a show of his hums and his haws and then one final aha. “Oh yes, that’s right. Because you asked me to.”

“Our mission was important,” you insist. “We needed gold, intel, resources… We did what was necessary to succeed. To survive.”

“Oh? Tell yourself that if you must, darling, but I think you just liked to watch my hands.”

That comment instantly warms your cheeks—and the realization that you actually have been watching his hands as he starts to sew absolutely scorches them. When you glance up to his face, you find him grinning at you.

And just like that you’re grinning too. You are embarrassed, yes, but you must admit there is something especially endearing about seeing Astarion like this—the skill, the passion, the care he puts into his work, the way his smile softens as he settles back into his state of calm and contented concentration—he looks happy.

It makes you happy. It makes you calm—or at least as calm as you can be under these circumstances. It makes you love him even more.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” he says, shifting back in his chair, pulling the garment from the table and into his lap, pulling farther away from you. Have you been staring too much? Has he taken offense? Does he no longer want you here?

He pauses, and gives you a pensive look, and you look back, lost as to what to do or say or think. Maybe you should go. Give him some space. But, he invited you in, didn’t he? Said it wouldn’t take long? You can’t just leave.

And you don’t want to leave. You hope that he doesn’t want you to leave either.

He breaks the silence with a chuckle, resuming his stitching like nothing has changed. “You never were. Not that I mind, though. If you want to watch a master at work, then who am I to deny you?”

“I can hardly see what you are doing now, though.” You try to keep your words matter-of-fact. Try not to show just how unsure and insecure you are in this moment. In too many of your shared moments.

“A shame. I’m afraid you will have to settle for admiring the stitchwork when it’s done. And it will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

You try to read him. He gives nothing away, offering up no more than a little smirk as you study him. He was always better at reading you than you were reading him.

You want to know. You need to know.

“I will,” you say, and that need to know brings out a boldness in you that was not there before, and though your inner voice scolds you and screams at you, you add, “though I would rather admire you.”

His eyes briefly flicker to yours, then back to the dress. You swallow hard.

“Then, by all means, bask in my presence and shower me with your praises.”

Good. No scrunching up his nose, no recoiling in disgust, no sign you went too far. But neither did he give you any indication that his feelings mirror yours.

Not that you truly expected that, of course.

Still you continue to examine him closely. He seems relaxed, focused, comfortable. There is a hint of fang to his smile and a gleam to his eye, and when he next glances at you, he raises an eyebrow.

Wait, does he actually want you to praise him? Should you? What can you even say? Oh, Astarion, you are clever, and funny, and talented, and gorgeous, and I am completely, absolutely, madly in love with you?

The greater your panic, the greater his amusement, until he can no longer resist clicking his tongue at you. “So shy now, darling. And yet you were not the least bit shy for me the last time I had you on your back.”

Oh. Whatever you expected, it wasn’t that.

Your wide-eyed, open-mouthed, heart-thumping shock earns a hearty laugh from him.

“Gods, you’re so adorable.”

Words fail you, and so you let out a giggle, its pitch too sharp, its volume too loud, its presence awkward, your presence awkward.

“It’s a good thing, my love,” he says softly, sincerely. “Trust me on that.”

My love. You zero in on those two words, and though your head tells you to dismiss them, your heart tells you to keep them and to cherish them.

And you are growing quite the little collection of words to thrill and fill you. Adorable, on your back, tied up, pretty figure, looking delicious, that smile, nothing but sweet, good to me, good for me. My love. You have not forgotten a single thing he said.

But you know it would be foolish to treat every flirtatious remark and sweet nothing as a romantic overture.

Even if you want to. And, oh, how you want to.

You seek distraction now, glancing at the table in front of you. It is a rather cluttered space, various tools of the trade scattered about—spools of thread, scraps of fabric, scissors and needles and pins—but what catches your eye most is a messy little pile of papers. Sketches.

“Are those your designs?” you ask, nodding towards the stack, leaning a little closer—just enough to imply a second question: “May I see them?”

“Yes,” he answers, and though he rolls his eyes, he smiles. “Go on, then. Take a look.”

Carefully you gather up the pages and begin your perusal. His sketches immediately impress. Astarion, the artist—you had never pictured it—but perhaps it should come as no surprise that a man with a skilled hand and a keen eye would take so well to pencil and paper. The time, the effort, and the creativity he poured into these—into every aspect of his work—is clear, and you are glad to see this side of him.

One by one, you look through the sketches, giving thoughtful attention to each and every one before moving on to the next. Some are still in their early stages, little more than rough outlines, while others are fully realized with intricate detail and vivid colour. The designs range from the everyday to the formal, from the simple to the elaborate, from the masculine to the feminine, and everything in between. A little something for everyone.

It eases you, this repetitive motion, this comforting quiet, this sweet glimpse into the life of the one you love.

Until you see it. Until your fingers tighten against the paper. Until you freeze.

Not because of the clothing, but because of the model. The shape of her figure. The shade of her skin. The style of her hair. The familiarity of her face.

It’s you.

He drew you. Like you are his muse. Like he could not help but to think of you. Like he is as in love with you as you are with him.

No, you try to tell yourself, this must be some coincidence. And even if it isn’t a coincidence—and really you should just admit to yourself that this cannot be a coincidence—it cannot mean what you want it to mean, right?

Maybe it is just because you are his friend. A real person he can easily visualize in his mind’s eye. Yes, that must be all this is. Yes, of course.

You quickly flip through the remaining pages. There is no Karlach, no Gale, no Shadowheart, no Wyll, no Lae’zel, no Halsin, no Jaheira, no Minsc—not that any of them got to know Astarion as well as you did, though. All you find are faceless figures, generic and unremarkable. Until, oh, there you are again. Oh, and once more. And again. And, by the gods, again.

“Did something catch your eye, darling?” Astarion asks, lips curled into a smirk, looking and sounding every bit like the cat that got the cream.

You pull that first sketch of you out of the pile and set the rest down, holding it in the air for him to see. “Is this me?”

“Ah, come to think of it, I did have you in mind when dreaming up that particular outfit, yes.” He shrugs, and the nonchalance of it all vexes you.

“And not only this one?”

“Not only that one, no. I do think of you often, you know.”

No. You don’t know. But maybe you are beginning to know. Beginning to let hope blossom in your heart, brave and beautiful and boundless.

He pauses his work, stares at you a moment, meets you eye to eye—and, gods, you feel like you are connecting heart to heart. Soul to soul. He speaks again, eventually, shifting back to a less serious, light-hearted tone. A retreat into his own comfort zone.

“What more can I say? I like to imagine you in my clothes, darling.”

And out of them, you can almost hear him say. Honestly you could go for a little body to body as well, but you know not to push him. Hells, you are not even a couple.

You never will be, says a different voice. An unwelcome voice. Your own voice, ever cruel and destructive. But maybe that voice of yours is wrong. Maybe it isn’t never. Maybe it is just not right now.

And you can live with not right now.

“Actually,” Astarion continues, “I’m not sure imagination is enough anymore.”

You blink at him.

“I’ve always thought working with a live model could spice things up a little. Someone to be my canvas, so to speak. Perhaps you might be willing to step into that role sometime? I rather like having you around.”

He wants you here more often. Does not mind being up close and personal with you. Wants to be up close and personal with you.

The very notion of it makes you giddy with an excitement you are no longer able to contain, and so when you open your mouth, what slips out is, “I like you, too.” Gods, what are you saying? “Like being around you, too.”

Embarrassing, yes, but you decide that grin upon his face and that laughter rippling out of him are worth it.

“If it is what you want, then I will be here.”

“It is what I want,” he says, and there is a conviction to it that sets your heart fluttering. You watch as he reaches for a pair of scissors. “Well, darling. It’s settled then. And I am pleased to tell you your dress”—a pause, a snip—“is complete.”

Oh. You were starting to wish this would take the whole night.

He sets down the scissors, the needle, and what remains of the thread upon the table, standing as he smooths out the gown—and that is when you realize it. That thread. It is thick and gold, not fine and colour-matched like you would have expected. Granted, you are not the expert here, but it is a curious choice—and a choice that makes you curious.

But, before your mind can wander too far down that path, Astarion’s voice startles you back to the present.

“Well, darling? You do realize you will have to try it on again?”

“Yes, of course,” you say, your chair screeching backwards as you push yourself out of it. “And thank you. For everything.”

“It is my job, after all,” he says, slathering his words with a thick coat of exasperation, but even he cannot hide the pride underlying them. “And for you? It is my pleasure.”

Always the flirt. But, for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to believe there might be more to it than a little teasing or empty flattery.

And, small and insignificant as it seems, you are still wondering about that thread.

He leads you out of the back room and over to the dressing rooms, back to that same snug space you shared with him yesterday, pushing the curtain to one side and hanging up your gown. You step inside and pull the curtain closed.

You undress, and you think, and something he told you tickles your brain. Something about the stitchwork. “It will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

Hmm. Maybe you should take the time to admire it.

You lift the hem and examine its inner edge, following that neat, flawless line in its circle, not a single speck of gold to be seen—

Until you find it. A hidden message, simple in design, yet elegant in execution. Four words. Four earth-shattering, heart-warming, life-changing words.

I love you too

You want to laugh and you want to cry and you want to sing. You want to wrap your arms around him and squish him and squeeze him until he can take no more. You want to tell him how much you love him, tell him a thousand times, then a thousand more, and gods, you want to hear him say it.

But to embroider those words so lovingly into the fabric is the sweetest confession he could have made to you.

You love him even more for it.

You can hardly wait to tell him—properly this time, not uttered out on some drunken late night like before—but, for now, you slip into your dress, and step into your shoes, trying hard to suppress the squeals begging to burst out of you.

He loves you. You spent so much time—too much time—convincing yourself that such a thing was impossible. But he loves you.

You exit that little room, and you see him, and you know it would only take seconds to close the gap between you and hug him and never let go. But, your dress is hanging open in the back, and you’re shaking, and you don’t want to ambush him with your touch if he is not yet ready for that.

The moment will come.

Or maybe it is time to take control of this. You will find that moment, and if you don’t, then you will create it, and then when you do, you will make it count.

Automatically he walks towards you, steps behind you, laces up your bodice, so close yet not close enough. You wish you could touch him, and the next thing you know, he is offering you his hand, and so you take it, and you squeeze it.

And he squeezes yours back.

He guides you onto the fitting stand. You catch a brief glimpse of yourself in the surrounding mirrors—the perfect fit of your gown, the way your smile shines—but the only thing you want to look at is Astarion.

He completes a single revolution around you, and when he stops in front of you, and you beam down at him, he stares back in admiration, in adoration, in awe. Like you are the sun itself. Like you are the centre of his whole world.

How could you not have known?

“You love me?”

His eyes grow wide as those words fall out of you. It’s all surprise, at first. But then it is openness. Vulnerability. “Ah. So you saw it already, then?”

“Yes,” you murmur, afraid to make a wrong move lest you wake up from this dream before you hear those words you want to hear more than anything. “You love me?”

Silence. You panic, and you retreat, pulling back, looking away. “Not that you need to say it out loud, of course. Not if you don’t want t—”

“I love you.”

Your eyes snap back to his. You watch him draw nearer and nearer, and you feel his hands find their place at your hips, and you breathe in that nostalgic scent of bergamot and brandy.

“I love you,” he says again, and you are so happy you could cry.

You throw your arms around him, pulling him into a hug that feels like home. You needed this. You needed him. And, when his arms wrap back around you, you know that he needed you, too. Here, both of you are snug, and you are safe, and you are loved.

And though you know he must know it by now—that he must see it in your eyes and feel it in your embrace—you say it anyway. “I love you, too.”

You both pull back, but only a little, just enough to smile at each other.

“This time on my own,” he begins, “it has given me the chance to think about what I truly want. All of this,” he says, gesturing around the shop, “I may not have expected to end up in a life this domestic, but… I’m happy. Mostly happy, anyway.”

He pauses, and you tilt your head, waiting, wondering, hoping.

“I want more. I want a partner. And who better than the woman who stood by my side through everything? Who always treated me with kindness and understanding? Who I just so happen to utterly adore? I want you.”

Tears well in your eyes, and you are smiling so hard it hurts, but you are sure this is the happiest moment of your life. “Then I am yours.”

And then he cups your face in his hands and kisses you.

You melt into him, into his softness and his sensuality, into the comfort of his embrace and the heat of his touch. This is perfect. This is right. This is where you belong. You pour all of your affection into every press of your lips, willing him to feel your devotion, your desire, your love down to his very core. But, when you part your lips to meet his tongue, he breaks away.

You fear something will break inside you—but his reassuring grin steadies you.

“Just a quick moment, darling,” he says. “There is but one little thing I need to do.”

Astarion steps off the platform and heads towards the front of the shop. At first you are confused. And then you understand.

The bell rings.

The ‘open’ sign is flipped to ‘closed.’

The lock clicks in place.

And, tonight, the bell will ring no more.

Astarion locks the door and locks eyes with you.

You remember the day you met him as if it were yesterday. Little more than a beautiful stranger to you, back then, all elegance and ice. Even as your lover he felt unreachable, with you by midnight and gone by morning, no more real than a dream.

But now, as you gaze upon him, he is warmth, and he is sweetness, and he is truly, honestly himself. Mask off for you and only you.

Unbelievable, really, how far the two of you have come. And yet, with your whole heart, you believe it.

The man before you is your best friend. Your love. Your partner.

And tonight, together, you will take your first steps towards a life intertwined. Whatever that looks like.

And, gods, what does that look like? What comes next? Will he invite you into his arms? Into his home?

Into his bed?

The mere thought of it, you all wrapped up in him, sets your mind racing and your heartrate rising. There is a familiar hunger to his pretty eyes as he draws near, and you wonder if that rapid rhythm in your chest is still, to him, the irresistible siren song it once used to be. If he longs to taste your blood, your lips, your—

Oh, but you should not get too far ahead of yourself. He might not yet want what you so evidently crave. You must not forget that.

You can be patient. You will be patient. You will give him as much time as he needs.

Not that Astarion is making this easy for you. Certainly not with the way he grins his roguish grin, nor the way he wiggles his fingers as he reaches a hand to you, coaxing you down from the platform.

Maybe patience is not so necessary after all.

But surely there are important conversations to be had, which you very much want to have, and surely a night of sweet kisses and cuddles would be a good place to start, the perfect place to start, even, no matter how much you want to—

Oh. A hard pull, an audible gasp, and you are flush against Astarion. His intense stare is holding you in place just as much as his hands on your hips are.

“What’s that look for, my dear?”

“What look?”

“That mind-going-a-hundred-miles-a-minute look. We’re not overthinking now, are we?”

“No.” It's a weak attempt at denial, and you know it. “All right, maybe a little.”

“A little, she says? Just a little? Well, even if that were true, I’m afraid even a little is simply unacceptable, sweet love. Not when I’ve got you like this. Whatever shall I do with the likes of you?”

His hands shift upwards, every bit eager as they sweep along the curve of your waist, every bit assured as they cup your face. In his eyes you see your whole world spinning, and your mind continues its endless spinning along with it.

“Well, darling. I suppose then I’ll just have to kiss”—a brush of his lips—“you”—so plush and perfect against yours—“senseless.”

There is an urgency to the way he kisses you now, to how his tongue tastes and his teeth tease, and it makes you drunk with desire you have too long denied. You match his every insistent press against your lips, the need blooming between you escalating into a feverish frenzy. Your mind is indeed rendered senseless—but your body is awash with sensation.

His mouth leaves yours, leaves you breathless and boneless, but still wanting more. And more is exactly what he gives you as he kisses a trail along your jaw. To your neck, perhaps? No, to your ear, and you giggle when he nibbles at your lobe.

He whispers, "Come upstairs with me?"

As if there were any chance you would say no to him now. "Yes."

And yet he makes no moves to whisk you away. Instead he pulls you back into the blistering heat of his kiss, his apparent haste to have you making you doubt whether you will even make it up to his quarters at all. His every impatient touch has you envisioning how he might take you—bent over his worktable, or pushed against the dressing room wall, or laid out on the floor, anywhere, everywhere—until, oh, he is tugging loose the ties at your back.

It is all suddenly a bit too much. A bit too fast. A bit too real.

Is he actually truly ready for this?

Astarion instantly senses the change in you, moving back, but keeping close. And even though he is calm and composed, and gives you a kind smile, you cannot help but feel that this precious moment is in ruins, and the reason is you. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Oh, my love. Always so full of apologies even when there is no need for them. How about we go upstairs, make ourselves comfortable—change back into your everyday clothes first if that would suit you better—and we'll sit and have a chat, hm?"

You take a deep breath to steady yourself. "That sounds wonderful. Truly."

"Good," he says, nodding towards the dressing rooms. "Off you go, then. I'll be waiting right here."

You make your way inside, glancing at your flustered face in the mirror before you slip out of your gown, your worries creeping their way back into your frazzled mind.

Where did it all go wrong?

To connect through touch is something you want desperately. And, by now, you are almost entirely sure Astarion wants to share in that with you, too. But therein lies the problem: almost isn't enough, is it?

What if he is only doing this because he thinks it will please you?

And how can you be sure when you hardly know how to be sure of anything?

Part of you still feels ashamed for lusting over him, knowing all that you know. The other part of you just feels ridiculous—here you are, pulling on layer after layer of clothing, when every indication suggests he wants to get you naked before the night is through.

You analyze every moment you've shared tonight, searching for even the slightest of signs that this is all just a performance.

Yet you find none.

Maybe the best thing to do is to just trust him. Trust him to make his own choices, to decide his own limits, to navigate all of this together with you.

After all, if you are sure of only one thing in this world, it is that Astarion loves you.

You gather the hem of your dress into your hands one last time before you leave it behind, tracing over every line and every loop of his embroidered message, committing those beautiful words to memory. It is exactly what you need to bring a smile back to your face.

And, when you finally step out of the dressing room, Astarion matches that smile the moment he sees you.

The two of you walk hand in hand into the back room and up, up, up the stairs, your anxious anticipation growing with every single step you take.

"I'd tell you I'd give you the grand tour, but I'm afraid my home is far too humble for that," he remarks, and for the first time tonight, you notice a bit of a shake to his laughter, an irregular height to its pitch.

And here you thought that the only nervous one was you.

What if that means—

No, you'd better not worry what that means.

No matter what happens, you will be here for him as he is here for you.

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sure it's perfect. And I'd take a nice, cozy, humble home over a palace any day."

"I might not have always agreed with that sentiment, but now?" Reaching the door at the top of the stairs, he pauses long enough to smirk at you before twisting the knob. "I find that I do."

You step inside, taking in as much of the surrounding space as you can. The only light emanates from the fireplace, its flickering flames casting a sensual glow across the room. The open layout is typical of city merchants' quarters—no walls needlessly taking up the already limited space—a sitting area on one side, a small disused kitchen on the other. A pair of strategically placed dividers offers some sense of separation, and behind them—oh, yes, that is most definitely his bed.

Best not to linger too long on that thought.

Although you do make a mental note that it is big enough for two.

Taking both your hands in his this time, Astarion pulls you towards the loveseat in front of the fire, playfully pushing you into its comfy cushions and planting a single kiss upon your lips that you hope is a promise for many more.

He does not yet take his place at your side, however, instead lighting a candle on the coffee table—and it is then you study the scene before you.

A now-lit candle. A vase home to a single blush-pink rose. Two goblets and a bottle of your favourite red wine. A spread that is romantic. Meticulous. Premeditated.

You let out a chortle.

"What?" Astarion asks, eyes narrowed, but lips curved into an unmistakable smile.

"It's just so"—a bigger, brighter laugh bursts out of you—"so obvious."

"Obvious? Obvious?" He tosses his head to one side as he scoffs. "Are you really only realizing this now? Darling, I have been obvious this entire time. You, on the other hand, have been hopelessly oblivious."

And, in retrospect, you can admit that it's true what he says. The evidence was everywhere, even if you could not, would not, thought you should not believe any of it.

But you do now.

He settles next to you on the loveseat, warmth rushing to your cheeks at his sudden nearness. His fingers, cold to the touch though they are as they interlock with yours, do nothing to cool you. No, if anything, they have quite the opposite effect; the whole of you hot and molten beside him.

"Tell me, love," he begins, the purr in his voice and the mischief in his grin telling you he intends to use every ounce of his charisma to its fullest extent. "Should I have serenaded you with song? Recited to you a sonnet? Scattered a trail of rose petals from your door straight to my bed?"

"Maybe, though it's not too late," you suggest. "If you would like to regale me with music and poetry, I won't complain."

"Oh, my dear. I wouldn't be quite so sure of that. I am a man of many talents, yes, but I'm no bard. Although, if the result is hearing you laugh again, then it might still be worth a try."

You grin. "Then try."

Astarion clears his throat dramatically, and with his back tall and straight, and his nose held high in the air, he starts to speak.

You cannot even begin to take him seriously.

"Your skin so sweet and lips divine, / your blood the most delicious wine. / Each precious bite is my delight; / so let me make you mine tonight."

"You're ridiculous," you say—but you are indeed laughing.

"Why thank you, darling," he says, lowering his head in a mock bow. "Ridiculously eloquent, I hope? Or ridiculously charming? Ridiculously good-looking, at least?"

"Just ridiculous."

He gasps. "Oh, how you wound me. And here I was, professing my profound affection."

"It sounded more like you just want to eat me."

"Maybe I do want to eat you"—he leans in enticingly close—"in every sense of the word."

There is no mistaking his meaning now, is there?

You want this—you can feel it in pounding heart, and your weakened limbs, and your aching core—you want, you want, you want.

And yet you fear. Fear falling back into the dark depths of doubt, panic dragging you deeper, deeper, deeper down until you're drowning.

But you do not fall for it is Astarion's hands that keep you safe on solid ground.

"Oh, my sweet, lovely, darling girl."

And it is not only his hands, but his voice that soothes, and his eyes that blaze with such fierce certainty that you wonder how you could have ever failed to see just how much he cherishes you.

"Let me state the obvious because it seems obvious is what you need: I love you."

How new to your ears those words still are and yet you already think the sound of them sweeter than any song. You beam at him, because of course you do, and he beams right back, because of course he does, because this, this togetherness, is what you both want, what you both need, what you both deserve.

That look, so full of adoration, beckons you forward, and so you move in slowly, kiss him softly, hold him sweetly. He does the same, at first, an arm wrapping around your back, the opposite hand snaking its way down to cup your backside. Not that you resist. Nor do you resist when, unexpectedly, he pulls you hard against him, laughter bubbling out of you from the surprise and the clumsiness of it. And yet, here you are now in his lap, and here he is guiding your legs to straddle him, and it dawns upon you just how suggestive this new position is.

Even the slightest roll of your hips might have… well, quite the arousing effect.

Oh, he knows exactly what he's doing, the sneak.

And, if this is how he wants you, then that must mean—

"And," he says before you can finish the thought, "I want to explore anything and everything that loving you means."

Anything. Everything. Never have those two words sounded so sublime, his voice like velvet, his implication indisputable. Your imagination runs rampant, unlimited and unsuppressed, your mind opening itself fully to passion and possibility.

And you hope imagination will blossom into beautiful reality.

Astarion buries his face into your neck, peppering it with little kisses—maddeningly where you know he knows it tickles—revelling in every giggle he draws out of you. Vexing though it is, yes, the levity of it amuses you, calms your nerves.

