#the answer you are looking for is 42
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42, refers to the jersey number of the first black American baseball player, Jackie Robinson (comic).
42, the spider from another universe (spider-verse).
42, the answer to the meaning of life (hitchhicker’s gttg).
You catching?
#the answer you are looking for is 42#always has been#alexxuun#spiderverse#across the spiderverse#atsv#atsv fanart#spiderverse fanart#miles morales#miles g morales#prowler miles#earth 42#earth 42 miles
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are you gonna make poor gene go to the past again
I'm not sure if the new game will be set in the past, but if it is, A HUNDRED PERCENT 100% ABSOLUTELY. but he'll get to take his partners with him at least <3
AH ADDING THIS ASK ABOUT IT TOO!!
SAME!! I hope I can get through the ultra flare stuff before this and maybe do the paldea run + PLZA doodles at the same time? 🤔
(XY has a lot of flaws, but like, so do all the pokemon games tbh -- at some point you kind of just have to make your own fun with it, even if it means not respecting canon all of the time :'o also thanks!!! 🥺)
#oceandi answers#anonymous#generic protagonist#I'm kind of hoping it'll be an ocarina of time style game where you change stuff in the past and get a new look in the present but it#it really probably won't be that lol.#I'm also considering being so rude to generic by making him work on whatever the game is doing to lumiose city with lysandre#do-not-go-gently-42
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@handlcd said "Fear is the loneliest feeling." // Accepting
How many times had he seen that face and heard that voice in his dreams? Always in dreams -- and no matter how real those dreams may seem in the moment, he at least had solace in knowing he had never actually physically met the woman in the real world. But right now? Right now, that validity was called into question and he wasn't entirely sure the subway he had stepped into moments ago had actually been a dream.
Well shit.
Whichever version of the woman this was, she didn't look like she was having the greatest time and damn Cards and his bleeding heart ...
"That's ... deep," he started carefully, somewhat awkward in his own right as he dug his hand a bit deeper into the pockets of his cardigan. "I mean, I get it though. Pretty much everybody feels fear of something on some level. Sometimes, when you're afraid of something, it kinda feels like you're the only one who is ... until you find someone else with the same fear ... or fear adjacent, I guess... then it feels ... less lonely? So at least you don't have to be scared alone ... or something ..."
With a deep sigh, leaned back against the wall, shoulders connecting to tile. "... are you ... feeling scared of something?"
#handlcd#42: the answer#verse: glitch in the multiverse#thread: the loneliest feeling#// Oh my goodness HI! Thank you so much for sending this in!#// I hope this is okay!#// I look forward to writing with you!#// Figured I would put it in its own post in case you would like to make it a thread
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you can say that about me concerning the following characters:
Deborah Vance
Laura Roslin
Helen Magnus
Nikola Tesla
C.C. Babcock
Rowena MacLeod
Naomi (SPN)
Mamá Imelda
Héctor Rivera
Sharon Rayder
i hope i am not only a mutual to you but also someone you can point at a fictional character and go "oh shit that guy on tumblr is super fucking mentally unwell about that one" about
#my day begins essentially wondering if anyine has written new fanfic about these characters#if the answer is no#i spend no less than an hour wondering if i should write a fanfic about these characters#then i proceed to waste the time i could be writing by looking on tumblr seeing what y'all have posted about these characters#then i forget i was going to write something#then it's midnight and i should have been in bed three hours ago#damn you all#just fyi i am 42 years old#i'm out here showing the young ones how to age gracefully#just get some hyperfixations and you're set#that's how you age gracefully
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Numbers that can’t be divisible by 5 are funnier than numbers that can be divided by 5 because they’re needlessly specific. Except in some cases for very small or very large numbers.
The answer to life, the universe, and everything being 42? Funny because it’s needlessly specific.
Patrick from SpongeBob looking at a store stacked with hundreds of mattresses and saying there’s ten of them? Funny because it’s a small number.
If a character wishes to estimate how many soldiers are approaching a nearby town and you want to make it funny you can do one or the other or you can combine the two.
My lord, there are five soldiers coming, we must strengthen our defenses!
Or
How many soldiers are there? Nine thousand, three hundred and forty seven, sir. I counted twice. They lost one the second time to falling off a cliff.
Or
There’s sixteen soldiers approaching, sir. Only sixteen? Yes. It’s a good number, sixteen. Divisible by four.
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hi again been a bit... uhhh why'd I wanna make this again? oh right talking about random shit. I do wanna get back into some things I left off with some friends of mine, but due to being me and it being a very hard existence things didnt go as planned and I kinda dropped it and lost interest.... which really sucks cause I have so many ideas for where I wanted to take my story ( working on a kirby au of sorts havent sorted out through the entire thing cause my brain doesnt wanna work with me :/ ) that I wanted to actually bring into existence instead of it all just being in my head or a rough draft. maybe I can push myself into gaining interest again by actually working on it again. what I had orginally thought up is no longer what I wanna go with so new things are hard to come up with. off topic from that I have so many fucking games I need to get back to and the game list keeps getting bigger and bigger its gonna drown me at some point :( whyyyyy do I keep doing this to myself.... doom I'm dooming myself this is what I'm doing. and cause I'm me I'm def gonna be forgetting that I made this post in the first place! dont you love being this mess of a person? isnt this FUN?!
#astral.tx#check dni /srs#the answer is no#I hate this so much#every time I think about how my life is goddamn awful I'm just fucking thinking about all