You did, back in those early days, feel most ease with him whenever you would let yourselves be silly. You remember it well. Perhaps so does he.

And then—when tension fades, when you are limp and pliable in his arms—the mood shifts. Then, he kisses you where it doesn't tickle. Then, those sounds spilling out of you are decidedly not laughter.

His mouth moves to meet yours. A heady mixture of love and lust swirls about in your mind, and you succumb to it, to him, to every brush of his tongue and graze of his teeth. Almost embarrassing how little it takes to make you squirm about in his lap—but his body answers yours just as readily, the twitch of him against you leaving no doubt to his burgeoning desire.

This is really going to happen, isn't it?

"And"—you mourn the loss of his lips—"if all of this is somehow not obvious enough"—but his husky tone has you enraptured—"then let me be clear: I will not be satisfied tonight unless and until I've fucked you thoroughly."

Oh. You stare in stunned silence, mouth agape, as you process the filth you just heard: his lust stated so exquisitely explicitly that you long to press into the hardness you know you will find there, kiss him wildly, pleasure him endlessly.

And that, you decide, is exactly what you will do.

But your affection is too soft and too shy to plunge any deeper without testing the waters first. You kiss him once, then twice, then again and again and again, tentative touches turning tender then teasing as your courage grows. Astarion welcomes it all, wants more of it all, urging you to take this further in all the ways he can: pulling you closer, holding you tighter, kissing you harder. When at last your hips begin to undulate against his, he matches your rhythm, eager for you to feel the full length of him against your wet and wanting core.

With shaking hands you unfasten the singular clasp that had been holding his vest closed. That ever anxious part of you waits a moment for his objection, expects it, dreads it—but it doesn't come. Instead he only gives you his gentle encouragement.

"Go on, love. Undress me. Touch me."

You nod and you smile. Yes, there is anxiety in your anticipation, but so is there desire that drives you, and elation that thrills you, and such deep, overwhelming love for the man before you that how could you not want to devote yourself to pampering him?

Button by button you work your way down his shirt, exposing more and more of him until every fastening is undone. You examine the hard planes of his chest, first with eyes and then with hands, delighting in the way his smooth skin and firm muscle feel beneath your palms. He purrs his approval, rocking his hips against yours with such abandon that you curse your clothes for preventing him from pushing inside you.

Your fingers trail downwards, delicate but daring as they dance towards their destination. When at last you reach to undo his trousers, your eyes dart up to his, one last search for any sign he doesn't want this—but the look he gives you, part lust, part unwavering, undying trust, tells you what deep down you already know.

And it is all the permission you need.

Your attention returns to where he wants it to be. The sight of him, his arousal straining against fabric in his desperation for you, intensifies the throbbing between your own thighs. And so, with eager hands, you set him free.

You know his body well. Studied him with all of your senses. Learned how to glide and twist him into a whimpering mess with only a hand. And yet, practiced as you are in his pleasure, you cannot help the gasp that escapes your throat when you finally set eyes on his cock. To see him so riled and ready, to know it is all because of you—it fills you with awe, and with pride, and with overwhelming desire to put all you have learned to good use.

You start with a stroke of the hand, sliding up and sliding down his shaft, pulling the sweetest of sighs from his lips. Oh, how you love it when he is needy like this, hips moving in time with your every repeated motion. You keep touching him and teasing him, hand gliding up and down and up and down, thumb sweeping across the milky bead gathered at the tip.

But what you really want is a taste.

You lean forward for a kiss—only a fleeting peck, nothing more—and, if the way he huffs and pouts is any indication, it isn't enough. But you have quite a different use for your mouth in mind, don't you? You withdraw your hand, and he opens his mouth in protest, but no words come—for by now he is wide-eyed and mesmerized as you lick your thumb clean, savouring his salty taste. You lower yourself to your knees.

"May I?" you ask, smiling slyly up at him.

"Oh, my love. There are few sights so delightful as your lips wrapped around my cock."

His lewd words bring fresh heat to your cheeks, and he laughs.

"Hmm, I must say that flustered look of yours does have its appeal, too," he says, and you try to maintain your composure as you grab one of the little couch cushions, settling it comfortably beneath your knees. "Especially when it means you're imagining me inside you."

Oh, that unabashedly wicked, aggravatingly arrogant, adorably lovable man. The advantage might be his now, but he won't be the one holding it for long.

"And," he continues, growing more smug by the second, "come to think of it, there are many, many positions that suit you just as beautifully. Like when—"

The words die in his throat as you lick a languid stripe along his length, earning from him a low, pleasured groan. The sound pleases you immensely. But what a shame it would be if he were to leave his filthiest fantasies unspoken.

If he loves to tease you so, then why should you not do the same?

You run your tongue all over him: exploring every inch, tracing every vein, flicking against the tip, but never quite taking him into your mouth. When you have him whimpering the way you like, you pause just long enough to prompt him to say what he failed to before: "Like when…?"

"When— gods—"

Oh dear, it seems language is lost to him again the very moment your lips close around him. You bask in your triumph, sucking him and swishing him with your tongue, watching the way he watches you. And though at times his eyes flutter shut and his head falls back, his gaze always finds its way back to you.

You keep working him, using your hands to pump him and play with him as your mouth performs its magic, rediscovering all the little things that drive him wild. It feels good to make him feel good. It feels even better knowing how much he truly desires this.

"You want to know what I like best of all?" he manages, eventually, his tone dark and throaty; you hum your enthusiastic assent, and the vibration of it sends a shudder through him.

But the words he says send a shudder through you.

"The sight of you lying utterly helpless beneath me."

Oh. Well. You do love this—relishing his pleasure as you bob your head along his length—but you very much love that, too. You remember well how it felt. How letting him have his way with you could awaken either of his extremes. The vampire at his most feral, or the man underneath, a secret softness reserved only for you.

When all was done between you, you used to worry those tenderest moments were only part of his act. But maybe you were wrong.

Maybe they were always real.

"I've been thinking about you"—you ache more and more for your own satisfaction now though you never stop giving him his—"fantasizing about you ever since that night at the party. Wondering what it would be like to have you in my own bed."

And you know at once his bed is soon to be your destination when he leans forward to give you a gentle nudge. You still, letting him slide out of your mouth with a wet pop.

"And, my love," he whispers into your ear, "I intend to find out. Now."

Far be it from you to deny this beautiful man anything he wants.

Astarion rises to his feet, shrugging off his open shirt and pushing off his trousers. To see him like this, so gorgeously and gloriously nude, leaves you speechless.

"Well, darling?" he says, shamelessly eyeing you up and down. "I assure you you'll have much more fun without your clothes."

Needing no further encouragement, you start to disrobe—but your pace is found wanting and Astarion is all out of patience. He steps forward, tugging and tearing at your layers, eager for you to join him in his state of undress. Sure enough you hear a button clack against the floor, fallen victim to his reckless haste.

"Careful!" you insist, but really, you're more amused than annoyed.

Not to mention aroused.

"Oh, don't you worry, my dear. I'll fix that right up for you."

"You'd better."

"Of course. I'm your personal tailor for life now."

For life. This really is it for you, isn't it? You are his, and he is yours, and for however long you both walk this realm, you will spend your days and your nights together.

You wouldn't have it any other way. And neither would he.

When at last you are beaming and bare before him, Astarion takes a step back for a better look at you.

He stares.

And then he strikes.

You are swept into his arms, into his passion, barely conscious of anything but the feel of skin against skin and lips against lips—though it is abundantly clear he is a man on a mission. He pulls you along in his mad shuffle to reach the bed, sacrificing finesse to gain speed, unable to wait a second longer than necessary to have you.

And indeed he wastes no time in lifting you onto the mattress and pushing you flat on your back beneath him.

"Finally," he growls and he grins, and you're already there bucking on the bed before he has even touched you where you need him. "Finally I have you right where I want you. Right where you belong here in my bed. Right here with me."

The thought of this one day becoming your bed—your home—thrills you almost as much as his impatient touches do.

But, as eager as he is, he still recalls exactly how to excite you. Still gives ample attention to all those places most sensitive and secret. Still treats your body like his sanctuary—a sacred thing to be revered, to be relished, to be worshipped.

And, as he settles between your thighs, you know the pleasure he'll, oh, so willingly provide will be nothing short of divine.

He starts with a single lick—one long and languid glide along your slit—and already, all at once, it's too much, and it's not enough, and it's the most wonderfully perfect sensation you have ever known. It pulls from you a shake and a cry, and in turn, a soft laugh from him as he takes pride in his ability to please you. He licks you a second time, and then a third, and again, and again, until his tongue is lapping at you with a steady fervency.

The bliss he brings you is better than you remember. Countless times you tried to relive your memories—desperate to return to him, if only in daydreams—but your fingers always paled in comparison to the way his tongue dips inside your cunt and flicks against your clit.

Although maybe it is better than ever now that you know he loves you.

You grasp for his hand and he grabs it gladly.

And he certainly knows how to work you well. You writhe about, your moans mewling and wanton, your body wanting more, more, more. The pleasure you crave is close now. You glance at your lover—mussed up curls and pink-tipped ears, his attention focused wholly upon your undoing—and to know that Astarion is the one making you feel this way intensifies the heat coiling in your centre.

A little more is all it will take. You ready yourself for it, your grip tightening, your limbs trembling, your feet bracing against his shoulders. And, when he tongues you with the quick, precise flicks you like best, you yield, wave after wave of pleasure crashing into you. Astarion does not relent, continuing to devour you until you are thoroughly sated and spent.

You lie there, panting hard, basking in the pleasant tingle that still lingers in the aftermath of your orgasm. Gods, you haven't felt this good in ages. And, from the smug smile that begins to spread across his face, it seems he knows it, too.

"Well," Astarion says, licking his lips as he sits up. "You look positively wrecked, darling. And all because of me. You want more, don't you?"

Such self-satisfied bravado. Not that it stops your core from clenching at his suggestion. Nor do you deny him when he shifts over you, cock gliding along your swollen folds, ready to push inside.

Oh, you want more very, very badly.

And so you invite him in. "Yes."

Slowly Astarion sinks into your sex until he is buried to the hilt. A perfect fit. You did always take him exceptionally well. He pulls back, and pushes in, and pulls back, and pushes in, coaxing gasps and moans out of you, ensuring you feel each and every inch of him as he makes love to you.

And it is love, this time. Love that underlies the lust in his eyes. Love that fuels the languorous rhythm of his hips. Love that urges him to lavish you with little kisses.

You return his love in every way you can: touching, holding, caressing, kissing, enjoying all that is nostalgic and all that is new. You roll your hips. You cry his name. Surely the extent of your adoration is made abundantly clear—but, if by any chance all this isn't enough, you sing it out loud: "I love you!"

He lets out a laugh, a soft and elated little sound. "I love you, too."

But, for all his sweetness, so is there carnality, frantic and feral and finally free. He thrusts harder, moves faster, pours all of his passion into every motion he makes. Of course you are more than happy to allow him this indulgence. The addictive friction, the lewd noises of bodies colliding, the delight of being filled so completely—every intoxicating detail feeds that familiar heat building within you.

Sensing your impending release, Astarion lifts his head from where it had been nestled in your neck and draws back just far enough to reach a hand between your legs, rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb. You imagine you must be quite a sight—all shivering and squirming under him as you begin your surrender to bliss—but his stare is locked only upon your eyes.

And it is then that you lose yourself to the euphoria he gives you. Then, that your walls clench around him; then, that you let out a keening cry; then, that pleasure radiates from your core to every extremity of your body. And where you go, Astarion is quick to follow, groaning as he empties himself inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, and you pull him into a tight embrace, vowing you will never, ever let him go again.

You missed him so much. Love him so much. And, to be with him like this, so close and connected, makes you feel that all is finally right in this world.

A comfortable and contented silence falls between you.

Until it breaks.

"I wasn't entirely honest with you before."

His words hang heavy in the air as panic takes hold. What if this was too much, what if this was too fast, what if he did not want any of this at all?

But then, when you feel like you might never catch your breath again, he takes your face into his hands and grins devilishly. "What I really like best of all is that I can take a single glance at you and tell just hopelessly in love with me you are."

Oh, that infuriating and wonderful man.

"Don't scare me like that!" you say, scolding him. But, despite his foolishness—maybe because of his foolishness if you're really being honest with yourself—you lunge forward for a kiss. Then another. And another.

When your lips break apart, and his eyes are again heavy-lidded with lust, he makes his suggestion: "Perhaps I might… find some way to make it up to you?"

You think a moment. And then you grin. "Why, yes, I do happen to have one idea in mind. About the ball… be my plus one?"

He does not roll his eyes, nor does he complain of the tedium he'd have to endure, nor does he make any attempt at denying you. He answers only with a soft smile and a single word.

"Always."

Tag List: @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @roguishcat, @zozoparsnips, @goodgirlgonebard, @amoremagnificentbastard, @hellethil, @xxnashiraxx, @vividiana, @dramatiquechipmunk (join tag list for future fics here!)

Thank you so much for reading!

Special Note: This will be a series on AO3 as well, plus all entries will be crossposted here on Tumblr!

My AO3 | My Masterlist

[letteremi]

childhood friend!Gojo x fem!reader

warnings: alcohol (underage drinking), jealousy, angst

credit goes to @uzmacchiato for the divider!!

part 2 <- part 3 -> part 4 | series masterlist

Gojo Satoru walks into the classroom like a ghost from your memories. 

Taller. White hair sticking out in spikes, like a grown out military buzz cut. Hands shoved into his pockets like he couldn’t care less. 

Something is different about the way he walks though — like a boy who owns every room he walks into, because he probably does. And his face….it’s more…relaxed? An easy smile graces his face when he sees you, and your heart forgets how to beat. 

Just when you thought he couldn’t get more handsome. 

You never did keep in touch after middle school. 

Well, you both tried. ‘Good mornings’ that fired up into conversations about your MBTIs, the weird bird you saw that day, or the curse you saw — hanging around someone’s shoulders —- slowly dissipated into infrequent updates that eventually stopped altogether, into radio silence that you just let hang. 

You chalked it up to the fact that both of you were busy, and Gojo…Gojo’s burden was heavier than yours was. 

And you’d never forgotten your catastrophe of a confession. Sometimes at night, you’d curl — knees tucked to your chest — like an armadillo, hoping, praying to whichever deity was listening, that Gojo wouldn’t recognise the flimsy letter for what it truly was.

Maybe they had listened, because Gojo never brought it up again. 

The last, real conversation that you had was about what high school you were going to. His family didn’t even want him to enroll, but he said if he did, he’d probably be forced to join Kyoto Jujutsu High. You offered sympathetic hums of acknowledgement, revealing that your family was set on you going to its Tokyo sister school. 

A part of you felt relieved he would be going to another school. The same part of you felt ashamed for feeling so, the guilt tasting like blood in your mouth.   

So, when you arrived early, and sat at the desk closest to the window, you never expected him to stroll in like some twisted wish granted too late. 

He calls your name, and you hate how familiar it sounds coming from this stranger’s mouth — voice deeper than you remember, but the syllables are all the same, the cadence is one you know all too well. 

He’s said your name once, and the feelings come rushing back like there weren’t three years between you. Heart pounding, head slightly dizzy, as if your entire world was tilting off axis. 

Which it was. 

But when he sits down next to you, it’s like no time has passed at all. Like your laughter had been waiting, quiet and patient, all these years for him to tug it free again. He’s chuckling at your pointed comments, and you’re giggling when he goofs off — which is another thing that’s really changed about him. 

Since meeting Geto Suguru, his energy has skyrocketed. Between you, and his enabler (Geto), Gojo’s regressed into the child he was never allowed to be. And that makes you glad. 

With Geto and Ieiri acting as buffers, you can almost forget your feelings. Forget that you ever felt anything past friendship with Gojo. 

Suppress the painful pulse of your heart when he mentions another model who’s looks you could never dream of living up to — scoffing and exchanging judgemental glances with Ieiri. Teenage boys. 

You ignored how it felt when his fingers brushed yours — when you handed him a cup, a pencil, whatever — and it felt like stupid sparks ignited the charged space between you, when it was really only you who felt them. 

Shibuya is quiet when you step out of the movie theatre, the three stragglers right behind you. 

Ieiri, soda in hand, and staring into the night sky above. 

Geto, hands shoved in his pockets, and still humming the end credit song — perfectly in key. 

Beside him — Gojo — singing the lyrics, shouting some parts, and scatting the rest. Doing it just because he can, just to be annoying — you’ve heard him sing, he’s irritatingly good at it. 

You glance behind you, and Shoko looks just about to whack him. “The last train is soon. Pick up the pace,” you shout over your shoulder. Then comes a familiar, resounding thwack, and its equally recognisable counterpart — his offended ‘ow’. 

Before long, you’re at the station, mindlessly reading the adverts plastered on the other side of the rails. To your right, the sound of metal and muffled curses: Gojo battling a vending machine. Geto’s laughter tells you he’s just lost another bill to it. 

“That guy has been eyeing you this whole time, y’know?” Ieiri nudges your shoulder, directing your attention to the gaggle of fellow high schoolers to the left. While the majority of them are mucking about, one has his arms crossed, staring at you — or, it would be more accurate to say squinting at you. 

Not with any…ill will. Confusion? Dawning recognition? 

And then it hits you too. “Eiji?” You raise your hand in a shy wave. 

“I can feel the heat radiating off your face.” 

“Shut up, Shoko.” You swat at her half-heartedly, but Ieiri only raises her hands like in surrender, before making her way to the boys — sneaking not-so-covert peeks at you over her shoulder. 

Eiji was …a friend from middle school. Just someone who you thought was cute, and maybe you caught a few feelings when trying to replace the Satoru-shaped hole in your heart. 

His most memorable moment? When he rode over to your house to give you your homework, when you were sick. 

Rain pelted heavily that day, drenching his own school bag and plastering his bangs to his forehead. With one smooth motion, he raked his fingers through the slick strands, and you flushed as he gave you your work with both hands. 

He was polite. Had manners. You vaguely remember thinking that your parents would love him. 

It never went anywhere, mostly because your own feelings fizzled out. 

And just as he confessed. 

Yeah. It was a little awkward after that. 

But he seems to have gotten over it, if the way he’s walking towards you means anything. 

“How have you been?” He tilts his head, and the way his hair moves — so fluffy — reminds you of a puppy. That effortless charm. Fuck, you had a type. 

You clear your throat. “I’ve been good. You?” 

And as you catch up, you begin to remember why you liked him in the first place. Amidst the laughter, you stumble about your words, and your hand flies to his arm — an instinctive apology, and maybe a plea for him to laugh with you, and not at you. 

“Hey, what’s so funny?” 

Oh. 

That familiar voice — your heart hurts at the sound of it — cuts through the moment like a sharp breeze. 

It’s like he’s materialised by your side — hand gripping a half-eaten bar, one hand shoved in the all-black pants of the Jujutsu uniform. Smiling with his teeth, but not his eyes. 

“Oh.” Gojo glances at Eiji, eyes flicking up and down in an almost lazy assessment. “I didn’t know we were taking applications for new friends today.”

You shift, rubbing your bent elbow with your palm. “He’s not new. We went to school together.” Way to embarrass you in front of an old classmate. Finally, Gojo looks down at you, and something unreadable flickers on his face. 

Right. A reminder of how much of your life he missed. A part of the life he had no claim to. 

And as soon as it appears, it’s gone. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he says, but he’s already angled his body toward you. He re-focuses on Eiji, smiling wide. “You were saying…?” 

Eiji rubs his neck, and an awkward laugh escapes his lips. “Ah, I should get going, actually. But before that…” He whips out his phone. “Could I get your number?” 

As you press the keys on Eiji’s phone, you feel a burning stare. What was with him, honestly? At this rate, you’re going to get the wrong idea. 

As Eiji shuffles off back to his friends, sent off with a wave from Gojo, you sigh. “He was nice.” 

“Nice is boring,” he retorts, tearing off another bite of his bar, gnawing into it like he had a score to settle with granola and mixed nuts. 

The train ride back is silent, though Gojo sits next to you like some protective shield you never asked for.  

Eiji texts you that night, asking to meet up again. 

You don’t respond until the next morning, and when you do, you turn him down. 

-

It starts as a dumb idea. 

And because you were a quartet of bored, young teenagers, none of you refused when Ieiri suggested truth or drink. 

A dumb game. Perhaps your death sentence. 

But why not? After the school Goodwill event, a bunch of straggling Kyoto-ers were left in Tokyo. Perfect! 

What you were not expecting was Gojo’s pointed question at you. 

“Do you have a crush?”

The heat rises to your cheeks almost instantly, and for one crazy second, you think that it’s because he’s interested in you. 

But he’s not pushing the girl hanging off his shoulder — her head perched on her hands, nestled in the crook of his neck like it was always meant to be there. 

She’s pretty. They look good together. He’s never let you be that close. Always shuffled to the side when you got too close, shoes scuffing the floor as he shifted like some suspicious penguin. 

And in the cases when he couldn’t shuffle? He’d contort his lanky body into weird positions — anything to avoid brushing against you, like your touch burned. Like it was something to be avoided at any cost, when all you wanted was to reach for him. 

Gojo always apologised when having to grab you during missions — even if it were to shove you out of the way of a wayward curse, or stop you from activating traps. Like it was something horrible to have to touch you, or a reflex, in case you misunderstood his intentions. 

Maybe it was the diluted alcohol, or maybe it was that you were done stamping down these flurrying feelings. And maybe it’s the leftover echo of that night at the station, making you think that maybe he felt something other than friendship too. 

There’s a beat where the world seems to hold its breath. Your mouth moves before your mind can stop it, heart hammering so loud you’re sure they can all hear it. 

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say, voice sharp and clear and irreversible. You raise your cup, hands trembling just slightly. “You.”

Around you, voices erupt — laughter, gasps, loud whispers of ‘no wayyy’. 

Gojo freezes, like he doesn’t know whether you’re telling the truth or not. And then that bright grin — classically Satoru — splits across his face. He throws his head back, bangs falling onto his forehead with a grace that makes your heart burn, and laughs. 

Loud. Easy. 

Like you just told the punchline to the world’s funniest joke, and hadn’t just told him a secret you never meant to let escape. 

“I saw you rolling your eyes.” You didn’t. If anything, your eyes had been fixed on the solar eclipse of a boy in front of you. 

He wipes a fake tear from the corner of his eye, still cackling. “You almost had me there.”

You take another swig, wanting to just drown in the drink. “Duh. You should’ve seen your face.” You wave your hand dismissively, like you’re fanning away smoke. 

Ieiri giggles into her sleeve, and the others howl. But Geto just sips his drink — orange juice, he didn’t want to upset his parents — watching you with eyes that see too much. But you don’t notice. The noise washes over you like a tide, drowning out the sound of your own heart cracking open and quietly sinking. 

Gojo slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in conspiratorially, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Shit. There’s no way he’s actually getting loopy off this weak concoction, but he must be, to be drawing you in like this. 

“You’re almost as funny as me now.” 

You shrug him off. It’s too much — the weight of him, his cologne — how he treats you like his. You hope he reads it like playful annoyance, instead of the self-preservation it really is. 

The game moves on. The laughter spills into the next dare. Someone takes another drink. Someone shrieks about another humiliating truth. 

And you? You grip your empty cup like an anchor, eyes fixed on the spinning bottle in the centre. 

Trying not to think about the way your confession — your real confession — just slipped out and dissolved into nothing but a joke. 

Maybe you should quit sorcery and try your hand at stand-up comedy. 

You seem to be getting good at turning heartbreak into punchlines. 

Attempt number 3? 

Your most hilarious set yet. 

taglist: @bloopsstuff @vynn30 @juliarchiv3s @fushiguroooozzz @lagataprrr @justachillgirllui @arahiraaai @jheneea @chiefsandwichcrown @bakugouswaif @casssiesthings @duckness-spam-acct @momoewn @reree22222 @kodzu-ken @sarcasticintrovertedsoul @unknownw0css @44ina

[sadboyeddie]

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠’𝐬 𝐎𝐟𝐟 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐨𝐛: 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞

Summary: Bob has been acting different. You intend to find out why.

Warnings: (MDNI 18+) Fem!Reader, No Use Of Y/N, Blow Job, Sex Club, Smut, Dirty Talk

A/N: It’s been a hot minute since I have written smut so I hope it’s passable. Let me know tho.

WC: 6k

Series Masterlist

Something was off with Bob. 

He was acting strange somehow.

More secretive. More Suspicious.

You've gotten used to his many moods and behaviours since living together at the Watchtower. In fact with how many of the members of the team were trained to basically not feel shame you knew far too much about some of them. 

Walker on the other hand is just a dude who doesn't care. He's given up on shame.

But with Bob his day to day has become routine, a schedule he keeps to. He says it helps him manage the darker parts of his life, at first you thought he meant the Void; but he was also talking about his older habits. 

Bob has been clean for a long while now and there has never been an indication of a relapse, and honestly you're a little mad and disappointed with yourself for even thinking there might be. 

It's just Bob doesn't sneak out; he always tells at least someone, usually Yelena, where he's going. He doesn't clam up and start spluttering half baked excuses when asked what he did the previous night. He never blows off movie night, usually he's the first there in the common room with his blanket, waiting for you to arrive with the popcorn.

But he has been. He has been sneaking out, has been clamming up, he has been skipping out on movie night.

You try to casually ask around but for a bunch of spies who usually have no boundaries they seem very nonplussed about your queries.

Yelena assures you it's fine and to just leave it alone, Ava hasn't even really noticed and John says he's probably got a secret girlfriend.

You trust Yelena, you know how close her and Bob are. It once drove you mad with jealousy but after realising there was no romantic feelings between them the fogged cleared and you saw how good it was for Bob to have a best friend like Yelena.

Also you didn't want to be one of those people that got jealous every time a member of the opposite sex talked to someone you liked.

You do sometimes wish it was you though.

Anyway, since everyone was of so little help you decided to figure it out yourself. You were a pretty decent spy. 

--

Like Bob's normal routine of laundry on Sunday, grocery shopping on Wednesday and changing the bed linens on Saturday; his mysterious night time activity was also on a schedule. 

Twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday; leaving the tower at 7:30pm on the dot. 

You watch as he passes Yelena, offering her a small smile and a nod in greeting before getting on the elevator. 

She doesn't even ask where he's going. She must know something.

You decide against cornering her and asking again, you know there's no point. Not even Hydra would be able to torture the information out of her. Where's Bucky when you need him?

Okay, that was a little rude. Thank god there's no telepaths in the building.

You wait until you hear the door to Yelena's room close before heading towards the elevator, you watch as the numbers gradually countdown until reaching the first floor. You smack the button and wait for it to come back up, contemplating taking the stairs but there's no way you'd make it to the bottom in time. 

You should have planned for this. 

Before deciding to just base jump from a window the doors ding and you step inside, as you go to close the door you hear Walker calling for you to hold it. Feigning deafness you hit the 'close' button a few extra times and thankfully they shut before he makes it.

That last thing you see before the doors shut is John's annoyed yet confused gaze.

You impatiently tap your foot against the cool metal of the floor, why is this taking so long? Has the elevator always been this slow? What if there was an emergency?

When the doors open with a ding you let out a huff and speed walk over to the buildings exit, nodding to the security guard behind the desk. 

When you're on the street you frantically look around for the familiar flop of brown curls, the street is fairly empty this time of night but even with the street lights it's still dark.

"What way did Bob go?" you call back to the guard. 

With a slightly startled jump, he puts down the word jumble and points to the left, you give him a quick thank you before making your way down the sidewalk.

Thankfully you don't have to break out into a jog because a few meters up the road is Bob. 

You take a second to fall back a bit, getting a little too close in your eagerness to find him. 

He has his airpods in and is bopping his head a bit to whatever song he is listening to, a plastic bag swinging beside him as he walks. Did he always have the bag? 

Usually you'd find that cute and endearing but you're in work mode right now. No time for fun.

You're feeling immense guilt with each step you take. He's done nothing to truly make you doubt his trust and yet here you are stalking him. The man just brings this out in you. You swear before moving to the tower you used to have boundaries.

Bob is your friend, one of your closest. You spend the most time with him then anyone, hell, most nights he ends up in bed with you. 

When it started he'd make up poor excuses; glare from the street lights (50 floors up?), cold in his room, (he usually slept with the A/C on cause he runs hot), Alexei snores, that one you believed. 

But you could never find yourself to care because you quickly realised that you slept better next to Bob. Your nightmares weren't as frequent and you ran cold so you enjoyed having a personal heater in your bed. He's like a barnacle that attaches itself to you as soon as he hits the mattress and you find that his touch grounds you. 

He's told you that it helps him too, you did notice that after the first few times the dark bags under his eyes started to recede, and maintenance wasn't having to come up and change as many light bulbs anymore, when Bob would wake from his nightmares he'd let out a pulse of energy that was like an EMP. 

Much to your disappointment nothing sexual ever came of it, Bob being far too polite and shy. The closest you have ever gotten is feeling his hard on in the morning before he stutters out and apology and rushes from your room. You always felt a tad guilty wishing more did come from it, he saw you as a means of comfort and you wanted to climb him like a tree. 

You often felt he reciprocated your feelings, that was until you saw him interact with anyone else. All smiles and crimson cheeks, biting his lips and meaningful stares. Stupid Bob making everyone he interacts with feel special.

You thought you had made a new breakthrough with your relationship when it became more playful and sassy but you noticed once again he became like that with others when he had warmed up to them enough. 

Still you had your own things that you did together, apart from sleeping in the same bed, you had tv shows that just the two of you would watch, you'd wear his clothes and he'd put his hair up in one of your scrunchies when it would get into his eyes when reading. Sometimes when he was out shopping he'd buy you some clothes and trinkets, stuff he thought you'd like. 

You were even wearing one of the shirts now; grey with a small butterfly decal on the chest.

You're pulled out of your thoughts when Bob crosses the road, you wait for a car to pass before following, making sure to maintain a distance. 

You end up following him for a good twenty minutes before he makes a sharp right turn down an alleyway, you're grateful he walked, you would have never been able to catch up to him if he took a taxi or uber. 

But you know Bob likes to walk, he says it helps regulate his moods. Every morning he goes for a walk around the local park, sometimes you join but he does like to go alone, listening to music and getting his steps in is almost as beneficial as therapy according to him.  

You peak out from behind the brick wall of the apartment building and watch as Bob takes a quick glance around before knocking a pattern onto a metal door. 

Your heart sinks into your ass as you watch him enter the sketchy building, your fears being all but confirmed. 

You spend what feels like an eternity fighting with yourself, deciding whether or not to go home or go drag his ass out of whatever crack den he's found himself in. 

You know you don't technically have a right to do that, you're not his girlfriend or parole officer, but you promised him the last time he almost Voided out that you'll be there to pull him from the fire, no matter what. 

You know that the only thing that's holding you back is the obvious rage Bob will feel towards you when he realises you violated his trust but it's something you're willing to deal with. 

You march with purpose to the end of the alleyway and think back for a second, remembering the coded door knock. 

Shuffling awkwardly you wait with baited breath until the small socket slides across, a pair of eyes give you a once over before the door creaks open. 

You're instantly met with a wall of sound, loud music and a deep bass coming from behind the broad shouldered bouncer.

"You comin' or what?" he asks, clearly annoyed. 

You duck your head and slide past him, confusion hitting you like a truck. 

Walking through a dark hallway, you make your way towards the source of music, the closer you get the more your eyes start to adjust, there's small dim lights on the walls but they do nothing. 

When you reach the end of the corridor the doorway is covered by a heavy black curtain and another attendant is standing by. 

They barely pay you any mind, busy on their phone, as they lift it back for you to walk past. 

In all your years of espionage nothing could have trained you for this. 

You stand there, eyes wide as you take in your surroundings. 

The large room is better lit but still dark; mood lighting. All across the room is people in various forms of nudity and undress. Masses of skin and writhing bodies. The area is a deep red and almost all surfaces are velvet, various toys and lewd art decorate the walls, couches and booths are scattered around the room as well as stools and cushioned benches. A bar sits at the far end against the back wall.

You're no stranger to sex and intimacy but you are way out of your depth here. 

For a brief moment you watch what is happening around you and forget why you came. 

You take note of the bar at the back of the room, male and female waitstaff walking around naked with only black and white collars on their necks, if not for the trays of alcohol in their hands you'd think they were part of the activities.

Although judging by the waitress to the right of you being taken against a table perhaps they do join in on the fun.

The wanton moaning and sounds of completion are starting to get to you, your mouth going dry as your body heats up. You go to leave, this is all too much and you can't focus, but as you turn to go your eyes catch on a figure, a very familiar figure.

This time when you see Bob he's only wearing his jeans, top half completely bare, but that's not what stopped you in your tracks; the woman holding his hand and pulling him along looks like you!

You choke on the saliva that's filled your mouth as your mind short circuits. This woman features are far too similar to yours to be a coincidence. 

Same hair; length and colour, same build; height and weight, and if you had to guess you'd say she may even have the same eye colour.

You watch as he follows along obediently, the small plastic bag swinging by his side and a smile on his face as he's being lead from the room, through more curtained doorways. 

The burning inside you is no longer from arousal and embarrassment, you now feel very jealous. 

Anger and hurt also bubble under the surface. Why would he go out to a club and find someone who looks like you when you look like you?

Okay, that's not a smart argument but he already has you, so he doesn't need her.

"You're overdressed," a deep voice says from beside you; snapping you from your intelligent thoughts.

You turn towards the man but quickly avert your gaze when you realise how very naked and very turned on he his.

He lets out a chuckle at your innocence before talking again. "First time?" His voice is a little louder to cut through the sea of groaning.

"That obvious?" Your laugh is strained and forced but polite none the less. 

"Very," he chuckles, if not for his bare body and this entire situation you wouldn't mind talking to him, he kind of looks like Prince Caspian. "You want a drink?"

"Desperately," you reply without thinking, your eyes now landing on his face, strictly on his face, "but I'm curious as to what goes on behind those curtains." You point to the door Bob went through. 

"Private rooms," he points to he left, "glory hole booths," he grabs two glasses of brown liquid off a passing waiters tray and hands you one, "whiskey," he nods.

Your heart plummets at the information but you're grateful for the drink, though whiskey has never been your favourite it will do in a crisis. 

"Want a closer look?" his suggestive tone is deep and sultry and honestly if you weren't bat shit crazy about the ex meth addict that lived three rooms down from you, you'd probably take him up on his offer. 

"I'll have to take a rain check," you shrug apologetically, but the tall handsome man with seemingly black eyes seems to take no offense with your rejection. 

"Another time," he smiles as he leaves you to it, his attention already quickly being taken away buy a dark haired woman. 

You make your way around the crowd, nervous that if you walk through and get too close someone might grab you and pull you in. 

When you reach the curtain there's no attendant there to usher you through, which you're relieved about. The less people to witness whatever you're doing or about to do the better. 

This hallway is much better lit, there are sconces by each door which is adorned with a metal plate that labels the room. 

On each side of the hallway there are five doors, you're probably about to see a lot of stuff you don't want to but you're desperate. 

You place your ear against the cold wood of the first door on the left, hoping to hear voices or at the very least you hope might be able to pick out Bobs moans. He's got a pretty deep voice so you've always assumed his sounds of pleasure would be just as deep. 

Unfortunately the door is very thick and any sound or voices you hear are muffled and faint. 

You take a breath to prepare yourself before slowly turning the knob, cracking open only enough to see if the occupants are either Bob or the doppelganger - doppelbanger. 

You let out a small miserable chuckle at your stupid word play and a small relieved sigh when you see they aren't in here, that is until you hear the whip come down on the mans ass and thighs, you wince at the crack but the man makes a sound that you once heard on a nature documentary about tigers so you guess he's having a hell of a time. 

Good for him, at least someone is. 

You continue on with your pervy task of violation as you switch to the other door opposite to this one. 

- 

You're not sure how much time has passed but you're down to the last two doors.

You admittedly took a little longer as one of the rooms really intrigued you, a woman on her back with her head handing off the bed as a man quite literally fucked her throat. 

Maybe you were a bit of a voyeur.

Maybe you needed therapy.

But first you needed to find Bob. 

But what are you going to do when you find him? Burst into the room like some perverted knight in shinning armour? It's not like Bob was here against his will. Would you confess that you like him? Is this really the time and place?

The rational thoughts leave your head as quickly as they came when you hear a loud broken moan coming from your left, you let out a pitiful noise (and squeeze your legs together, what is wrong with you?) as part of you already knows that this is Bob's room. 

With practiced ease you crack the door open and hurt your own feelings when you confirm your suspicions. There lies Bob on the bed, red and covered in sweat as the copy of you slides off him and collapses on the side. You notice she's not even fully naked but your focus is not on her.

You're screaming in your own head to turn away, go home and cry into some ice cream - or better yet nachos, but you've already crossed so many boundaries tonight why not a few more?

Bobs eyes are closed, a very fucked and blissed out expression covers his face as he fights to catch his breath, thanks to the large angled mirror at the head of the bed you can see everything. His length, thickness, the veins, how it curves slightly to the left - and to your utter surprise; a stick-and-poke tattoo high on his upper thigh, is that Kermit (?), close to his dick.

Which now is starting to get hard again.

You remember having a rather detailed conversation with Alexei about the refractory periods of Super Soldiers, the conversation was funny until it wasn't. Yelena's obvious discomfort of the topic her father chose was humourous until he started to make it personal and then everyone was uncomfortable.

"You goin' to the booths after this, Robby?" Not You asks as she traces a perfectly manicured finger over his chest, making him tremble slightly. You have tp squeeze your fists to hold back the jealousy.

"Yeah," his breathing is back to normal but his voice is soft and slow, "will you be in there tonight?" he seems so hopeful and that causes your heart to crack open just a little bit more.

"Not tonight," she sounds almost sad, "but there's some good one's in there."

By now Bob is almost completely hard again and he goes to sit up on the side of the bed, Not You follows suit. That's when you notice it. Notice the clothes the Copy is wearing.

She's dressed just like you.

And not just in clothes you own and wear sometimes, no she's wearing almost the exact same thing you're wearing now. 

Same grey shirt with black sleeves and a small butterfly decal, the black jean jacket that has fallen down her arms is the same as yours, hell, even the white velvet scrunchy in her hair is the same. 

What in the Twilight Zone, Invasion of the Body Snatchers is going on here?

A brief glance lower and you realise even her underwear is the same, red lace! How did he know what you're wearing?

Whatever guilt you previously felt over violating Bob is gone because this perv is just as bad as you.

And the thing that should probably repulse or disgust you; is that you don't care. You don't care even a little bit. Bob is so desperate for you he basically replicated you. 

Even though you were right there!

Okay, so the anger is back. 

In your moment of realisation you didn't notice Bob getting to his feet and getting dressed, even the Replicant has changed back to her other outfit, which was easy - nipple pasties and black lacy panties. 

You close the door quietly and start to panic when Bob starts moving to leave. He can't catch you here now!

You hot foot it to the end of the hallway and out through the curtain, if you bravely risk your hygiene and safety by going through the Naked Sea you could probably make it out before Bob exits the hallway. 

But the sight of Yelena standing in front of the exit causes you to stop still and let out a far too loud "what the fuck!"

Thankfully the man jackrabbiting into the woman near you, and her sounds of tortured bliss, drown out your frustrated cry. 

The Jackrabbit man makes awkward eye contact with you - awkward for you, he seems to rather enjoy it. 

Before you can stop yourself you give him a thumbs up and a "nice form!" before turning to the glory hole hallway, not even waiting to hear the reply from the man.

This hallway is almost identical to the last, except there are double the amount of doors and each pair of doors are closer together. There's two signs above the entrance to the hallway; one with a large hole and a lewd drawing of a lower half; legs spread, the other more simple, a smaller hole with a penis coming through it.

You head down to the end of hallway and open the door to the right, the penis hole side.

Weird thing to say. 

Thankfully it's empty, you lock the door behind you and take a seat on the admittedly comfy cushioned stool and wait for this to all blow over. 

You have to admit, the sound proofing in this place is pretty spectacular, the small speakers in the corner playing soft music also adds to the ambiance, it's fairly clean and there's a box of wet wipes and a small bin in the corner. This place is kinda nice. Maybe that's why Yelena was here.

Wait! Why the hell is she here? Who else comes here? Is this a hangout place for the Thunderbolts to decompress? How come you weren't invited?

Unfortunately you weren't meant to find peace because your quiet moment is interrupted by someone entering the stall connected to yours. 

If you hadn't have been in such as rush you might have noticed the small lights next to the door that signified occupancy and that when you locked the door the light went from green to yellow, which meant the person inside was waiting for another. The light is now red, you guess that indicates that the booths are now occupied.

But your earlier gloating about being a good spy was now invalid because you are a terrible spy. 

You hear someone clear their throat on the other end followed by the shuffling of clothes. You go to rush out protests, putting your face dangerously close to the hole but that's when your eyes catch on something.

Hi-ho, Kermit the fucking frog. 

What was he thinking, honestly. 

"Is this o-okay?" his deep unsure voice cuts through the silent tension, Bob completely unaware of the conundrum you're currently facing. 

Whelp, when in Rome. 

You try to drop your voice an octave lower before answering in a whisper, you'd rather be strapped to a car battery again then face the humiliation of Bob finding you here. 

"F'course, sweetheart," you inwardly curse as the pet name you normally call Bob comes out automatically. 

The desperate whimper he lets out shows you that he didn't mind one bit.

"Like it-like it when you call me that," his voice is already wrecked but that could be chalked up to his previous activities.

A sour taste fills your mouth and you silently scold yourself.

This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and you will not ruin this for yourself!

In your brief trance Bob has slipped his hardened cock through the hole, and you let out an audible gasp; not intending for it to be that loud you bite your lip.

"Like that, honey?" he asks, letting his pet name for you easily slip through his lips. 

Or maybe he just calls everyone that, you think bitterly before scolding yourself again.

Stop it!

"It's thick," you hum, "I like that," you move a little closer and Bob lets out a small shutter at your warm breath against his member. You could really have some fun with this. 

"Put it in your mouth, honey," he sounds desperate, pathetic, just like you feel, "suck on it, please."

His cock bobs in front of you, a small bead of pre come gathers at the tip and you find yourself utterly entranced. 

You lean forward and lick over the head, making sure to clean off all the salty liquid before wrapping your hand around the base.

His hips move closer to the wall giving you more to work with, suddenly you hear a slight thud above you followed by a muffled whine, if you had to guess Bob probably dropped his head against the wall in front of him.

A small breathy chuckle falls from your lips onto the underside of his cock, which in turn twitches in your hand. He's so sensitive. 

You slowly lick the vein at the base all the way up to the tip, repeating the action a few more times just to spread some saliva around. 

"Pl-please," you like when he begs, "I want more," he whines again. 

"Be a good boy for me, sweetheart" you whisper, you think he didn't hear you but judging by the small curse from the other side you know he did. You remember Bucky saying how the Serum enhances the senses. All the senses.

"I'll be good," he swears, "I'll be so good, I p-promise, honey."

You clench your thighs together, the deep vibration mixed with the desperation in his voice getting to you. 

You lean forward and take the head of his cock in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and adding a tight suction before taking more of him in. 

"Fuck!" he slams a fist down on the wall as you continue to suck him down, inch by inch, only stopping when he hits the back of your throat.

You hold him there for a minute, savouring the feeling of him, taking joy in the fact you're finally living out one of your fantasies. 

Unfortunately you never mastered the whole gag reflex thing and the burning in your eyes and throat is becoming too much, you pull off of Bob with a loud gag followed by a whine before going to apologise, Bob doesn't let you.

"Fuck, honey, do that again," his voice comes out rushed, "please choke on my cock again."

This isn't your first blow job but a quick suck and fuck with a few men who weren't even close to the size of Bob really makes a difference.

You gracelessly wipe your eyes and nose before spitting on your hand and giving him a few strokes, base to tip, he slightly stutters forward with a groan. 

You get higher on your knees and kiss the head of his cock twice before swallowing it down, making sure to cover your teeth the deeper you take him. 

Before you can make it all the way down Bob lets out a broken whimper as he thrusts forward, his cock hitting the back of your throat hard making you gag, you pull back to collect yourself as you hear Bob rush out apologies. 

You don't really hear him as you watch a thick string of saliva that's connected from your mouth to his cock, you watch mesmerised as it starts to sag down, before it breaks you lean forward and wrap your mouth around him again.

The words die on his lips and is replaced by a drawn out moan, deep and warm, one that you could find yourself getting used to hearing.

You don't shy away from the uncomfortable feeling of him at the back of your throat, instead you lean into the burn, with each and every gag Bob lets out a small sound of pleasure or a curse, every time you swallow around him; savouring every drop of pre cum that dribbles out of his cock as he hits the wall with his hand. 

He has his thrusting pretty much under control but each time one rough snap of his hips sneaks through, thankfully it's not hard enough to bring you to a stop, though you have tears streaming down your cheeks and your mouth and chin are covered in a mixture of drool and pre come. 

You're suddenly reminded of the woman on the bed getting her face fucked, how she barely choked.

You try to remember hushed conversations whispered between friends in the middle of the night at high school sleepovers; if you relax the throat and breath through your nose it's much easier. 

You tighten the fist that's still wrapped around the base of Bob's cock, too long to fit entirely in your mouth, and you rub your thumb on the underside, gently over his vein. A move you'd normally do when holding his hand while watching a move. 

"Oh, fuck," his voice is raw and full of pleasure, "I'm c-close," you think you can hear scratching against the wall, "honey, I'm so close."

You relax your throat as much as you can while trying to breath through your nose, allowing yourself to feel pleasure, you reach down and unbutton your jeans. 

"Yes, fuck-touch yourself," Bob whimpers, his sensitive hearing picking up on an almost soundless action, "come with me, honey."

You push past the waistline of your underwear and groan at how wet you are, the vibration sends a thrill through Bob's cock and he lets out a debauched moan at the feeling. 

Wasting no time you use two fingers to gather your slick before rubbing it over your sensitive clit, your whole body is wracked with a shiver at the feeling. 

You get to work catching up on your orgasm, honestly you're not that far behind, you truly believe that you would have been able to come from the feeling of Bob's cock and rubbing your thighs together alone. 

You match your fingers with the pace of your mouth, flicking your bundle of nerves when ever you flick your tongue over his tip.

"Switch, fuck, switch hands, honey," Bob pleads and you slow down just a fraction making him whine. "Want your slick on my cock," he begs.

A noise falls from your mouth that you never thought you could make, a moan mixed with a whimper, muffled by Bob's cock, you quickly follow his instructions and switch hands, but before you do you scoop up some of your wetness between your fingers. 

As you make the switch your eyes widen at the sticky mess coating your digits, you are far more gone then you thought. 

Bob cries out when he feels the warm wet heat of your other hand, he ruts against the hole uncaring of the protesting whines you let out. 

He babbles out apologies but makes no move of stopping. "Sorry, h-honey, can't stop," he's breathless and wrecked, "s'your fault, you did this," he blames, he sounds too far gone like he doesn't even know he's talking. "Drive me wild, love your sweet mouth, wanna feel your pussy."

You pull back with a moan, unable to keep up with his new punishing pace. You can already feel the the back of your throat bruising.

"Wanted this for so long, imagine it all the time." Your breath catches at his confession although you're not sure what he's confessing to exactly. "Get so hard in bed next t'you, honey, wanna come on your sleeping body, fuck! Wanna wake you up with my cock!"

The hand that was rubbing your clit stills as you listen to Bob, now terrified, but still very much aroused, that he's figured out it's you. You make the decision to go down with the ship, you might as well enjoy it in case you never get to do it again when Bob gets a clear head.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" you pull back and spit the saliva that's pooled in your mouth onto his cock, "desperate for me?" You ask before taking him back into your mouth, you resume the movement on your clit, feeling yourself getting closer to the edge.

"Ye-fuck, yes, honey," he slams in deeper again, hips stuttering as he's reaching his end, "wanna wake you with my cock buried inside you, wanna live inside you," he lets a choked moan slip out, "please, wanna come."

The depraved confession followed by the desperate plea sends you careening over the edge, your broken cry is muffled on Bob's cock and the vibration of your wrecked sobs paired with the grazing of your teeth on his sensitive skin is sending him right behind you. 

Loud groans fall from his lips, followed by a name that is unmistakably yours, as he paints your throat with his come. "Swallow it all," he begs breathlessly, "keep me inside of you, always."

You hollow out your cheeks as you milk him dry, making sure not to waste even a single drop, your fingers are still lazily stroking over your sensitive bud as you slowly come down from the high. 

Bob lets out another whine as you pull of his softening cock, the air still thick with tension, but this time it's a different sort of tension.

He pulls himself through the hole and you wait, like a coward, for him to talk first. Like a never ending torture he drags this out, zipping himself up and making himself more presentable. 

Finally, finally, he says something, "I'm sorry."

You're so caught off guard you make a small noise of confusion. That's not what you were expecting.

"I didn't mean to say those things," he says, his voice sounds a little guilty, "or call you by that name," he takes a heavy breath, "it's just someone I have a crush on." His small humourless chuckle makes you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

He doesn't know it's you!

Are you happy or disappointed? 

A bit of both, really.

"S'okay," you whisper, deciding to keep up the lie, at least for now, "I liked it."

His laugh now is breathy and a bit lighter, "good," there's a bit of movement on his side before you hear the opening of his door, "thank you."

Before you can answer he's gone. You sit back on your legs and take a second to wait for him to leave, you grab some wipes to clean yourself up as you try to wrap your head around what just happened. 

You sucked Bob's dick.

You sucked Bob's dick and he has no idea. 

Bob has a Kermit the frog tattoo. 

You're going to have so much fun with this.

As all these very important thoughts run through your head you're suddenly snapped back to reality when the door opens and closes again, part of you is excited, hoping it's Bob but when a heavy, gruff and familiar Russian accent fills the room you let out an undignified yelp and scramble to leave.

Does everyone come to this fucking club?!

- 

On the walk back to the tower Bob lets out a small smirk, his senses filled with your scent, a smell that's undeniably you. He couldn't believe his luck when he saw you peaking on him in the private room at the club, he's cock hardening as he felt your hot gaze on his body.

He's going to have so much fun with this.

Chapter One done Edited 5/7/25

[scarletwinterxx]

chase the cut - jeon wonwoo imagine

hello~ i've been wanting to write a med au for so long, i tried my best here so i hope you like it!🤍

alsooo i opened an acc on x. you can follow me there, my un there niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You bolt out of the room like your life depends on it.

Behind you, heavy footsteps follow, growing louder with each second. "Come back here!" Wonwoo’s usually calm voice has a sharp edge, but you don’t dare slow down

"It’s just a scratch!" you yell over your shoulder

"A scratch?!" Wonwoo sounds offended. "You’re a surgeon, and you’re bleeding! Do you hear yourself?"

Mingyu and Seokmin barely react as you sprint past them. Mingyu, sipping his coffee, raises a brow. "What did she do now?"

"She got a cut," Wonwoo answers, still in pursuit

Seokmin blinks. "A cut? We’re literally surrounded by scalpels and needles every day—why is he freaking out?"

You duck behind a chair, panting. "Because he’s a pediatric surgeon," you whisper dramatically. "He deals with tiny humans, not full-grown surgeons with minor injuries!"

Wonwoo rounds the corner, eyes locked on you. "You. Sit. Down."

Mingyu, ever the agent of chaos, casually blocks your escape route. "Just let him patch you up. Or keep running—I’m entertained either way."

Seokmin grins. "I say we take bets. Five bucks says he tackles her."

You glare at them. "Some friends you are."

Wonwoo takes a step forward, and you take a step back. It’s a ridiculous standoff in the middle of the hospital lounge.

"Do not make me chase you around the hospital," he warns.

You make a break for it. Seokmin and Mingyu laugh as Wonwoo groans and sprints after you. He catches you in less than five seconds. He’s faster than he looks, and before you can dodge, an arm wraps around your waist, effectively trapping you.

"Gotcha," he mutters, his breath warm against your ear

You squirm uselessly. "This is unfair! You have long legs!"

"You have terrible decision-making skills," he counters, steering you toward the nearest chair with ease. Seokmin and Mingyu watch like it’s their favorite reality show, Mingyu even grabbing a snack.

Wonwoo lets go just long enough to grab the antiseptic wipes, and that’s when the real panic sets in.

"Wait, wait, wait—just let me mentally prepare—"

"You had plenty of time to do that while you were running," he deadpans

The moment the antiseptic-soaked wipe touches your skin, you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted. "Ow, ow, OW—"

Wonwoo sighs. "You literally cut people open for a living, and you’re whining over this?"

Seokmin snickers. "Zero pain tolerance. It’s honestly embarrassing."

Mingyu nods sagely. "Every time she gets a paper cut, she acts like she’s been stabbed."

You glare at them through watery eyes. "This hurts—"

"It stings," Wonwoo corrects, holding your wrist firmly as you try to pull away. "Stay still before you actually make it worse."

You groan dramatically, but Wonwoo, ever patient, finishes patching you up despite your flinching and whining. When he’s done, he presses the bandage down with a little more force than necessary, just to be petty.

"There. All better," he says, finally letting go.

You cradle your injured hand and pout. "You’re mean."

Wonwoo exhales, exasperated. Then, softer, "You should be more careful." 

For a second, something unreadable passes between you. Then Seokmin ruins it. "So, who owes me five bucks? I said he’d tackle her, but technically, it was more of a grab—"

"Pay up, Seokmin," Mingyu smirks. "A catch is a catch."

You groan, while Wonwoo just shakes his head, rubbing his temples like he regrets ever being friends with you three.

As soon as Wonwoo walks out, probably to regain some of his sanity before starting his rounds, you finally relax. Big mistake because the moment the door clicks shut behind him, you feel it—the shift in atmosphere. You don’t even have to look up to know that Mingyu and Seokmin are staring at you with that look. The one that spells trouble.

Seokmin grins. "Sooo…"

Mingyu wiggles his eyebrows. "Are you two dating, or is Wonwoo just your personal on-call nurse?"

You groan. "Oh my god, not this again."

"Look, I’m just saying," Seokmin continues, leaning back like he has all the time in the world, "Wonwoo doesn’t act like that with anyone else."

"Yeah, I mean, I literally saw him step over a crying intern last week," Mingyu adds. "But the second you get a tiny little cut—"

"A painful cut," you interject

"—he’s running after you like you just lost a limb," Mingyu finishes, ignoring you

You roll your eyes. "He’s just like that."

Seokmin scoffs. "No, he’s not."

Mingyu hums. "Do you ever see him chase me down when I get hurt?"

"You get hurt on purpose for attention," you deadpan.

"Fair," Mingyu concedes. "But still. Wonwoo’s different with you."

You shake your head, standing up. "Whatever. I have patients to see."

As you reach for the door, Seokmin calls out, "Hey, don’t run too fast—wouldn’t want to scrape your knee. Wonwoo might carry you to the ER next time." Mingyu cackles as you slam the door on your way out.

It’s way past midnight—closer to 3 AM, when Wonwoo finally walks into the on-call room. His hair is slightly disheveled, white coat draped over his arm, and dark circles under his eyes deeper than before. It’s been a brutal shift.

Seokmin, who’s sitting at one of the desks, barely acknowledges his entrance, too focused on some patient charts. But Wonwoo doesn’t need to say anything. He just walks over to the bunk beds, takes one look at Mingyu—who’s sprawled out, snoring on the bottom bunk—and wordlessly yanks him off. With a loud thud, Mingyu hits the floor.

"Huh—?!" Mingyu startles awake, flailing like a fish out of water. "What the—?!"

"Get up," Wonwoo says flatly.

Mingyu groans dramatically, rubbing his eyes. "Dude, what is your problem—"

Wonwoo ignores him, already turning toward you. You’re curled up awkwardly on the couch, using a rolled-up hoodie as a pillow, arms folded in a way that guarantees you’ll wake up with at least three different cramps.

Wonwoo sighs. Then, in a tone much softer than the one he used on Mingyu, he murmurs, "Get in the bed."

You don’t stir at first, still half-asleep, but then you mumble, "‘M fine here…"

Wonwoo doesn’t buy it. "You’ll complain about back pain tomorrow, and we both know it."

Seokmin finally looks up, watching the exchange with thinly veiled amusement. Mingyu, still half on the floor, blinks at Wonwoo, then at you. Slowly, a knowing smirk creeps onto his face.

"Ohhh," Mingyu hums. "This is why you pulled me off the bed."

Wonwoo doesn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he reaches down and lightly taps your arm. "Come on, just sleep on the bed."

You grumble but finally crack your eyes open, too exhausted to argue. Wonwoo steps back as you groggily push yourself up, stretching. You shuffle toward the now-empty bottom bunk, collapsing onto it with a sigh.

"See? Much better," Wonwoo murmurs, pulling the blanket over you without a second thought.

Mingyu and Seokmin share a look.

"Dude," Mingyu says once Wonwoo turns around. "You could’ve told me to move instead of dragging me off like a sack of potatoes."

"You wouldn’t have moved fast enough," Wonwoo replies.

Seokmin smirks. "So, she gets the ‘gentle tuck-in’ treatment while Mingyu gets yeeted off the bed? Interesting."

Mingyu nods, still rubbing his shoulder. "Yeah, Wonwoo. Interesting."

Wonwoo gives them both an unimpressed look before muttering, "I’m going to sleep," and heading toward the other bunk.

Even with his back turned, he can feel their teasing grins.

You’re pretty sure you’ve ascended to another plane of existence. Or maybe you’ve died and are currently haunting the hospital as a sleep-deprived ghost. Either way, you’ve been awake for way too long over 32 hours, to be exact and your body is done.

Mingyu isn’t faring much better. He’s slumped over the shared office desk, forehead pressed against an open patient chart, lightly snoring. You’re half-sitting, half-melting into the couch, cradling a lukewarm coffee that does nothing to fight the exhaustion clawing at your soul.

And then because life isn’t unfair enough already, Seokmin walks in. Bright-eyed. Energized. Well-rested. The worst kind of person.

"Good morning, besties!" Seokmin chirps, stretching like he didn’t just take a whole day off.

You don’t even look at him. "I will kill you."

"I second that," Mingyu mumbles into his chart.

Seokmin gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. "Why the hostility? I thought you’d be happy to see me!"

"We hate you," Mingyu groans.

"You’re dead to us," you add.

Seokmin grins. "Wow, so much love in this room." He walks over and purposefully ruffles Mingyu’s hair, making him whine in protest. Then he turns to you, poking your cheek. "You look terrible."

"Thanks," you mumble. "Exactly what I needed to hear."

Seokmin flops onto one of the chairs, grinning. "You know what I did yesterday? Slept a full eight hours. Went out for brunch. Touched grass."

Mingyu lifts his head just to glare. "Leave. Now."

Before Seokmin can keep being insufferable, the door opens again. Wonwoo walks in.

And unlike Seokmin who is obnoxiously loud about being well-rested Wonwoo looks just as exhausted as you and Mingyu. His coat is slightly wrinkled, his tie is loosened, and there’s an untouched coffee in his hand that he’s clearly forgotten about. He glances at Seokmin who looks too refreshed to be tolerable then at Mingyu, who is back to pretending to be dead.

Then his gaze lands on you.

You blink at him, eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Hey."

"Hey," Wonwoo murmurs. He steps closer, eyes scanning over you in that way he always does when he’s subtly checking if you’re okay.

"Did you sleep?" he asks.

You let out a weak, humorless laugh. "Did you?"

Wonwoo doesn’t answer. Instead, he sets his coffee down and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

Seokmin—who has been watching the whole thing like a spectator at a soap opera—leans back with a smirk. "Wow, this is so interesting."

Mingyu groans, flopping back onto the desk. "Not now, Seokmin. I’m too tired for this."

Wonwoo ignores them both. He looks at you again, eyes softer now. "Eat something and get some rest."

"You too," you mumble, already sinking further into the couch.

Wonwoo exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "You’re impossible."

Seokmin wiggles his eyebrows. "Ohhh, this is fun."

"You know what else is fun?" You finally turn your head to glare at Seokmin. "Murder."

Wonwoo just sighs again and walks over to the bunk beds, mumbling something about how all of you are hopeless. Mingyu groans like he’s been personally attacked when his pager starts beeping. He doesn’t even look at it just slams his forehead against the desk.

"No. No, no, no. I reject this," he mumbles against the wood.

You barely have the energy to process the noise until of course yours goes off too. You and Mingyu make eye contact, equally dead inside.

Seokmin, the only one without a pager going off, grins. "Wow. Couldn’t be me."

"I will end you," you mutter, already reaching for your coat.

Wonwoo watches silently as Mingyu sluggishly gets up, flipping his pager over to check the message. He sighs. "ER’s a mess. Multiple traumas incoming."

You check yours, blinking slowly as the words process in your sleep-deprived brain. "OR needs backup. Guess I’m heading there."

Mingyu looks at you, eyes drooping. "Want to switch? I don’t want to talk to families."

"Absolutely not."

Mingyu pouts but doesn’t argue. He drags himself to his feet, rubbing his face aggressively like that’ll give him the will to live.

Seokmin claps his hands together, looking way too cheerful. "Well, have fun, kids! I’ll be here. Rested. Thriving."

Mingyu flips him off on the way out.

You barely register Wonwoo standing beside you until he tugs at your sleeve. When you look up, he’s frowning slightly.

"You sure you’re okay?" he asks, voice quieter now.

You exhale. "No, but I don’t have a choice."

Wonwoo’s frown deepens like he wants to say something else, but before he can, a voice crackles over the intercom calling for additional surgeons.

You sigh, giving him a tired half-smile. "See you later."

Wonwoo watches as you head out, his jaw tightening.

Seokmin hums as the door closes behind you. "You know," he says, stretching out on the chair, "for someone who refuses to admit his feelings, you really don’t do a good job of hiding them."

Wonwoo shoots him a glare, but Seokmin just grins.

A few more hours later, Wonwoo rubs at his eyes as he shrugs on his coat, his shift finally over. He grabs his bag from the office, shoulders aching from exhaustion. Just as he’s about to leave, the door swings open, and Mingyu stumbles in, looking like he’s barely holding himself together.

"ER was hell," Mingyu groans, dropping onto the couch with a loud thud. "I think I aged five years."

"You already look thirty," Wonwoo says, deadpan.

Mingyu glares at him, too tired to argue. Instead, he waves a lazy hand. 

Then Wonwoo asks "Where’s she? OR still has her hostage?"

The other doctor nods "She hasn’t come back yet. She’s probably running on caffeine and spite at this point."

Wonwoo hesitates for a second before speaking. "Make sure she eats and gets some rest when she’s done."

Mingyu cracks one eye open, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. "You like her."

Wonwoo stares at him blankly. "Make sure she eats, Mingyu."

"You like her," Mingyu repeats, grinning now. Wonwoo doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he slings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door.

"Hey, where are you going?" Mingyu calls after him.

"Home," Wonwoo mutters.

"Liar!" Mingyu shouts, but Wonwoo is already gone.

What feels like hours to Mingyu before you entered the room. You trudge into the on-call room, every bone in your body protesting. Your scrub top is slightly wrinkled, your hair is a mess, and you’re running on nothing but sheer willpower at this point.

Mingyu is already knocked out on the bottom bunk, snoring lightly. You barely spare him a glance before collapsing onto the couch.

That’s when you notice it.

On the small coffee table, there’s a neatly packed meal. Your favorite.

You blink, staring at it like it’s a mirage. There’s even a bottle of water next to it, condensation still fresh, like someone just left it there.

Curious, you reach out and poke at the food, half-expecting it to disappear. When it doesn’t, you frown.

"Who…?" you murmur to yourself.

Mingyu shifts on the bed, groaning. "Shut up and eat."

You glance at him. "Did you get this?"

He grunts, eyes still closed. "Nope."

You pause. "Then who—?"

Mingyu cracks one eye open, smirking lazily. "Who do you think?"

That stops you. Your brain, sluggish from exhaustion, takes a moment to process.

Then it clicks.

Wonwoo.

You stare at the food, heart doing something weird in your chest.

Mingyu snickers before rolling over. "Just eat, dumbass."

You don’t argue. But as you take the first bite, you can’t help but think about a certain pediatric surgeon who definitely isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is.

You exhale, shaking your head to yourself. Subtle, Jeon.

Mingyu shifts on the bed again, cracking one eye open. "You’re thinking too hard about this," he mutters, voice thick with sleep.

You stab at your food with your chopsticks. "No, I’m not."

"Yeah, you are."

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. "Go back to sleep."

Mingyu hums lazily, but then he adds, "He does this all the time, you know."

You pause mid-bite. "What?"

Mingyu smirks, barely awake but still committed to being a menace. "Making sure you eat. Checking if you’re okay. Wonwoo’s always been like that… but only with you."

Your stomach does something stupid at that. "That’s not true."

Mingyu chuckles, shifting onto his side. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."

You open your mouth to argue, but Mingyu’s already passed out again, snoring softly. You sigh, leaning back on the couch. The food is warm, comforting, and frustratingly thoughtful.

You try not to think about it too much. You fail.

It’s another long shift for you.

After parting ways with Seokmin, you make your way to the nurses’ station, hoping to check on some charts before heading back to the on-call room. You’re running on fumes at this point, but the habit of making sure everything is in order before you crash is too strong to ignore.

As you approach, you hear a group of nurses talking in hushed but excited tones. You don’t think much of it until you catch a familiar name.

“Dr. Jeon is so amazing,” one of them gushes, practically sighing. “Did you see him with that little boy’s parents? He was so gentle and reassuring.”

“I know! And he’s always so calm, no matter how bad things get.”

“Not to mention how good he looks in scrubs,” another nurse adds, and they all giggle.

You freeze mid-step, blinking.

Are they seriously—?

“I swear, if he wasn’t so intimidating, I’d totally ask him out.”

“Right? But he’s always so serious. Like, have you ever seen him smile?”

“Only sometimes. But guess what?” The first nurse leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I did see him smile today.”

“No way. When?”

“When he was talking to Dr. Y/N.”

Your stomach drops.

Oh no.

“Oh my god, wait, you’re right! He actually looked... softer?”

“And she’s the only one he ever seems to talk to outside of work stuff.”

Another nurse sighs dramatically. “That’s so unfair. Do you think they’re, like, a thing?”

Your brain short-circuits. You have got to get out of here. Clearing your throat loudly, you step into their line of sight, making them jump. “Hey, uh… I just need to check some charts.”

The group scrambles, trying to look busy, but you can feel their eyes on you, filled with curiosity and knowing looks. Great. Just great.

As you grab the nearest patient file, you swear you hear one of them whisper, “Oh my god, she totally heard us.”

You pretend you didn’t.

You nearly drop the patient file when a rolling chair suddenly appears beside you.

“So,” Seokmin drawls, arms crossed as he lazily spins in the chair, “how do I break it to them that Wonwoo is a total softie for you?”

You glare at him, pressing a hand to your racing heart. “Can you not sneak up on me like that?”

Seokmin grins, completely ignoring your complaint. “Seriously, though. They think he’s this untouchable, brooding genius, but we both know he turns into a golden retriever when it comes to you.”

Your eye twitches. “He does not—”

Seokmin cuts you off with an exaggerated gasp. “Oh my god, you’re in denial.”

You slap his arm with the patient file. “I am not.”

He just laughs, rubbing his arm. “Y/N, I literally watched him rip Mingyu off the bottom bunk just so you could sleep comfortably.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Okay, fine. That was suspiciously caring behavior.

Seokmin smirks, clearly enjoying your inner struggle. “And let’s not forget how he tells Mingyu to make sure you eat and sleep. Or how he leaves food for you. Or how he only ever gets flustered when it involves you.”

You groan, dropping your head onto the counter. “I hate you.”

He pats your back like a supportive older brother. “No, you hate that I’m right.”

Before you can argue, one of the nurses clears her throat loudly, and you glance up to see them all very obviously pretending not to listen.

Seokmin leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “They’re totally listening.”

“I know, Seokmin.”

“Wanna give them a show? Maybe dramatically sigh Wonwoo’s name?”

You grab the patient file again and smack him with it. That’s when another doctor—Dr. Lee from orthopedics—walks up beside you.

"Dr. Y/N," he greets smoothly, offering a smile. "Haven’t seen you around much. Busy saving lives?"

You glance up, slightly caught off guard by the sudden conversation. "Uh, yeah. Something like that."

Dr. Lee leans casually against the counter, watching you with interest. "You should take a break sometime. Maybe grab a coffee?"

Oh. Oh.

Is he… flirting?

You don’t get the chance to react before you hear a loud, exaggerated cough from nearby. Seokmin is sitting just a few feet away, blatantly eavesdropping with zero shame. He’s pretending to look at a chart, but his expression is screaming Oh? What’s this?

You try to ignore him, forcing a polite smile at Dr. Lee. "That’s nice of you, but I’m actually running on negative sleep right now."

Dr. Lee chuckles. "All the more reason to step away for a bit. It’s just coffee, no pressure."

Seokmin lets out another obnoxious cough. "Thirsty, huh?"

You whip your head toward him, glaring. "Do you need medical attention, Seokmin?"

He grins. "Nah, I’m just—" he gestures vaguely between you and Dr. Lee "—observing."

Dr. Lee, bless him, is oblivious to the absolute menace that is Seokmin. "No worries. If you change your mind, let me know," he says with an easy smile before walking off.

The moment he’s gone, Seokmin wheels his chair over at full speed, stopping right beside you.

"So," he drawls. "Are you gonna tell Wonwoo, or should I?"

You groan, dropping your head onto the counter. "Seokmin, I swear to god—"

Of course it didn’t take long. Mingyu and Wonwoo are lounging in the on-call room when the door slams open. Seokmin bursts in, cackling like a maniac, running full speed across the room.

And right behind him. You.

"LEE SEOKMIN, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!"

Before he can reach the safety of the bunk beds, you launch yourself at him, nearly tackling him to the ground. Seokmin barely stays on his feet, wheezing through his laughter.

Mingyu, sitting up from the bottom bunk, blinks in confusion. "…Do we want to know?"

Wonwoo, sitting at the small desk, doesn’t even look up. "No."

Seokmin, still trying to escape your grip, gasps between laughs. "I—I was just helping!"

"You were eavesdropping and causing problems on purpose!" you yell, tightening your hold around his waist as he tries to wriggle free.

Mingyu perks up at that. "Ooh, what happened? Spill."

Seokmin dramatically falls onto the couch, bringing you down with him. "Our dear Y/N here was getting flirted with."

Mingyu’s eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

Seokmin grins, panting slightly. "Dr. Lee. Ortho. Real smooth. Asked her to coffee."

Mingyu gasps like this is the most dramatic thing he’s ever heard. "And you tackled him over this?!"

"No, I tackled him because he ran in here to tell you two like a gossiping old lady!" you snap, still half on top of Seokmin, who is not helping by laughing even harder.

Mingyu turns to Wonwoo, who has yet to react. "Wonwoo. Thoughts?"

Wonwoo, still not looking up, simply flips a page in his book.  Seokmin wheezes. You groan, letting your head drop onto the couch.

Mingyu clutches his chest, looking between you and Wonwoo with pure delight. "Oh, this is better than a telenovela."

You push yourself up from where you were half-crushing Seokmin, brushing off your scrubs as you glare at him. Before you can properly scold him for being the absolute worst, Wonwoo finally speaks—completely nonchalant, like this whole thing isn’t ridiculous.

"He asked if you wanted coffee?"

You pause. Seokmin and Mingyu do not. Seokmin looks thrilled. Mingyu straight-up leans forward, eyes sparkling with interest.

You narrow your eyes at Wonwoo. "Why do you sound like that?"

Wonwoo doesn’t even look up from his book. "Like what?"

Mingyu grins. "Yeah, like what, Wonwoo?"

Wonwoo flips a page. "Just asking."

You scoff. "You buy me coffee all the time"

Wonwoo hums. "Exactly."

Your brain short-circuits. "…Wait. What does that mean?*"

Wonwoo, still infuriatingly casual, finally glances up. "Nothing. Just seems unnecessary to get coffee with someone else when you already get it from me."

Seokmin and Mingyu explode.

"OH, THAT'S RICH—"

"DID HE JUST—"

You groan into your hands as they lose their minds. Wonwoo, unbothered, closes his book and stands. "I’m going to get coffee. You want one or not?"

Mingyu is on the floor laughing. Seokmin is gasping for air. And you—you are never going to hear the end of this.

Wonwoo, as unbothered as ever, grabs his ID badge and heads for the door.

Mingyu and Seokmin are still wheezing from his last comment, but you’re too busy processing to move.

He’s almost out when he pauses, tilting his head slightly. "Not coming?"

You cross your arms, still suspicious. "I think I’ll stay here and recover from whatever that was."

Wonwoo shrugs. "Suit yourself."

He steps out. You don’t follow but right before the door swings shut, you shout after him

"Caramel macchiato, extra shot, not too sweet!"

Seokmin and Mingyu stare at you. You stare back.

Then Mingyu loses it, laughing so hard he nearly falls off the bunk. "OH, SO YOU’RE NOT GONNA FOLLOW HIM, BUT YOU’RE STILL MAKING HIM GET YOU COFFEE?"

Seokmin clutches his chest, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Unbelievable. Absolutely shameless."

You sigh, rubbing your temples. "I hate you both."

Mingyu wipes fake tears. "No, you hate that you’re in too deep and we’re just here to witness it."

It’s your well-deserved day off, which means the hospital is not your problem for once. But unfortunately for Wonwoo, it means he is the problem of the two very nosy individuals stuck with him today.

Mingyu and Seokmin have been relentless since morning, waiting for the perfect opportunity to grill him—and the second they’re all in the on-call room, Seokmin strikes.

"So... you and Y/N."

Wonwoo doesn’t even look up from his tablet. "What about her?"

Mingyu flops onto the couch dramatically. "You know exactly what about her."

Seokmin leans forward, grinning. "You act different around her."

"I don’t."

"Oh, you absolutely do," Mingyu says, propping his chin on his hand. "You let her get away with things you’d never tolerate from us."

Seokmin nods enthusiastically. "Like running away when she has a cut?"

"Or demanding coffee like she’s a queen and you’re her personal barista?" Mingyu adds.

Wonwoo finally glances up. "She doesn’t demand. I offer."

Silence.

Mingyu and Seokmin gasp.

"HE ADMITS IT!" Seokmin nearly topples over. "HE VOLUNTARILY GETS HER COFFEE!"

Wonwoo sighs. "You two have too much free time."

"And you have too much denial," Mingyu shoots back. "Be honest, if she asked for your left kidney, you’d at least consider it."

Seokmin laughs. "He’d have it prepped and ready before she even finished asking."

Wonwoo rubs his temples. "You’re both insufferable."

"And you’re in love," Mingyu sing-songs.

"I am not," Wonwoo deadpans.

Seokmin smirks. "Would you say no if she asked you out?"

Wonwoo doesn’t answer immediately, making the two guys exchange another look.

"Oh my God," Mingyu whispers. "You wouldn’t say no."

"Pack it up, folks, we got him," Seokmin grins. "That’s a wrap."

Meanwhile it’s your day off, technically you were supposed to be having a relaxing day off. No pagers, no surgeries, no Mingyu whining for coffee or Seokmin launching into dramatic gossip. Just a simple grocery run—bread, eggs, maybe even some overpriced snacks if you were feeling indulgent.

But fate, as usual, had other plans.

The sound of screeching tires and the crash of metal on metal jolts you from your thoughts as you step out of the store. A small crowd is already forming near an intersection, the sight of two badly dented cars making your stomach drop.

Then you hear it—panicked voices.

"She’s pregnant!"

Your body moves before your brain fully catches up. Pushing past stunned bystanders, you rush toward the most damaged car, where a man is frantically trying to pry open the passenger door. Inside, a woman—clearly pregnant—clutches her stomach, her face contorted in pain.

"Ma’am, can you hear me?" you ask, voice sharp with urgency.

She gasps, nodding weakly. "M-My baby—"

You glance around. The fire department isn’t here yet, neither are the paramedics. The door is crushed in, and she’s stuck.

Your pulse pounds, but you push the panic aside. Focus.

You turn to the man still struggling with the door. "We need to get her out, but carefully. Do you have something I can use to break the glass?"

He nods shakily, rushing to his car. Meanwhile, you crouch by the woman, speaking in a soothing tone even as your mind races through possible complications.

"You're doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Help is coming."

She nods again, but her grip on her belly tightens.

You don’t have your scrubs, your hospital badge, or even your gloves. But right now, none of that matters because doctor or not—you have to help her.

You refuse to leave her side. Even as sirens wail in the distance and bystanders are urged to step back, you stay crouched next to the woman, monitoring her breathing, checking for signs of distress.

"You're okay. Just hold on," you murmur, your hand steady on her wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath your fingers. The first responders finally arrive, moving quickly to assess the scene. 

A firefighter rushes toward you. "Ma’am, we need to extract her now. You should move back."

"Not until she’s safe," you insist.

They're working on prying the door open when it happens—

An explosion.

A sudden BOOM rocks the area as flames burst from the wreckage. The force knocks you backward, and before you can react, shards of glass and debris fly straight toward you and the pregnant woman.

Your first instinct is to shield her. You duck, arms raised, making sure not a single piece touches her. She screams, but the paramedics quickly cover her with a thick emergency blanket.

You barely notice the sharp stings as glass embeds itself into your arm, your shoulder, a few grazing your cheek. The pain is secondary.

"She’s stable!" one of the EMTs shouts, carefully moving the woman onto a stretcher. "Let’s transport her now!" You exhale in relief, watching as they wheel her toward the ambulance. You step back, feeling a slight dizziness, but shake it off.

"Doctor?" One of the firefighters eyes you carefully.

"I’m fine," you say automatically.

The ambulance ride is a blur of flashing lights and hushed urgency. The paramedics work efficiently, monitoring the pregnant woman’s vitals as you sit beside her, keeping her calm. You press a gauze pad against one of the deeper cuts on your arm, but otherwise, you don’t acknowledge your injuries.

When the ambulance finally arrives at the hospital, the woman is rushed into the ER. You climb out right after them, rolling your stiff shoulders, determined to go check on her—

Only to run straight into Mingyu.

"Hey, we got a—" His usual laid-back tone vanishes the moment his eyes land on you. His brows shoot up. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I’m fine," you say immediately, waving him off. Big mistake.

The moment you move, dizziness washes over you. You stumble slightly, catching yourself against the wall.

Mingyu lunges forward. "Yeah, okay, fine people totally do that."

His eyes sweep over you. Your torn sleeve, the cuts littering your arm, the faint streak of blood on your cheek. "Are you serious right now?"

You sigh. "It’s not that bad—"

"Not that bad?" He gestures wildly at you. "You were supposed to be on your day off, not playing action hero in the middle of the street!"

Mingyu groans, already reaching for his pager. "Seokmin and Wonwoo are going to kill me."

Mingyu barely has time to react before your knees buckle.

"Oh, for—okay, nope, you’re done," he mutters, catching you before you hit the ground. His hands grip your shoulders, guiding you onto a nearby gurney despite your weak protests.

"I—I'm fine," you mumble, though the dizziness makes your head swim. The pain you’ve been stubbornly ignoring is very much making itself known now, sharp and stinging from every cut.

"Uh-huh, tell that to your blood loss," Mingyu huffs as he quickly assesses the wounds. "How are you this dumb?"

You try to glare at him, but it’s half-hearted at best. He just sighs, guiding you to the nearest vacant bed then grabbing antiseptics and bandages from a nearby tray.

"This is gonna sting," he warns, dabbing at the gash on your arm.

The burn makes you flinch. "Mingyu—"

But before you can complain, the door to the ER slams open.

"Where is she?"

Your stomach drops.

Wonwoo stands at the entrance, still in his scrubs, his chest rising and falling like he ran all the way here. His usual composed demeanor is nowhere to be seen.

The moment his eyes land on you—bruised, bloodied, and definitely not fine—his expression shifts into something dark.

"You have got to be kidding me," he mutters, storming over

Mingyu looks up but barely gets a word in before Wonwoo cuts in, voice tight. "What the hell happened?"

You open your mouth, but Mingyu beats you to it. "She was out running errands and decided to become a damn superhero. Got caught in a car explosion or something—"

"It wasn’t an explosion—" you try, but Wonwoo turns his glare on you so fast you shut up.

"You refused to tell anyone you were hurt?" Wonwoo’s voice is low, laced with barely contained frustration. "Do you even know how reckless that is?"

You blink at him, a little caught off guard. Wonwoo gets annoyed, sure—but this? This anger? This fear simmering under his words?

Mingyu shifts awkwardly. "Uh, so, I’ll just—keep cleaning these wounds?"

Wonwoo ignores him.

"You should’ve been treated immediately," he snaps. "You could’ve gone into shock, Y/N. You could’ve—" He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.

You swallow, voice quieter now. "I had to make sure she was okay."

Wonwoo stares at you for a long moment. His jaw clenches. Then, without another word, he grabs the antiseptic from Mingyu’s hand and kneels down beside you.

"Hey, I was—" Mingyu starts

"You’re taking too long," Wonwoo says flatly, inspecting your arm.

Mingyu throws his hands up. "Oh, I’m the problem? Sure, yeah, okay."

But you don’t pay attention to Mingyu anymore—because Wonwoo is suddenly so close, his fingers gentle as he carefully tends to your wounds. The frustration is still in his eyes, but his touch is steady, precise.

You wince when he presses the gauze against a deeper cut, and his grip instinctively tightens around your wrist. His voice softens, just a fraction.

"I don’t care how capable you are," he mutters. "Don’t ever do that again."

You bite down hard on your lip, willing yourself not to cry. But the antiseptic burns, and the way Wonwoo presses down on your wounds with such precision makes it impossible to ignore the sharp sting.

Your eyes start to prickle. You will not cry. You refuse.

Mingyu, ever the observant one, notices immediately. He leans in slightly and mumbles, “Hey, man, she’s already injured. You’re making her cry.”

Wonwoo freezes.

Your head snaps up. “I am not crying.”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow. “You sure? You kinda look like you’re about to.”

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

Wonwoo sighs, rubbing his temple. “Mingyu, stop talking.”

Mingyu just shrugs, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just saying, maybe be a little gentler? You know, since you care so much.”

Wonwoo pointedly ignores him, but his grip on your arm loosens just slightly, his movements becoming even more careful. He still looks pissed, but his touch is softer now, like he’s trying to make up for it.

You try to focus on anything other than the fact that your face feels ridiculously warm.

Mingyu stands, stretching with an exaggerated groan. “Alright, I’m gonna check on the woman since someone needs to be useful around here.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare. “I’m useful.”

“Yeah, yeah, tell that to your blood loss.” He waves you off, throwing Wonwoo a quick glance before walking out, leaving the two of you alone.

The silence that follows is heavy. Wonwoo is still focused on cleaning your wounds, but his jaw is tight, and his movements though gentler now are still a little too precise.

You watch him for a second before speaking. “You’re really mad, huh?”

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “No.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

His grip tightens just slightly before he lets out a quiet, frustrated sigh. “…Yes.”

You shift a little, suddenly feeling weird under his gaze. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Wonwoo finally looks up at you, and the way his eyes darken makes you shut up real quick.

“Not that bad?” he repeats, voice low. “You were in an accident, Y/N. You got caught in a literal explosion.”

You try to brush it off. “It wasn’t that big—”

"You were bleeding and didn't even think to get yourself treated first."

You falter. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, like he’s trying really hard to rein himself in.

“Do you know how many times I’ve seen people come in, thinking they were fine, only to collapse later?” His voice is quieter now, but it’s laced with something heavier. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

Wonwoo’s gaze softens—just barely—before he looks back down, carefully placing the last bandage over your arm. His hands linger for a second, his fingers warm against your skin.

“…Just don’t do that again.” His voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “Please.”

You sniffle, trying to hold it in, but a few tears betray you, slipping down your cheek before you can stop them. Wonwoo notices immediately. His hands, still hovering near your arm, tense.

“Hey—”

You quickly wipe at your face, sniffling again. “I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles, completely betraying you.

Wonwoo exhales through his nose, and before you can react, he’s reaching for the tissue box nearby, wordlessly handing you one.

You take it, mumbling, “Thanks.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, in a small voice, you ask, “Is the woman okay?”

Wonwoo doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches you carefully before finally saying, “She’s stable. Mingyu’s checking on her now.”

You nod, squeezing the tissue in your hand. “That’s good.”

Wonwoo still doesn’t look away. His lips press together like he wants to say something else, but in the end, all he does is let out a quiet sigh.

“You should rest,” he says softly. “You lost some of blood, you might feel light headed”

You huff, forcing a weak smile. “You sound like me when I tell my patients that.”

He doesn’t smile back. Instead, he reaches out, hesitates, then gently presses his hand against your head, smoothing down a stray strand of hair. The touch is so light, so careful, that it nearly makes you tear up all over again.

“Then take your own advice for once.”

Before you can even process the warmth of Wonwoo’s touch, the door bursts open.

“OH MY GOD—YOU’RE ALIVE!”

Seokmin practically lunges toward you, arms wide like he’s about to hug-tackle you, but Wonwoo smoothly steps in his way, stopping him with a single hand to his chest.

“Seokmin.” Wonwoo’s voice is flat. “She’s injured.”

Seokmin blinks, then gasps like he’s just realized something. “YOU’RE INJURED?!”

You stare at him, deadpan. “Did you think I was just here for fun?”

Seokmin dramatically grips his chest. “I—I just thought maybe you were being dramatic again! But you actually got hurt?!”

Wonwoo sighs, stepping aside because, at this point, there’s no stopping Seokmin. Sure enough, he leans down, carefully inspecting your bandages like a concerned mother.

“How bad is it? Are you dizzy? Do you need water? Do you need me to spoon-feed you soup?”

You groan, pushing his face away. “I’m fine.”

Seokmin ignores you and turns to Wonwoo. “Doctor, will she survive?”

Wonwoo looks unimpressed. “She lost blood but nothing major. She just needs to rest.”

Seokmin gasps again, gripping your hand. “BE STRONG, MY FRIEND.”

You shove him. “You’re the worst.”

Seokmin sniffs dramatically, wiping an imaginary tear. “If you do die, can I have your favorite pen?”

Wonwoo pinches the bridge of his nose while you grab a pillow and throw it at Seokmin’s face.

After everything that happened, of course Wonwoo refused to let you out of his sight or atleast have someone watching over you while the three guys finish their shift.

After work, the four of you go to a barbeque place you're a regular at.

You’re all starving by the time you reach the restaurant, exhaustion from the day momentarily forgotten at the sight of sizzling meat and bubbling stews.

Mingyu and Seokmin are loud, bickering over who gets to grill first, while you just lean back in your seat, still pretending to sulk.

Wonwoo, sitting beside you, wordlessly places some meat on your plate before you can even lift your chopsticks. Then, as if it’s second nature, he reaches over and rolls up the loose sleeve of your hoodie, neatly tucking it to make sure it doesn’t dip into the sauces.

Mingyu pauses mid-bite, eyes flicking between the two of you.

Seokmin, in the middle of arguing over dipping sauces, suddenly stops and squints.

The most shocking part?

You don’t even react. You just pick up your chopsticks, casually eating the food Wonwoo put on your plate like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Mingyu slowly puts his chopsticks down. “Okay, hold on.”

Seokmin leans in. “Have you always been like this?”

You blink. “Like what?”

Mingyu gestures vaguely at you and Wonwoo. “That.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, sipping his water. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Seokmin waves his chopsticks between you two. “You’re basically a married couple and she doesn’t even blink when you baby her.”

You scoff, but before you can argue, Wonwoo speaks first. “She’d spill sauce on herself if I didn’t.”

Mingyu stares. “So you admit you’re babying her.”

Wonwoo shrugs. “She doesn’t complain.”

You shove a piece of meat in your mouth to avoid answering, but your reddening ears don’t go unnoticed. Seokmin and Mingyu exchange knowing looks before grinning at each other.

Oh, they’re never letting this go.

The two of you are crammed into the back of a small van, bumping along a dirt road on the way to the rural clinic. It’s too early, you’re running on barely any sleep, and Mingyu has already decided now is the perfect time to interrogate you.

“So.” He leans back against his seat, arms crossed, looking far too entertained. “You and Wonwoo.”

You groan immediately. “Absolutely not. We’re not doing this.”

Mingyu grins. “Oh, we’re definitely doing this. We have, like, four more hours to go.”

You glare at him, but he just continues. “I mean, come on. He feeds you. He rolls up your sleeves. He practically tracks your movements in the hospital without even trying. And you don’t even react anymore.”

“Maybe I’m just used to it.” You shrug.

Mingyu narrows his eyes. “That’s what I’m saying! You’re used to it. As in, it’s been happening for so long that you don’t even notice.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s just how we are.”

Mingyu scoffs. “Please. If Seokmin tried to do that for you, you’d stab him with your chopsticks.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, Seokmin deserves it.”

Mingyu ignores that. “Just admit it. You like him.”

You pause. Then, after a beat, you say, “Of course I like him. He’s my friend.”

Mingyu groans dramatically, flopping onto your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

You shove him off. “And you’re annoying.”

He smirks. “I know. But I’m also right.”

You refuse to answer, choosing instead to look out the window. But you can’t shake the way your stomach flips at Mingyu’s words.

Mingyu stretches out his legs, looking way too comfortable for someone who’s supposed to be working. “Alright then, since you’re so sure it’s nothing—explain this to me.”

You sigh. “What now?”

He smirks. “Why hasn’t Wonwoo dated anyone since med school?”

You blink. “What?”

Mingyu tilts his head, looking far too smug. “I mean, Seokmin and I have dated around. You’ve had, like, two almost-relationships. But Wonwoo? Not a single girlfriend. No dates. No flings. No nothing.” He raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that weird?”

You scoff. “Maybe he’s just not interested.”

Mingyu shakes his head. “Nah. I asked him once, and you know what he said?”

You hesitate. “…What?”

Mingyu grins. “‘I don’t have time for that.’” He leans in, lowering his voice dramatically. “But I think the real reason is that he’s been too busy looking after you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

Because now that you think about it… Mingyu’s kind of right.

Wonwoo has never once shown interest in dating. Even during med school, when everyone else was either in relationships or at least going on dates, he never did. He was always around, always steady, always—

You shake your head. No. No way.

Mingyu watches you, eyes glinting. “Oh my god, you’re actually thinking about it.”

You shove him. “Shut up.”

He cackles. “I love being right.”

You groan, turning to the window to ignore him. But your heart is beating just a little too fast, and your mind keeps replaying Mingyu’s words.

Why hasn’t Wonwoo dated anyone?

And more importantly, why does the answer make your chest feel tight?

Once you’re done with the medical mission, you go back to the hospital. You push open the door to the on-call room, utterly drained from the long day. Mingyu had peeled off somewhere to check on the ER, but you went straight here, hoping to collapse onto the couch for at least a few minutes.

The room is dimly lit, quiet except for the faint ticking of the wall clock. At first, you think it's empty—until your eyes land on Wonwoo. He’s at his desk, head slightly tilted down, eyes closed.

You pause, debating whether you should leave him be. But before you can take a step back, his voice—low and a little rough from exhaustion—breaks the silence.

"You're back."

You blink. "I thought you were asleep."

He opens his eyes, looking at you with that unreadable expression of his. "Just resting my eyes."

You scoff lightly, stepping further inside. "You say that like it’s any better."

Wonwoo watches you as you drop your bag onto the desk, stretching your arms over your head with a tired groan. You don’t notice the way his gaze lingers, just for a second, before he leans back in his chair.

"Long day?" he asks.

You sigh, rolling out your shoulders. "Very. Mingyu was extra annoying, as usual."

Wonwoo hums, amused. "What did he do now?"

You hesitate, suddenly remembering the entire conversation about him. About how Mingyu basically implied that Wonwoo hasn’t dated anyone because of you.

You glance at Wonwoo, who’s waiting for your answer with a neutral expression. And for some reason, you can’t bring yourself to bring it up.

“Just the usual nonsense,” you say instead.

Wonwoo doesn’t press, just nods before looking back at his desk. There’s a brief silence—comfortable, familiar. The kind you only get with someone you’ve known for years.

Then, softly, he says, “You should eat before you sleep.”

You glance at him, arching a brow. "Did you just give me my own advice?"

A small smirk tugs at his lips. "You never follow it yourself."

You shake your head, but there’s something warm in your chest that wasn’t there before.

Damn Mingyu. Now you can’t stop noticing things.

You drop onto the couch, exhausted but still watching Wonwoo out of the corner of your eye. He hasn't moved from his desk, but now you notice the way he's rubbing his temples, his brows slightly furrowed.

His glasses aren’t on, which is rare. Wonwoo without glasses usually means one of two things—either he’s about to sleep, or he has a headache.

Judging by the way he keeps pinching the bridge of his nose, it’s definitely the latter.

"You okay?" you ask.

"Mhm." He doesn’t look up, still rubbing slow circles into his temples.

You frown. "Did you even rest today?"

"I did," he says, but you don’t believe him for a second.

With a sigh, you push yourself up and walk over to him. He barely reacts when you place a hand on his shoulder, but he finally opens his eyes when you gently pull his hand away from his forehead.

"You have a migraine, don’t you?" you ask, squinting at him.

Wonwoo blinks at you, then exhales through his nose—something between amusement and surrender. "Just a small one."

You roll your eyes. "Right. Small enough that you’re sitting here rubbing your head like an old man."

He gives you a flat look. "Thanks."

Ignoring his sarcasm, you reach for his desk, rummaging through one of the drawers. You know he keeps medicine in here somewhere—he’s always prepared for everyone else’s headaches, just never his own.

After a few seconds, you find what you’re looking for and shake two pills into your palm before grabbing his forgotten water bottle. You hold both out to him expectantly.

"Take these."

He doesn’t move at first, just stares at you with that unreadable look again.

"Wonwoo," you say, more firmly. Finally, he sighs and takes the pills from your hand, swallowing them with a sip of water.

You nod, satisfied. "Good. Now go lie down before you pass out at your desk."

He exhales slowly, then mutters, "You’re bossy."

You smirk. "And yet you listen to me."

He doesn’t argue. Just shakes his head with the smallest hint of a smile before standing up. And for some reason, as he moves toward the bunk beds, you feel that warmth in your chest again.

You leave the room after turning the lights off to let him rest. You find Mingyu, maybe grab some late night snacks. As you and Mingyu walk through the hospital corridors, making casual conversation, a familiar figure approaches.

It’s him—Doctor Lee, the one who had flirted with you before.

Mingyu notices the way your shoulders tense and immediately perks up, eyes darting between you and Doctor Lee with barely concealed interest. "Oh, this should be fun," he mutters under his breath.

You shoot him a look. "Shut up."

Before Mingyu can tease you further, Doctor Lee reaches you, flashing that same confident smile.

"Hey, fancy seeing you again." His tone is smooth, casual, but there’s something pointed in the way he looks at you.

"It’s a hospital," you reply dryly. "You’ll probably see me a lot."

Mingyu barely hides his laugh behind a cough.

Doctor Lee, unfazed, chuckles. "Right. Still, I was hoping I’d run into you. Thought maybe this time I could convince you to grab a coffee with me?"

Mingyu freezes beside you, his head snapping toward you so fast you think he might give himself whiplash. He is way too interested in this.

You open your mouth to respond—politely decline, of course—but before you can, a voice cuts in.

"She already has a coffee supplier."

You turn your head just in time to see Wonwoo standing a few steps away, arms crossed, looking completely unimpressed. His tone is calm, but there’s an edge to it, something just sharp enough that it makes both you and Doctor Lee pause.

Mingyu, of course, is thriving.

"Oh, do you now?" Doctor Lee glances between you and Wonwoo, one eyebrow raised.

You sigh, rubbing your temple. "Wonwoo, don’t—"

"She never has to ask. Her coffee order just appears," Wonwoo continues smoothly, ignoring you. "Sometimes with snacks too."

Mingyu wheezes.

Doctor Lee blinks, clearly trying to figure out if there’s something more to Wonwoo’s words. You’re pretty sure you know exactly what he’s doing, but before the other man can press further, you exhale and take a step back.

"Anyway, I have rounds to finish," you say quickly. "See you around."

Before Doctor Lee can respond, you grab Mingyu’s sleeve and yank him along with you, leaving the poor guy standing there confused.

Mingyu is absolutely dying.

"Wonwoo totally just alpha-blocked that guy," he laughs, struggling to keep up with your fast pace. "Like, not even subtle. That was lowkey territorial."

You groan. "Don’t start."

"Oh, I’ve already started." Mingyu grins, wiggling his eyebrows. "So… your coffee supplier, huh?"

You don’t answer. Instead, you walk even faster, pretending you don’t hear Mingyu’s continued teasing all the way down the hall.

As you speed-walk down the hall, Mingyu still snickering beside you, you hear the sound of familiar footsteps following behind. You don't even need to turn around to know who it is.

You sigh dramatically, slowing your steps just enough to glance over your shoulder. "Weren't you suffering from a migraine?" you ask, narrowing your eyes at Wonwoo.

Wonwoo, walking at a completely casual pace as if he didn’t just interrupt an entire conversation to assert his place in your life, simply shrugs. "It went away."

Mingyu claps a hand over his mouth, trying so hard not to burst out laughing. He fails.

"Ohhh, interesting," Mingyu chokes out between laughs. "So you had a migraine, but the moment Doctor Lee showed up, you were suddenly fine? Wow. Almost like it wasn’t that serious to begin with."

Wonwoo shoots him a blank look. "Or maybe I just recovered."

"Right, right," Mingyu nods, "or maybe you just didn’t like what you were seeing."

You groan, rubbing your forehead. "Mingyu, please—"

"No, because listen," Mingyu continues, fully ignoring you now, "if I had a migraine, I would not be up and walking this fast just to make sure my ‘friend’—" he even throws up air quotes, "—wasn’t having coffee with someone else."

"I wasn’t walking fast," Wonwoo deadpans.

"Okay, but you were there," Mingyu counters. "Like, right there. That’s suspicious, man."

You throw up your hands. "Oh my God, both of you, stop."

Wonwoo just blinks, completely unbothered. "Do you still want coffee?" he asks, as if the last five minutes of chaos didn’t just happen. Mingyu wheezes again.

You groan even louder. "You are so annoying."

Later Wonwo drove you and Mingyu home. The car ride is quiet after Mingyu gets dropped off, leaving just you and Wonwoo. The city lights blur past the window, and you drum your fingers lightly on your thigh before finally speaking

"Hey."

"Hm?" Wonwoo doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but you know he’s listening.

"That thing Mingyu said … about you not dating anyone since med school—"

Wonwoo glances at you briefly before looking back at the road. "What about it?"

"Is it true?" you ask, shifting slightly to face him. "You really haven’t dated anyone all these years?"

He doesn’t answer right away, but you notice the way his fingers tighten slightly around the wheel. "I was busy," he finally says, voice even.

"We were all busy," you counter. "Mingyu dated. Seokmin dated."

Wonwoo exhales softly through his nose. "And you?"

You blink, caught off guard. "What about me?"

"Did you date?" He doesn’t look at you, but there’s something in his voice, something careful, deliberate.

You hesitate, then shrug. "Not really."

That makes Wonwoo glance at you, just for a second. "Why?"

You huff a quiet laugh. "Why are you answering my question with another question?"

"Because you’re deflecting," he replies easily.

You frown, arms crossing. "Maybe I just didn’t feel like it."

Wonwoo hums, the sound low and thoughtful. "Then I guess we’re the same."

That makes you pause. He’s right, in a way. You never thought much about dating, always too caught up in the chaos of work, of life. But hearing that he was the same—that he never even tried—makes something uneasy stir in your chest.

"So…" you start carefully, "was there really no one? Not even someone you liked?"

The streetlights cast long shadows over his face, and for a moment, you think he won’t answer. But then, softly—so softly you almost don’t hear it—he says,

"I wouldn’t say that."

Your breath catches, but before you can press further, the car slows. You realize, belatedly, that you’ve already arrived at your place.

Wonwoo shifts into park and finally, finally looks at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes, something deep and quiet and there.

You swallow. "Wonwoo—"

"Go inside," he says gently, cutting you off.

You hesitate. The air feels heavy, thick with something unspoken.

But in the end, you don’t push.

"Okay," you mumble, unbuckling your seatbelt. "Drive safe."

He nods, watching as you step out and close the door behind you.

As you walk up to your building, you don’t turn back snd inside his car, Wonwoo stays parked for a long time, staring at where you were.

You’re never like this.

You’ve known Wonwoo for years, been friends with him for so long that his presence has always felt natural, something you never had to think about. But now? Now, after what Mingyu said, after what Wonwoo didn’t say, you’re noticing everything.

The way he automatically sets a coffee cup in front of you in the morning, the way he subtly reaches out like he’s ready to catch you when you take a sharp turn in the hallway, the way his eyes linger when you’re talking—like he’s listening to every word, even the useless ones.

It’s worse in the on-call room.

Wonwoo’s at his desk, writing notes, glasses perched on his nose. It’s a normal sight, something you’ve seen a thousand times before. But for some reason, today, you can’t stop looking. The way his brows furrow slightly in focus. The way he absentmindedly taps his pen against the desk. The way he reaches up to push his hair back, exposing his forehead just a little more.

Seokmin, lying on the bottom bunk, suddenly snickers. "You good over there?"

You snap your head toward him. "What?"

He grins, flipping through his phone lazily. "You’re staring."

"No, I’m not."

"Uh-huh."

Wonwoo, completely unaware, flips to the next page in his notes. You glare at Seokmin before quickly grabbing your own chart, pretending to focus. But even then, you’re way too aware of the fact that Wonwoo is right there.

And maybe you have been staring.

The moment you walk out, Seokmin doesn’t even wait.

He turns to Wonwoo with a slow grin, tossing his phone onto his chest. "So…"

Wonwoo doesn’t look up. "So?"

"She was staring at you."

That gets Wonwoo’s attention. He finally lifts his eyes from his notes, blinking at Seokmin. "What?"

"She. Was. Staring." Seokmin emphasizes each word like Wonwoo is dense. Which, honestly, he kind of is. "Like, full-on eyes stuck on you. If I wasn’t here, she probably would've burned a hole through your head."

Wonwoo frowns, shifting slightly in his seat. "You’re exaggerating."

"Am I?" Seokmin smirks. "I don’t think I am."

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything to that. He just exhales through his nose and turns back to his notes. But Seokmin knows him too well—sees the way his ears go just the slightest bit red.

Seokmin grins. "Dude, I’m telling you, she’s noticing things. That’s a good sign."

Wonwoo rolls his eyes, flipping a page in his notes. "Go to sleep, Seokmin."

"Oh, I will. But just so you know…" Seokmin stifles a laugh. "I think you’re in trouble, man."

The rest of the day is… annoying. Not because of any difficult surgeries or unbearable patients, but because you are now painfully hyper-aware of Wonwoo. It’s stupid.  Like when he rolls up his sleeves before scrubbing in for surgery, and you catch yourself staring at his forearms for half a second too long.

Or the absolute worst—when you’re eating lunch with the others, and Wonwoo absentmindedly pushes the side dishes you like closer to you. It’s such a small, automatic thing, and normally you wouldn’t even blink at it. 

But today? Today, you almost drop your chopsticks.

"You good?" Seokmin asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

"Fine!" you say way too quickly, shoving food in your mouth to avoid talking.

Mingyu, the menace that he is, narrows his eyes at you. "Are you sure? You’ve been kinda weird today—"

"She’s fine," Wonwoo interjects smoothly, taking a sip of his coffee.

And just like that, you’re spiraling again. Because now you’re overthinking that. He just said you were fine. That’s normal, right? That’s just Wonwoo being Wonwoo. But now it sounds like he knows something, like he can see how much you’re overthinking him—

You hate this.

By the time your shift ends, you’re exhausted—not just physically, but mentally from all the overthinking. So when Wonwoo casually says, "Let’s go," and gestures toward the exit, you don’t even question it.

It’s routine, anyway. You don’t drive, and if Mingyu isn’t around to make you suffer through his questionable playlist, it’s usually Wonwoo who gives you a ride home.

The car ride is quiet at first, just the low hum of the engine and the faint sound of the radio playing some late-night ballad. You try to focus on anything else, but of course, you’re hyper-aware of every small thing he does. 

"You were weird today," he says suddenly.

You stiffen. "No, I wasn’t."

He hums, like he doesn’t quite believe you. "If you say so."

You scowl, slumping in your seat. "You’re annoying."

"And you’re terrible at hiding things."

You whip your head toward him. "Excuse me?"

Wonwoo glances at you with the tiniest smirk before turning his attention back to the road. "You keep staring at me."

You nearly choke. "I— that’s not—you—"* You shut your mouth before you embarrass yourself even more.

"Don’t overthink it," he says, like he can hear your brain short-circuiting.

You glare at him, crossing your arms. "I’m not."

"Sure."

He pulls up to your place, and before you can even reach for the door handle, he beats you to it, leaning over to unlock it from the inside. You freeze for half a second because he’s too close, and you swear he hesitates too before leaning back.

"Get some rest," he says simply.

You step out, and just as you close the door, he rolls down the window. "And stop staring so much. It’s obvious."

"I WAS NOT—!"

But he’s already driving away, leaving you standing there, burning with embarrassment.

Wonwoo didn’t mean to say it.

But the way you froze, the way your eyes widened in sheer panic before you tried to deny it—yeah, that reaction was worth it.

He’s not stupid. He noticed the shift in you over the past few days. The way you’ve been watching him more, like you suddenly started paying attention. Like you were seeing things for the first time that have always been there. It would’ve been amusing if it wasn’t also kind of frustrating.

Because he’s been looking at you like that for years.

He doesn’t usually let things slip. He’s careful, measured. But with you? It’s always been a little different.

As he drives away, he catches a glimpse of you in the rearview mirror—still standing there, fuming, probably cursing him under your breath. He exhales through his nose, the closest thing to a chuckle he allows himself.

"Took you long enough."

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he catches his own reflection in the mirror. And he definitely doesn’t realize that his fingers tap against the steering wheel the entire way home, like he’s buzzing with something he refuses to name.

After that you try to avoid him. Not in an obvious way, just enough to make sure you don’t end up alone with him again. It’s stupid, but you can’t help it. Unfortunately, Mingyu and Seokmin have noticed.

“You’re acting weird,” Mingyu says while stuffing his face with food.

Seokmin leans in. “Super weird. Suspiciously weird.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not acting weird.”

“You literally just turned around when you saw Wonwoo walking this way,” Seokmin points out.

Mingyu snickers. “Yeah, and you ran in the opposite direction.”

“Okay, first of all, I had places to be.”

“You went to a supply closet.”

“…Shut up.”

Mingyu and Seokmin exchange a look before turning back to you, both wearing the same smug expression.

“You’re doomed,” Mingyu says with a grin. Seokmin agrees.

Before you can threaten them, someone clears their throat behind you. You turn around—and there’s Wonwoo.

His eyes flick between the three of you. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you blurt out, grabbing your tray and bolting.

From behind you, you hear Mingyu snicker, “Yup. Doomed.”

Later after another very long shift, you all but crawl out. There you see him. Wonwoo is standing outside the hospital entrance, hands in his coat pockets, glasses perched on his nose, looking completely unbothered by the cold night air. His eyes flick up the moment you step outside, and your heart does a stupid little flip.

“I thought you went home,” you say, stopping in front of him.

He raises a brow. “You were gonna chase the bus, weren’t you?”

You cross your arms. “Maybe.”

He huffs out a small laugh, then tilts his head toward his car. “Let’s go.”

You hesitate for half a second before following him. Because, well—this is Wonwoo. And he’s always been there, hasn’t he? Even when you didn’t notice.

You freeze halfway to the car. Wonwoo stops too, turning to face you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a slight furrow in his brows, his hands still tucked in his coat pockets.

"Why are you avoiding me?" His voice is steady, calm—but you know him well enough to hear the shift in his tone.

"I’m not," you lie, immediately looking away.

"You are," he counters easily. "You barely look at me during rounds, you leave the on-call room the second I walk in, and you suddenly act like you're allergic to coffee when I offer."

Okay, maybe you were being a little obvious. You shuffle your feet, gripping the strap of your bag. "I—it's nothing."

Wonwoo doesn’t budge. He just stares, waiting, and you swear the silence between you feels louder than anything right now.

Then, quieter, he says, "Did I do something?"

That makes you look at him. His expression hasn’t changed much, but there’s something in his eyes—something careful, hesitant. You shake your head quickly. "No! You didn’t—You never—" You exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair. "It’s just… I don’t know."

That’s a lie. You do know. It’s because of everything—Mingyu’s words, Seokmin’s teasing, the way you suddenly can’t stop noticing every little thing Wonwoo does. And the way it’s making your heart act in ways it shouldn’t.

But how the hell are you supposed to say that?

Wonwoo studies you for a moment, then sighs, shaking his head. "Get in the car," he says, walking ahead. "We’re not doing this while you're sleep-deprived."

You stare after him, a little dumbfounded, before scrambling to follow. Because, well. This is Wonwoo. And he's always been there, hasn’t he?

The car ride is quiet. Not the usual comfortable silence, but something heavier. You glance at Wonwoo from the passenger seat—his fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel, eyes focused ahead, his expression unreadable. He looks deep in thought.

And so are you.

Something stirs in the back of your mind. A memory, hazy but persistent.

It was years ago, after a long semester. You remember celebrating—too many drinks, too many laughs. And then… nothing. Just the aftermath. A raging headache, and the strange shift in Wonwoo’s behavior.

The day after that night, he started avoiding you. At first, you thought you were imagining it, but it became obvious—he wouldn’t meet your eyes, he stopped sitting next to you in class, and any conversation felt painfully awkward.

It lasted for weeks.

You never knew why.

Now, sitting next to him again, the memory presses into your chest. You glance at him once more, debating whether to ask.

But before you can, the car slows to a stop in front of your place.

"We’re here," Wonwoo says, voice even. He finally looks at you, and for a split second, there’s something in his gaze—something almost hesitant.

You swallow the words sitting on your tongue.

"Thanks for the ride," you mumble instead, pushing the door open.

But even as you step out, the question lingers.

It’s been bugging you for days. You try to brush it off, but the memory keeps surfacing at the most random moments—during surgeries, in the on-call room, even when you’re just grabbing coffee.

So, on a completely random day, when it’s just you and Wonwoo in the break room, you finally blurt it out.

"Why did you avoid me back in med school?"

Wonwoo, who was in the middle of sipping his coffee, freezes for a second. He lowers his cup slowly, eyes flickering to yours. "What?"

"You know," you insist, leaning against the counter. "After that one night out. The next day, you just—" You wave a hand, frustrated at how much this has been bothering you. "You barely talked to me for weeks. I thought I did something wrong, but I never knew what."

Wonwoo stares at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you think he’s going to brush it off or change the subject. But instead, he exhales and places his cup down.

"You don’t remember anything from that night?" he asks carefully.

Your brows furrow. "Not really. Just that I drank too much, and I felt like death the next morning."

Wonwoo is quiet. Too quiet. Now you’re nervous.

"What did I do?" you ask cautiously.

He hesitates, then sighs. "You… said something."

Your stomach drops. "What did I say?"

"You were drunk. I didn’t think you meant it, but—" He rubs the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically unsure. "You told me you liked me."

Your brain short-circuits You what?

Wonwoo keeps going, voice softer now. "I didn’t know how to react. I thought maybe you’d forget, or that you didn’t mean it. So I just… avoided you." He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "It was stupid. I know that now."

You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. You think your brain might actually shut down.

Wonwoo looks down at his coffee cup, almost like he's debating whether to continue. Then, with a small sigh, he says it—

"And you kissed me."

Your mouth opens, then closes. You blink at him, trying to process what he just said. You kissed him?

Wonwoo glances up at you, his expression unreadable, but you can tell he’s waiting for your reaction.

"I—" You swallow, scrambling for any memory of that night. But all you can remember is drinking too much, maybe laughing too loud, and then waking up with the worst hangover of your life. "I what?"

"You kissed me," he repeats, slower this time. "Just once. It wasn’t… it wasn’t a big thing. But you looked at me like—" He stops himself, shakes his head. "I don’t know. I didn’t think you meant it, so I thought it was better if I just avoided you until things went back to normal."

Your heart is hammering now. You kissed him. You kissed Wonwoo. And he never said a word about it.

"Why didn’t you ever bring it up?" you ask, your voice quieter now.

Wonwoo lets out a short, humorless laugh. "What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, do you remember kissing me that night?' You never brought it up either."

You stare at him, still trying to wrap your head around this. It’s not just the fact that you kissed him—it’s the fact that he’s looking at you now like this matters. Like maybe it wasn’t just a stupid drunken mistake to him.

And the worst part? You’re starting to think that it wasn’t just a stupid drunken mistake to you either. You hesitate for a moment before asking, "Is that why you weren’t dating?"

Wonwoo blinks, clearly caught off guard by the question. His fingers tighten slightly around his coffee cup before he exhales and leans back against the chair.

"I don’t know," he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully. "Maybe. Part of it, yeah."

You feel something twist in your chest.

"What does that mean?" you press, your voice quieter now.

Wonwoo looks at you then, really looks at you. Like he’s debating whether or not to say what he actually wants to say.

"It means," he finally murmurs, "that maybe I was waiting."

Your breath catches. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. You can read between the lines. And suddenly, everything—the way he always looked out for you, the way he always made sure you ate, how he was always there—feels different. Feels heavier.

Like maybe you were supposed to notice a long time ago.

"I told you I liked you," you say, your voice sharper than you expected. "And you never told me."

Wonwoo doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, unreadable, his grip tightening around his coffee cup.

"You were drunk," he finally says.

You let out a frustrated scoff. "And? That doesn’t mean it wasn’t true."

He exhales slowly, looking away. "I thought you wouldn’t remember. Or that maybe you’d regret it."

Your jaw clenches. "So you just decided that for me?"

Wonwoo rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. "I didn’t want to risk losing you."

You let out a breath, your chest tight with something you can’t quite name. You’re mad—at him, at yourself, at the way this conversation is only happening now.

"That’s so stupid," you say, shaking your head. "That’s so—you’re so—"

You stop, because you don’t even know what you’re trying to say. You just know it makes you angry.

Wonwoo gives you a small, almost apologetic smile. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Maybe."

You push past Wonwoo, your head spinning with frustration, and storm out of the room. You make your way to the surgery ward, still replaying the conversation in your head. Your steps are heavy, your thoughts even heavier.

Seokmin is at the nurses’ station, casually flipping through a patient chart when he sees you approaching. He immediately notices your expression and sighs. “Alright, what did Mingyu do this time?”

You shake your head, dragging a chair and plopping down beside him. “Not Mingyu.”

Seokmin raises an eyebrow. “Then why do you look like you just found out your whole life was a lie?”

You groan, resting your forehead against the cool surface of the desk. “I did find out something. From med school.”

Seokmin hums in interest. “Go on.”

You lift your head slightly, hesitating before mumbling, “Apparently, I told Wonwoo I liked him back then.”

Seokmin freezes. Blinks. Then leans forward dramatically. “You did what?”

“I don’t remember, okay?” you hiss, slapping his arm. “I was drunk. But he remembered. And guess what? He never said anything.”

Seokmin lets out a low whistle. “Oof. That’s tough.”

You slump back in your chair. “I don’t even know why I’m mad. Am I mad at him? At myself? At the universe?”

Seokmin clicks his tongue. “I’d say all of the above.”

You glare at him.

He chuckles before getting serious. “Look, you’re mad because it meant something. Even if you don’t remember confessing, the fact that he never responded—never even acknowledged it—hurts.”

You bite your lip, looking away. “Yeah.”

Seokmin nudges you. “So, what are you gonna do?”

You exhale sharply. “I have no idea.”

Seokmin grins. “Well, this is gonna be fun to watch.”

And so, you do what any reasonable person would do. You avoid Wonwoo.

You’re not dramatic about it—at least, you tell yourself that. You’re just busy. Too busy to sit in the on-call room when he’s there. Too busy to grab coffee at the same time. Too busy to share a ride home.

Mingyu and Seokmin notice immediately.

Seokmin corners you first, casually blocking your way to the scrub room with a patient chart. “So, avoiding your not-boyfriend now?”

You groan. “I’m not avoiding him.”

“Oh yeah?” He tilts his head. “Then why did you suddenly start doing your post-op notes in this hallway instead of the lounge?”

You cross your arms. “I like the lighting here.”

Seokmin snorts. “Right. Because overhead fluorescent lights are so flattering.”

Mingyu, on the other hand, doesn’t even bother being subtle. He slaps a tray of food down at your table during a late dinner break. “So, what’s the plan?”

You blink at him. “For what?”

“For whatever mess you and Wonwoo have gotten yourselves into.” He waves his chopsticks. “It’s been days. Wonwoo looks like he’s about to lose his mind, and you look like you’re trying to ascend into another plane of existence just to avoid eye contact.”

You scowl. “I just need time to think.”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow. “And what exactly are you thinking about?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. Everything? The fact that I apparently confessed years ago and he never told me? The fact that he’s acting like it doesn’t matter? The fact that maybe it does matter, but I don’t know what to do with that?”

Mingyu chews thoughtfully, then points his chopsticks at you. “Sounds like you’re not over him.”

You groan, dropping your head onto the table.

He pats your shoulder. “Just talk to him. Before one of you explodes.”

The moment the hospital alert blared through the speakers, it’s like everything was put on hold. A mass casualty incident. Multiple vehicles. A bus, a few cars.

The ER instantly became chaos—stretchers being wheeled in, nurses and doctors shouting orders, the smell of antiseptic and blood thick in the air. Wonwoo moved on instinct, running toward the commotion just as Mingyu turned to him, face pale.

“She took the bus today,” Mingyu said.

Wonwoo’s stomach dropped. He didn’t even need to ask who she was. His feet were moving before his brain caught up. He barely heard Mingyu yelling for him as he shoved past people, making his way to the hospital entrance. Paramedics were still unloading patients. Some were conscious. Some weren’t moving at all.

He turned, gripping the arm of a paramedic. “The bus—where is it? Was everyone taken out?”

“There are still people at the site,” the paramedic said. “Some are trapped. First responders are working on it.”

Wonwoo didn’t wait to hear the rest. He ran.

The crash site was a scene of wreckage—twisted metal, shattered glass, the air heavy with smoke and the sharp scent of gasoline. Emergency lights flashed red and blue against the darkening sky, casting eerie shadows over the scene.

Wonwoo barely registered the shouts of firefighters and paramedics as they worked to extract victims from the wreckage. His mind had narrowed to one thing—you.

He scanned the scene frantically, his pulse hammering in his ears. People were being pulled from the bus, some dazed, some unconscious. His breath hitched when he saw a familiar figure slumped against the pavement, a paramedic crouched beside you.

"Y/N!"

His voice was hoarse, nearly breaking as he sprinted toward you. Your head turned sluggishly at the sound of his voice. Blood streaked down your forehead, a cut splitting just above your eyebrow. Your white coat was smudged with dirt, torn at the sleeve, and you had one hand pressed to your side, wincing.

“Wonwoo?” you murmured, blinking up at him, disoriented.

He dropped to his knees beside you, hands hovering over your face, your arms, as if afraid you’d shatter at his touch. “What the hell—why—why are you still here? You should’ve been in the hospital already—”

“Dr. Jeon?” The paramedic beside you spoke up, recognizing him. “She’s stable for now, but we need to move her. There might be internal injuries.”

Wonwoo clenched his jaw. He knew that but it was different when it was you, when he was staring at your bloodied form and realizing how close he’d come to—

No. He refused to think about it.

“Let’s go,” he said, voice tight, as he helped lift you onto the stretcher.

Your fingers curled around his wrist, gripping weakly. “Wonwoo,” you murmured.

His heart stuttered. “What?”

“Don’t look so sad.” Your smile was faint, barely there. “I’m okay.”

He exhaled sharply, gripping your hand. “You better be.”

Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, the pain dulling into exhaustion. The sounds around you—sirens, shouts, the rustle of movement—were starting to blur together.

“Hey, hey—no.” Wonwoo’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with panic. His grip on your hand tightened. “Stay with me.”

You hummed, barely nodding. “Just… tired.”

“I don’t care. You’re not sleeping right now.” His other hand cupped your cheek, the warmth grounding you. “Look at me.” You tried. Really, you did. But the weight behind your eyes was unbearable. Your head lolled slightly, and that’s when his voice broke—

“Y/N, please.”

Something in his tone made you fight harder to stay conscious. Your blurry vision focused just enough to see his face—his usual calm was gone, replaced with pure, raw worry.

“You’re always… so bossy,” you mumbled, forcing a weak smirk.

“And you never listen,” he shot back, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “So listen now—stay awake.”

The paramedics lifted your stretcher, and Wonwoo moved with them, never letting go of your hand. “We’re almost at the hospital,” he told you, voice softer now. “You’ll be fine.”

You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion, the pain, or the way he was looking at you, but for a moment, you believed him. Wonwoo’s heart nearly stopped when your body went limp. He swallowed hard, his mind racing even as his training kicked in. You’d lost blood. Too much. Your skin was too pale, your breathing too shallow.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath.

As soon as they reached the ambulance, he climbed in with you, pressing two fingers to your wrist again just to reassure himself that your pulse was still there.

"Stay with me," he murmured, more to himself than to you snd when the ambulance doors shut, sirens wailing as they sped toward the hospital, he didn’t take his eyes off you for even a second.

The ambulance screeched to a halt outside the emergency entrance, and the doors flew open. Wonwoo barely waited for the paramedics before he moved, helping guide the stretcher out.

“Female, late twenties, sustained injuries from the crash site,” one of the paramedics called out. “Multiple lacerations, possible concussion, and significant blood loss—she lost consciousness on the way.” Mingyu was already there, his eyes widening the moment he saw you. 

“Shit—Get her inside. Now! Bay 7!”

Mingyu paled but immediately snapped into action, helping the nurses prep you for assessment. Seokmin rushed in a second later, his expression shifting from relief to worry in an instant.

“Her BP’s low,” a nurse reported. “We need fluids started now.”

Wonwoo knew he should step back, let the trauma team handle it. But his feet refused to move. His pulse was racing, hands clenched at his sides.

“You need to get checked, too,” Mingyu said, glancing at the blood on Wonwoo’s scrubs—not his own, but yours.

“I’m fine.” Wonwoo’s voice was tight. “She—” His words caught in his throat. “Just take care of her.”

Mingyu exchanged a glance with Seokmin, who rushed down the ER the moment he heard about the accident, before nodding.

“Wonwoo,” Seokmin said carefully, “let them work. She’s in good hands.” he pulls Wonwoo out the hallway to let Mingyu and his team do their work.

Wonwoo’s jaw locked. He knew that. He did. But watching you, lying there so still, covered in bruises and blood—he’d never felt this helpless before. His mind was a mess. He should have driven you home. He should have made sure you weren’t avoiding him. He should have—

The doors burst open. A nurse rushed past him. Then, through the small window of the ER, he saw Mingyu and the rest of the team working frantically around you. Something was wrong.

He stepped forward, but Seokmin was suddenly there, blocking his way. “They’re doing everything they can,” Seokmin said, his voice firm but laced with worry. Wonwoo barely heard him. His eyes were locked on the room, on Mingyu pressing down on your chest.

You had coded.

A sharp breath left him as he staggered back, hitting the wall. Seokmin’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Neither of them spoke. Wonwoo’s hands were shaking. He curled them into fists. He’d never been this scared before. Not once in his life.

Wonwoo tried to push past Seokmin, but Seokmin held him back, gripping his arm tightly.

"Wonwoo, stop," Seokmin said firmly, his voice steady despite the tension in his face.

"I need to be in there," Wonwoo snapped, his breathing uneven. "I need to—"

Seokmin shook his head. "Mingyu’s got this. Do you think he’d let anything happen to her?"

Wonwoo clenched his jaw, his entire body tense, but he didn’t push forward again. He knew Seokmin was right but knowing didn’t make it easier. All he could do was stand there, watching through the window as Mingyu fought to bring you back.

Mingyu gritted his teeth, his hands steady even as the tension in the room thickened. The sound of the flatline rang in his ears, drowning out everything else.

"Charge to 200," he ordered, his voice sharp and controlled.

The nurse complied, handing him the paddles. Mingyu placed them on your chest, his heart hammering. "Clear!"

Your body jerked slightly as the shock coursed through you.

He checked the monitor. Still flat.

"Again! 300!"

Another shock.

Nothing.

Mingyu refused to let panic settle in. His friend was on this table. No, not just a friend. You were family.

"Come on," he muttered under his breath, sweat forming at his brow. "You're not done yet."

He pressed his hands to your chest, beginning compressions. "Give me one milligram of epi!"

Time blurred. His arms burned from the force of CPR, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t.

Then A blip. Another. A weak, slow rhythm appeared on the monitor.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "We've got a pulse," he announced, his voice hoarse but firm. The tension in the room eased slightly, but Mingyu knew it wasn’t over yet. He looked at you, unconscious but breathing, and exhaled sharply.

"You scared the hell out of us," he muttered under his breath. Then, he turned to the nurse. "Get her to the ICU. I'll update the others."

As the team moved into action, Mingyu pulled off his gloves, exhausted but relieved. Now, he just had to face Wonwoo.

Mingyu stepped out of the ER, exhaling deeply as he ran a hand through his hair. The hallway felt suffocating with tension, and the moment he looked up, his gaze met Wonwoo’s.

Wonwoo was still pacing, his fists clenched at his sides, eyes dark with worry. Seokmin stood nearby, watching carefully in case he had to physically restrain him again.

The second Wonwoo saw Mingyu, he froze. "How is she?"

Mingyu sighed, pulling off his surgical cap. "She coded."

Wonwoo’s face drained of color.

"But we got her back."

The relief was visible—Wonwoo’s shoulders slumped for just a second before he straightened, jaw tight. "Where is she now?"

"ICU. We stabilized her, but she’s not awake yet."

Wonwoo didn’t wait for another word. He turned on his heel, heading straight for the ICU.

Seokmin let out a breath. "I’m going after him before he scares the nurses."

Mingyu didn’t stop him. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, exhaustion hitting him full force.

"You better wake up soon," he mumbled to himself. "Or he’s gonna lose it."

Wonwoo barely made it past the ICU doors before the nurses blocked his way.

"You can’t see her yet, Dr. Jeon," one of them said firmly. "She’s still unconscious, and we need to monitor her closely."

His jaw tightened. "I just need to see her—"

"Wonwoo."

Seokmin grabbed his arm before he could push past them. "Stop."

Wonwoo turned sharply, eyes flashing. "She almost died, Seokmin. I—" He clenched his fists, unable to finish.

Seokmin’s grip didn’t loosen. "I know. But you barging in there isn’t going to change anything. Let them do their job."

Wonwoo’s breathing was heavy, his body tense as if he was holding himself together by a thread. His gaze flickered toward the door, frustration clear on his face.

Seokmin sighed. "Come on, man. Let’s sit for a second. You’re no good to her if you pass out from exhaustion."

Wonwoo didn’t move for a long moment, but finally, he exhaled sharply and let Seokmin pull him back toward the waiting area.

Still, he kept his eyes locked on the door, like sheer willpower alone could wake you up.

Hours passed, dragging on painfully. Wonwoo sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together so tightly they were turning white. Mingyu and Seokmin were on either side of him, equally exhausted but keeping watch.

No one spoke much. The weight of everything that had happened hung heavily in the air.

Then, finally, a nurse stepped out of the ICU.

"You can see her now."

Wonwoo was on his feet instantly, not even waiting for the others as he rushed through the doors. His heart pounded as he stepped into your room, his breath catching at the sight of you.

You were stil unconcious, but you were breathing. There were bandages wrapped around your head and arms, an IV hooked up beside you. But your chest rose and fell steadily. 

"You’re an idiot," he muttered, voice hoarse. But even as he said it, his hand hovered over yours, hesitant, before finally resting gently over your fingers.

Hours passed before you finally regained consciousness. The first thing you notice is the hand holding yours. The weight of everything sinking in. 

You gently squeeze his hand making Wonwoo sit up and look at you, “Hey you” you mumble at him. He didn’t say anything at first, just looking at you. Making sure he isn’t dreaming, he takes your warm hand pressing it against his cheek

“You scared me” he whispered

“Sorry”

He shakes his head. He stands up, leaning down to give you a kiss on the forehead. His lips lingering there for a while like he’s savoring every second. When he pulled back, his gaze met yours, filled with something unspoken.

“You should rest,” he murmured, voice still rough with emotion.

You gave him a small, tired smile. “Only if you do too.”

“I’m not leaving.” You already knew that. Even if he didn’t say it, you could see it in his eyes—he wasn’t going anywhere.

The door swung open, and Seokmin practically burst in, arms spread wide. “She LIVES!” he announced dramatically, as if you had risen from the dead.

You gave him a tired glare. “Was that necessary?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, plopping down in the chair beside you. “Do you know how much stress you caused us?”

Mingyu walked in behind him, arms crossed. “You had me working overtime,” he said, half-joking, half-serious. “And I don’t even get paid extra for that.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was warmth in your smile. “Oh, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll schedule my near-death experience at a more convenient time.”

Mingyu clicked his tongue. “That’s all I ask.”

Seokmin gasped. “Excuse me? That is not all we ask! How about you don’t get into life-threatening accidents at all?”

You sighed, leaning back into the pillows. “Noted.”

Wonwoo, who had been quiet this whole time, just exhaled, shaking his head. “They’re never gonna let this go, you know.”

“Obviously,” you muttered, but your chest felt lighter. Because as much as they nagged, you knew it just meant they cared.

Your recovery days were… frustrating, to say the least. As a surgeon, you were used to being the one treating patients, not being the patient. And the worst part? Your own friends were your caretakers, which meant zero chances of slipping out of bed unnoticed.

Seokmin was the worst about it. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked one afternoon when you tried to stand up.

“For a walk,” you said.

He pushed you back down with one finger to your forehead. “You’re on bed rest, doctor.”

“I’m fine,” you grumbled.

Seokmin gasped dramatically. “You coded! You died for a minute, and now you want to go for a walk?”

Mingyu walked in just in time to hear that. “Wait, she tried to get up? I knew we should’ve strapped her down.”

You scowled at both of them. “I’m not a psych patient—”

“Then stop acting like one,” Mingyu shot back.

But it wasn’t just them. The nurses were in on it, too. They absolutely loved watching the usually stubborn and independent surgeon get bossed around. Every time Wonwoo came to check on you, you swore you saw them watching from the nurses’ station, whispering to each other.

And speaking of Wonwoo…

He was quiet but relentless. While the others nagged, he just watched you, making sure you ate, making sure you took your meds, making sure you rested. He didn’t have to say anything—his mere presence was enough to keep you in place.

But one evening, when the others had left, you finally had enough. “Wonwoo, I swear if you tell me to ‘take it easy’ one more time—”

“I won’t,” he said simply, sitting beside your bed.

You blinked. “Oh.”

He looked at you for a moment, then exhaled. “I just… I was really scared.”

Your throat tightened. “Wonwoo—”

“I almost lost you,” he murmured.

You stared at him, heart pounding. “…Okay.”

He gave your hand a light squeeze. “Good.”

“But that’s unfair, you can’t use that on me everytime”

Wonwoo’s lips twitched, barely holding back a smirk. “Use what?”

“You being all—” you waved your free hand vaguely, “—soft and serious. Making me feel bad for worrying you. That’s not fair.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. “It’s not fair that you keep scaring me either.”

You groaned, sinking further into your pillows. “Fine. Truce?”

Wonwoo tilted his head slightly, pretending to consider it. “…Only if you promise to stop being reckless.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Define reckless.”

He sighed. “I hate you.”

You smirked. “No, you don’t.”

“…No, I don’t,” he admitted, his voice softer this time.

You stretched your arms as you walked into the hospital, feeling a mix of exhaustion and relief. Being back at work after weeks of recovery felt oddly normal, except for the way your friends hovered around you like you were made of glass.

You sat across from Wonwoo at a quiet restaurant near the hospital, picking at your food while he watched you like a hawk. He had already subtly pushed a side dish closer to you twice, and when you slowed down again, he raised an eyebrow.

"Eat," he said simply, taking a bite of his own food.

You sighed, shoving a spoonful into your mouth to appease him. “Happy?”

He hummed in approval before sipping his drink. The meal went on in comfortable silence, but your mind kept drifting back to the last real conversation you had before the accident. 

“Wonwoo.”

“Hmm?”

You hesitated for a second, then pushed forward. “Before the accident, when we were talking… You said I kissed you.”

His grip on his drink tightened slightly. “Yeah.”

“And you never told me,” you continued, voice steady but firm. “I told you I liked you, and you never said anything. Is that… is that why you never dated anyone?”

Wonwoo let out a slow breath, placing his drink down carefully. “I thought you were drunk.”

“I was drunk,” you admitted. “But I wasn’t lying.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “I didn’t know that.”

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. “So what, you avoided me for weeks, pretended like nothing happened, and then just… never dated anyone because of it?”

Wonwoo didn’t respond right away. He stared at you for a long moment, like he was deciding something. Then, finally, he spoke.

“I didn’t want to ruin what we had.” His voice was quiet but firm. “I thought if I told you, it’d change everything. And I didn’t—I couldn’t—” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I just didn’t want to lose you.”

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest. “And what about now?”

He met your gaze, something softer in his expression now. “Now, I think I almost did anyway.”

The weight of his words settled between you, and for the first time in weeks, maybe years, you felt like you were finally getting somewhere.

You stared at him, processing everything he’d just said. The years of friendship, the silent moments, the things left unsaid—all of it led to this.

“So,” you started carefully, your fingers tracing the rim of your glass, “you spent all these years… what? Waiting?”

Wonwoo let out a short, breathy laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “It’s not like I planned to. I just—no one else ever felt right.”

Something in your chest tightened. “Wonwoo.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you. “Do you regret it?”

You blinked. “Regret what?”

“Telling me you liked me back then.” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

“I don’t regret it. What I regret is not remembering anything”

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You really don’t?”

“Not even a little,” you admitted. “If I had, we probably wouldn’t have wasted so much time.”

“And now?”

You held his gaze. “I don’t want to waste any more.”

For the first time in weeks, Wonwoo smiled—not the small, fleeting ones he’d been giving you, but a real one, the kind that reached his eyes.

“Then let’s not.”

The moment stretched between you two, something unspoken settling into place. Wonwoo didn’t say anything else instead he reached for your hand across the table, his fingers brushing yours before curling around them. It was such a simple gesture, but your heart still stuttered at the warmth of his palm against yours.

“You’re really doing this, huh?” you murmured, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips.

Wonwoo’s thumb traced lazy circles over your skin. “I should’ve done it a long time ago.”

You squeezed his hand, rolling your eyes playfully. “You should’ve.”

After your shift of course he waited for you to drive you home, the drive was quiet. Like how it usually is. But this this there's a sense of peace, something more comforting. Wonwoo made a thoughtful hum before, to your surprise, he reached over at a red light, fingers brushing against your hand. Then, in the most unexpected act of affection, he intertwined his fingers with yours.

“What—”

“I like holding your hand,” he admitted casually, as if this wasn’t the first time he was doing something like this outside of a life-or-death situation. “It’s warm.”

You blinked at him. This man. “Wonwoo,” you deadpanned, but your grip on his hand tightened, betraying you.

“Do you have any idea how confusing you are?” you muttered, squeezing his hand.

Wonwoo chuckled again, the sound low and warm. “I think I’m making it pretty obvious now.”

Your face heated up. You turned to look out the window, trying to hide the giddy feeling bubbling up in your chest. And just like that, the rest of the ride home was spent with your fingers still laced together, neither of you letting go.

You swallowed, heart stuttering in your chest at his words. Wonwoo's hand was still in yours, warm and steady

“If I’m reading this wrong,” he said, voice softer than before, “we can stop. I don’t want to force anything on you.”

You turned to him, watching how he kept his eyes on the road, his usual unreadable expression now laced with something else—something hesitant, something careful.

Your chest tightened.

“You think you’re reading it wrong?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

Wonwoo sighed through his nose, thumb unconsciously brushing against your knuckles. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t want to assume anything. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to go along with me just because…” He trailed off, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter with his other hand.

Just because he’s Wonwoo? Just because he’s been there always, in ways you never fully understood until now?

Your lips pressed into a thin line. You weren’t used to this—him being the one doubting things when it was usually you who overthought.

The car slowed as he pulled up in front of your place, but he didn’t make a move to let go of your hand. His fingers curled around yours loosely, like he was giving you the chance to let go first.

You didn’t.

Instead, you took a breath and turned to face him fully. “You’re not reading it wrong,” you said, firm but not unkind.

Wonwoo finally looked at you, the flickering streetlight outside casting shadows on his face.

“You’re not forcing anything,” you added, squeezing his hand. “I like this, okay? I like… us.”

Wonwoo just smirked, giving your hand a squeeze. “This is years in the making,” he murmured, like it was the simplest fact in the world. “Let me hold my girl’s hand for a minute more.”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head, but your heart was doing something completely different—stumbling over itself at the way he said my girl.

You swallowed, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. Years in the making. You’d never thought about it like that, but now that he said it, you realized—he was right.

All those late-night study sessions, the quiet moments in the on-call room, the way he always made sure you ate, the way he was just… there. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t new. It was just something that had always been there, waiting for the two of you to finally stop dancing around it.

“…Fine,” you muttered, fighting the smile but failing miserably. “One minute.”

Wonwoo chuckled, and instead of arguing, he just laced his fingers through yours, holding on like he never planned on letting go.

[number1mingyustan]

Still Yours

idol!mingyu x fem!reader

Warnings: kissing, cursing, grinding, lots of sexual tension, explicit smut, protected sex (missionary), fingering (f.), low-key rough sex, scratching, teasing, they're so cute and domestic ugh, teensy bit (a lot) of angst cuz i can't live without it, if you realllyy read into it it’s a lil toxic but they’re so cute 😪

Summary: When you’re with him, the time around you ceases to exist. You’ve got your own little bubble that’s immune to reality where he’s just yours.

Word Count: 5.1k

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(a/n: i usually don't read/write content where they idols because I'm simply not a fan. but i read a jk fic like this recently and it was a masterpiece. to say the least i was inspired so shout out to that author and i hope you enjoy)

The cool outside air fills your lungs as you step onto the sidewalk. It’s not cold, just fresh and cool enough to rejuvenate you from the hot sweaty air from inside of the club.

It’s a lot emptier out here, it helps to clear your mind. There’s only two or three other people out here, having a smoke in silence or waiting impatiently for an uber.

Your mind is still just a little bit muggy from the alcohol coursing through your veins, but being outside has instantly given you clarity.

You just couldn’t be in there any longer. The guy at the bar just could not take a hint. He was cute too, the type of guy you would typically be interested in. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t interested in him at first.

But then halfway through your conversation and his hand touched your lower back, the guilt settled in. It suddenly felt so wrong. The guy in the club’s hand didn’t feel the same as when he does it.

Almost instantly, it registered in your mind. This stranger didn't compare. He had nothing on the guy who really has your heart.

The famous idol who doesn't hesitate to answer your phone calls or cook for you when you're hungry.

This guy was a nobody.

One phone call and you’d have so much better.

The stranger clearly didn’t pick up on your shift in energy, probably too drunk to notice how you started to pull away. You were suddenly uninterested in anything he had to say and it was exhausting to have to fake laugh and smile as you tried to make excuses as to why you weren’t going home with him tonight.

But he was persistent and suddenly felt too touchy. He probably wasn't touching you as much as you thought, but you were suddenly so aware of him that it felt wrong with him being so close. His very presence alone was irritating. You finally caught the attention of one of your friends and gave her the ‘SOS’ look. She drunkenly stumbled over to you and pulled away from the conversation somewhat smoothly.

You thanked her before letting her know you were stepping out to get some fresh air.

But now it's a little after one in the morning and your thoughts are clouded with him. Your mind begins to wander to the moments you've shared over the past few years. The pet names, the sleepovers with homemade face masks, the phone calls from his hotel rooms.

Now you're texting him.

You: you awake?

________

Mingyu sits at home on the couch, beer in hand as the TV flashes in front of him. He's watching a movie he's got no real interest in, but he can't sleep. He's been home for a little more than a day and he's still got major jetlag ruining his sleep schedule.

No matter how hectic his life has been, he always dreads the jetlag.

The buzz of his phone captures his attention and he can't avoid the smile that pulls on his lips when he sees your name flash on the screen.

Mingyu: nah, sleeping

You giggle at your phone, smiling at the device just as he is. Your hands move a little slower to text back as the cool air outside changes your body temperature. You shiver, blowing on your hands as they grow cold.

You: call me

The message flashes delivered briefly before your screen changes entirely. You're surprised to see an incoming FaceTime and not a regular call.

You hold the phone up to your face, fixing your hair before you hit answer.

He lays on the couch in the living room, the darkness surrounding him heavily contrasts the colorful beams of light that flash behind you. The loud music thumps in the background.

"Hi." He smiles.

"Hi," You grin.

You feel giddy inside. Partially because you were drinking a bit and mostly because you're talking to him again. It's been quite some time since you've seen each other.

"Where are you?" He asks first.

You take a moment to respond as you walk toward the curb. You fix your dress and sit on the curb of the sidewalk, holding the phone up to your face.

"At the club," You reply.

"Ah, fun night I presume?" He asks.

You shake your head. "Not really."

"Sorry to hear that Shorty," He says.

Your heart skips a beat at the nickname. Your heart always leaps when he calls you that.

"Yeah, not really my thing anyway," You frown.

"I remember, surprised you're even there this late," He comments.

You smile. He remembers.

"Took some convincing from my friends. It wasn't so bad when we were drinking earlier, but then it started to hit and I wasn't feeling it anymore," You say, chipping away at the white nail polish on your fingers.

"They didn't abandon you, did they?" He asks, voice laced with concern.

"Who? My friends? No, they were looking out for me but I just wasn't feeling it anymore so I told them I was stepping outside for a minute," You continue to chip away at the polish mindlessly.

"I don't like you being alone like that, especially if you've been drinking," He frowns.

"I'm okay, I promise..." You assure him. "I wanna see you though."

A boyish smile forms on his face. "Yeah?"

You nod. "You home?"

"Yeah, come over," He offers. "I'll get you something to eat and you can spend the night."

Your ears perk up from his words. Your heart jumps out of your chest in anticipation.

"Okay, I'll order a–"

"–Text me what club you're at," he interrupts. "I'll get you an Uber here."

______

You call another one of your friends while you wait. You’re surprised she picks up on the second ring. “HELLO?” she shouts into the phone.

“Hey love,” You say.

“Y/N WHERE DID YOU GO?? The hot guy you were talking to is still here, I thought you went home with him.”

The loud music thumps in the background, but you can surprisingly hear her clearly.

You shake your head. “I’m heading home, I’ll see you guys later.”

Of course, the terms of your NDA don’t allow you to tell them where you’re really going. You make up an excuse about not feeling well and she pouts.

“Aw but we were– Hana NO!” She interrupts herself and the line goes silent for a few moments.

You hear shifting and wait to hear her voice again.

“Sorry, we’re in the bathroom and Hana started throwing up. She’s fine now. You feel better though, and text one of us when you get home. Stay safe babes.”

“Okay, I will.”

Before you can hang up, she’s calling out to the other girls. “GUYS, Y/N IS GOING HOME.”

More shuffling suddenly fills your ears and female voice.

“Nooooo, don’t leave,” Hana drunkenly slurs.

You laugh. “I’ll go out with you guys again next weekend.”

After a little bit more drunken banter, you finally hang up and wait on the curb until your ride gets here.

____

Considering he's the one who ordered the Uber, you know he'll know exactly when you get there. So, you spend the entirety of the ride in the backseat fixing up your appearance.

You play with your hair, refresh your lip gloss, and adjust your appearance for the better.

When you arrive at the familiar home, your heart rate picks up and you open the door with shaky hands. You stand outside the car, purse in hand as you shut the door.

Just as you close the car door, his front door opens almost on cue. His full stature comes to your sight and your excitement bubbles over.

He leans against the door frame, grinning at you. He looks cozy, wearing a pair of grey sweatpants, a white wifebeater, and his glasses. Your knees nearly give out at the sight of him in his glasses. He looks so good. His muscular body is visible in the tee and you have to stop yourself from pouncing him.

His hair is definitely shorter than the last time you saw him. And it's been well, months since you've seen him. Two? Maybe even three? But that doesn't matter, what matters is that you're here with him now.

You try not to express how excited you are, but you just can't wipe the smile off your face. You walk toward him and he invites you in with open arms.

His strong arms wrap around your frame. You're so happy you could cry. Your arms wrap around him, squeezing his frame. You inhale, breathing in his scent. He smells like home. His touch is so comforting, this moment feels unreal. You hold him and appreciate him for everything he is.

He pulls away, looking down at you with a grin. He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Hi, Shorty."

You grin up at him, bringing your hands to his hair. You run your fingers through it. "You cut it."

He nods. "Couple days ago yeah, you don't like it?"

"I always like it," You tell him truthfully. "But it was a little sexier when it was long."

He pulls you all the way inside, closing the door and locking it. "I'll tell management to let me grow it back out just for you."

"Doubt they'll see me as reason enough for that," You say.

"They'll just have to deal with it," He runs a hand through his hair. "I'll never let scissors touch my hair again if you say so."

Oh my gosh. You hate him.

You hate how he makes your heart skip a beat and he somehow always knows all the right things to say to you.

You giggle. "I wouldn't ask you to do that, Gyu."

"You'd still like me if I was bald?" He asks.

"Yeah Gyu, I would." You admit.

"Oh wow" He has a boyish grin on his face. "You like-like me."

"Yeah well, you like-like me too," You remind him.

"Damn right I do, Shorty," He pulls you in by your waist. "Don't know why you're so far away."

You squeal when your body moves against his. "I'm still wearing my shoes! I need to take them off."

"Relax Shorty," He lifts you up effortlessly, placing you on the kitchen counter.

He drops down, undoing your heels and placing them on the mat next to his front door. He stands back up to his full stature, face mere inches above yours.

He leans in. "I missed you."

You look up at him with soft eyes. There's so much yearning behind your pupils, that it makes you wonder if he can see through to it.

"I missed you too," You admit.

You find yourself back hin his arms. His big hands circle your waist, pressing your chests together. But now, his lips are on yours.

The kiss is soft, just delicate enough to express how much he missed you. Your small hand cups his cheek as your lips move against one another. His touches are gentle, but they spark so many things inside you, igniting you from the inside out.

But your moment is cut short when your growling stomach interrupts.

You pull away just a little bit, brushing your nose against his, giggling to yourself. He lets out a genuine laugh, holding your hand in his. "I did promise you food, didn't I?"

You nod. "I believe you did."

He helps you off the counter and back onto your feet. He walks over to the pantry.

"Sorry to get your hopes up," He admits sheepishly. "I just got back so... there's not much."

"Oh that's okay, it can't be–"

You open the fridge, finding virtually nothing. Some milk, A couple water bottles, half a carton of eggs, a few bottles of liquor, and a can of half-eaten kimchi.

You wedge your way in front of him, looking into the pantry and it's somehow worse. There's only stuff that needs to actually be cooked, and there's not much of it.

You fall dramatically into his chest and he laughs. "I told you there wasn't much."

His hand touches your lower back as you sink your face into his chest. This time, it feels right.

"Why did you even offer me food if you didn't have any?!" You exclaim.

He holds your head in his hands, cupping both of your cheeks. "I don't know, I guess I forgot Shorty. You do that to me."

While his words are making your stomach turn, the hunger rumbling is a lot louder. "Is the milk in the fridge even good?"

"Yeah, I just bought it today." He says casually.

"You went out and bought milk... and nothing else? Knowing you had no food?" You question.

"I needed it to go with my cereal," He shrugs. "But that's not important. Look, there's some rice in here."

He grabs the uncooked rice out of the pantry. "I can make you some fried rice with egg and kimchi. I've got soy sauce somewhere around here."

"No I think I'll just take some cereal," You walk out of his grasp, making your way toward the fridge.

He pouts. "I can cook for you though."

"I'll take you up on that offer another time," You tap his cheek with your palm lightly. "I'm very hungry. And you've got no vegetable to go with, not even a green onion. I'm getting some cereal."

You open the fridge, grabbing the milk while he gets the bowls and spoons. You try to grab the cereal box from above the fridge, but you can't quite reach it. Mingyu comes up behind you, grabbing it with ease and a shit-eating grin on his face.

You frown, but you're too hungry to make any comments. The two of you sit at the table, each pouring yourselves a bowl of cereal. "You said you just got back?" You ask.

He nods. "Like two days ago, I think. My sense of time is a little messed up, jetlag."

You nod in acknowledgment. He continues to tell you about the past few months since he's seen you. You play friends catching up as he answers all your questions about his life as of recent. The shows, the photoshoots, all the traveling, filming, and preparations for the upcoming months as well.

He asks you about work too, although your updates are not nearly as interesting as his though. But he doesn't ask out of courtesy, he genuinely cares. He likes hearing about your life, likes just listening to you speak even if you're not the one doing Calvin Klein photoshoots.

The time flies, and before you know it, it's 3 in the morning. You always find yourself invested in him when you're together, like the world around you ceases to exist. You get caught up, failing to realize that time is indeed still passing, and a lot of it.

He pulls you in by your hips, pressing your back onto his chest.He pulls the bowls and utensils out of your hands swiftly and turns you around.

"Nope, don't worry about that," he drops them into the sink. "You just go hop in the shower, I'll give you one of my t-shirts."

"Are you saying I stink?" You accuse him playfully.

"Never, Shorty." He kisses your cheek. "As much as I love this little dress on you, it's getting late and you should be in something comfy. Now go." He playfully taps your butt, sending you to the bathroom.

You look back at him, feigning offense as he grins.

______

When you step out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, there's a t-shirt laid out for you with a pair of boxers. You get dressed before walking down to the living room.

Mingyu lays there, scrolling through his phone. When he hears you enter, his attention shifts to you immediately and he gives you a warm smile.

He sits up all the way and pulls you onto his lap so you're straddling him. "Thank you, for letting me using the shower and for the food."

He holds you close to him. "Of course Shorty

"Where are your clothes?" He asks.

"Folded on the dresser in your room, why?" You ask.

He pulls you off his lap and stands to his feet. "Wanna wash them so you can have them tomorrow. Are they washer and dryer safe?"

"Yeah, but you don't have to worry about it." You assure him.

"Don't worry about it, I have clothes I need to was anyway. I'll just through yours in with them," he says.

He disappears up into his room and when he emerges, he's holding a basket of clothes and your dress on top. He walks down and walks over to you on the couch.

"That's all you had? Just the dress and the panties? No bra?" He asks.

You grin. "Nope."

He inhales sharply, but pushes his thoughts aside. "Come with."

You follow behind him downstairs. He leads you to the laundry room in the basement.

You sit on the dryer as he loads the washing machine. There's a comfortable silence in the atmosphere. Everything about this is so comforting... so domestic. It's exactly what you needed.

"Hand me that?" he says, pointing to the detergent behind you. "Please?"

You grab the detergent, handing it to him. "Thank you, Shorty."

After he's done with it, he hands it back to you and adjusts the settings before starting up the machine.

"Ready for bed?" He asks.

You nod, reaching your arms out to him. He turns around, lifting you off the machine and piggybacking you all the way up to his bedroom. He drops your body on his plush mattress and strips down to just his boxers. He places his glasses on his dresser gently. Immediately after, he climbs under the covers. You join him, making yourself comfortable in his bed.

He pulls your body against his, yearning to have you close to him. He looks at you with a softness in his eyes. His hand runs along your thigh gently and innocently.

But right now, close doesn't feel close enough. You've missed him so much, you want to feel consumed by him. You need him inside of you.

You press your forehead against his, look at him with soft, sultry eyes. His hands start to wander, moving from your thighs to your butt.

Almost simultaneously, you pick up on one another's energy. The sexual tension grows and pretty soon his lips are on yours again. You moan softly against his lips.

He brings his hand to your cheek, cupping it softly as your lips move against his in perfect harmony. He takes everything you give and vice versa,perfectly in sync.

Pretty soon, you're itching to get undressed even though his clothes are extremely comfortable. You're eager for more of him, pulling away from the kiss.

"Gyu," You breathe out.

"I know baby, fuck–I know," He pulls you onto his lap so you're straddling him once again.

He lifts your hips enough to pull his boxers off of your body. The t-shirt you're narrowing is next to go, leaving you completely naked on his lap.

"Fuck," He whispers. "You're so pretty, Shorty. Need you so bad."

You lean over, leaving a trail of kisses on his neck. You know better than to leave marks, but you grind down against him slowly. He lets out a shaky breath, holding your hips as you move against him. "Mm-fuck."

His cock grows stiff beneath you, poking against your bare core. You grind down harder, feeling the veins of his cock against your clit through his boxers. "Feels good, Gyu.." You moan.

You chase the friction selfishly. You know you could cum like this, and with how good it feels, you're not entirely against it. But his hand comes in between the two of you, pressing against your pussy to feel how wet you are.

"Fuck, Shorty you're soaking..." he groans.

You can only nod in agreement as the pads of his fingers graze your clit. You're dripping on his fingers, so much so that he could easily slip–

"–You want my fingers?"

Fuck, he knows you so well.

You nod eagerly. He pinches your clit, making you yelp.

"Use your words baby."

You mewl. "Yes, fuck yes, please."

He lifts your body, flipping you over so you're underneath him. He holds himself up with his arm, hovering over you as he slips two fingers into you with ease.

Even though it's just his fingers, he can feel how tight you are. Your cunt stretches around his digits as he pumps them into you. You moan out, feeling the way the pleasure builds in your lower region.

His fingers are so skilled and he knows your body well. He knows that when he curls his finger, you're gonna squeeze your legs together and cry out.

Which is exactly what you do when he curls his fingers inside of you. He pries your legs back open, picking up the pace of his fingers as you moan out loud. "Ah fuck–nngh."

His cock twitches in anticipation as he pleasures you. He's not focused on it right now, but your pleasure is his pleasure.

"Shit–I'm gonna cum," You warn him, gripping his bicep.

He grins, teasing you with his words. "Already, Shorty?"

You breathe out, pushing your hips against his hands. "Fuck– 's been a while.

Oh?

His digits press against the sweet spot deep inside of you and you arch your back up off the bed and cry out. "You don't touch yourself when I'm not here, Shorty?"

"Not enough–ah!" You moan. "Can't cum."

You know you'd never admit this if you weren't drinking earlier or on the brink of an orgasm. But your words affect him more than he lets it show.

He's ruined you.

That means you haven't slept with anyone since he last saw you. And to top it off, you can't get yourself off without his help. A sense of pride fills his chest and only encourages him to go faster, pushing you over the edge.

Although, the same can't be said for him. The pride in his chest is pinched by a small twinging of guilt.

It's not something you really talk about with each other. You know it happens, but you choose not to acknowledge it. As much as it feels like it when you're together, you're not together. It's been nearly three years since your relationship, if you can even call it that, came to fruition.

But with him constantly busy and on the move, you've spent a small fraction of those three years in each other's presence. When he's not with you, he's performing and traveling the world. He catches the attention of plenty of other pretty girls who are more than willing to sign an NDA to spend the night with him.

He's just a man after all. And a famous one who constantly travels at that. He's got needs of his own and the means to fulfill them.

He's someone you trust. You know he'd never catch something and risk bringing it to you. He's too careful, has too much at stake with his career.

But those thoughts only cloud his mind, and for a brief moment at that. With you underneath him, writhing and gasping for air as you cum on his fingers, his attention is fully on you.

He pins your body on on the bed, adding more pressure as you grip his bicep. You nails dig into his skin, sure to leave marks. He doesn't mind though, not when you cry out his name and screw your eyes shut in pleasure.

Your hips move on their own, grinding against his fingers as you ride out your orgasm. "Shit, Shorty... that's it, yeah."

It takes a moment for you to come down. When you do, you blink your eyes open, loosening your grip on his bicep. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, warm breath fanning against your neck. His fingers slip out of you slowly and you whine as the loss of touch.

His hard length presses against your thigh, making it very known how badly he needs you. You think about pushing him down on the bed and sucking him dry, but you'd much rather have him inside of you.

You press a hand on his chest gently, pointer finger lightly dragging on his skin. "Mmm, that was so good, Gyu."

"Yeah?" He lifts his head up.

You bite your lip seductively and nod softly. "Yeah... want you to fuck me now, though."

He licks his lips slowly. "Want it, or need it?"

"Need it, need it so fucking bad, Gyu" You pull at the material of his boxers. You're so needy. He can hear it in your voice and it's clear in your actions. He wants to give you everything and more.

He presses his hips down against you and you help him to pull of his boxers. You wrap your hand around his cock and start pumping him slowly. He lets out a breath of relief.

His cock is hard and heavy in your hand. It's pulsing and aching to be touched. He inhales sharply when you circle your thumb around the tip, smearing his precum around.

You love it when he's sensitive like this, so reactive. It reminds you that you have just as much of an effect on him as he does on you. You continue to pump him, and he reaches into the drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a gold package.

You snatch the condom out of his hand. "I wanna do it."

He grins. "Okay, Shorty."

You tear open the packaging with your teeth.

"You know, you shouldn't do that," He warns you. "Could accidentally puncture a hole in it. Wouldn't want another pregnancy scare would we?"

You toss the gold wrapper onto the nightstand. "First of all, you use your teeth every time we do this. Second of all, you used your teeth to open the condom the time we had to scare." You remind him.

He smirks. "I learn from my mistakes, baby."

You ignore him, rolling the condom onto his length and laying on your back. He hovers over you again, stroking his cock a few times before lining himself up with your entrance.

When he enters you, the stretch is immaculate. You both breathe out, moaning as he bottoms out inside of you. He sinks further into you, deep into your warmth and you stretch to accommodate him perfectly.

"Fuck... Gyu," You moan out, wrapping your arms around his muscular back.

"Shorty... fuck me–" He groans. You breathe out, wrapping your legs around his waist, pushing your hips up into him. You move in perfect sync as his hips drive into yours. His neck nearly goes limp as his head dips down. "Yeah, Shorty–just like that–uh. Fuck, you're so hot, baby."

"Mingyu–" You moan out. "I missed you so much... so fucking much."

His hips snap back, his cock thrusting deep into you. "Missed you too, missed everything about you."

His thrusts slow down, but they don't stop. He taps the side of your thigh, silently telling you to unwrap your legs around around him. You oblige, and he lifts your legs up.

He drives his cock deeper into you, bringing your legs over his shoulders. You gasp out at the sudden stretch and wave of pleasure that hits you.

The pure force of his thrusts, how good he feels as the pain turns into pleasure into pleasure, the noises he makes – it's overwhelming in the best way possible. It's so much, but it's so good, you don’t want him to ever stop. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as your breath catches in your throat. You eyes fall shut as your face scrunches in pleasure before the sensation courses through through you and you can hardly take it. Your hands grip the sheets tightly.

"Fuck... pussy's so good," He groans. " 'S all mine."

"Hah-fuck," You cry out.

"Tell me it's mine, baby," He demands. "C'mon Shorty."

Your eyes fall shut and your breathe in through your nose as his cock pushes deeper into you. Your voice is broken and soft. "It's all yours–"

He thrusts into you particularly hard. "Say it again–louder."

"Fuck! It's all yours."

It's a lie, somewhat. Everything between you two is complicated, yet simple. But in moments like these, you don't focus on the small details or realities.

"That's what I fucking thought," He groans.

You whimper, pussy fluttering around him. A telltale sign that you're close to the edge. His pace doesn't falter, and he continues to fuck you as your orgasm courses through your body.

Your body spasms beneath him, writhing to escape the overwhelming pleasure. He doesn't let you though, pinning your body down as he continues to drive his cock deep inside of you.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck–uh!" You cry out. Tears are brimming the corners of your eyes.

Your pussy tightens around him, convulsing as you cum for the second time tonight. He watches as your face twists and contorts with pleasure, a sight that remains forever etched in his memory.

You're still coming down while he's fucking you, grunting and groaning with each thrust of his hips. There's sweat dripping down his body, causing his skin to glisten in the moonlight.

Your mind is hazy, still struggling to process all the pleasure you're body is enduring. You're growing overstimulated, but you can tell he's getting close.

His hips lose their rhythm, thrusts growing erratic and uncoordinated as your pussy milks him. He lets out a long groan, cursing out your name as he spills his load into the rubber.

His chest rises and falls rapidly as he sits up. He presses a kiss to your ankle before pulling out of you and allowing your feet to touch the bed.

His body is spent, and the soft look in your eyes relaxes him. It makes him feel blissful and at ease, it makes the sleepiness creep its way into his body.

You wrap your arms around his neck softly pulling his face toward yours. "All good?"

"Fuckin perfect," he sighs with a smile.

He's too close and too tempting not to kiss. So you do, softly pressing your lips against one another. The feeling in your heart is overwhelming. You don't know that he feels it too, two hearts moving rapidly yet somehow in perfect sync.

It's moments like these where there's a conundrum of things weighing heavily on your mind that you want to express or say out loud, but you don't. You know better than that, and so does he.

So a kiss will have to do. To speak the words that will remain unspoken and seal it closed. A silent way to express the thoughts that run through your brains and the emotions that are pouring out of your hearts.

So you kiss him, because that's all you can do for now. While he's still here, while he's still yours.

___

After you two clean up, you climb back into the bed. You face each other, laying on your sides.

His eyes are closed, but he's not fully encaptured by his slumber. He's halfway there though, pouting in his state of rest with a soft expression. He looks so peaceful, so cute. Such a contrast to the man who had your legs thrown over his shoulders only minutes prior.

You press your hand onto his hair, pushing it back ever so lightly as you admire his features. You see the smile tugging at his lips. "Go to sleep, Shorty."

His eyes don't open as he speaks to you.

"Sorry," You say sheepishly. I was just admiring."

"Cute, you can admire in the morning though. Go to sleep, baby."

You nod, although he can't see you, and exhale softly. You adjust the comforter and his eyes blink open slowly.

"I'll make you breakfast in the morning," he offers, pressing a kiss onto your forehead.

You hum, smiling to yourself. "lemme guess, cereal?"

A breathy laugh escapes his lips. "Alright, I'll take you out for breakfast, or we can order in if you can't walk."

You punch his shoulder playfully before burying your face against his chest. You fall asleep in his arms peacefully.

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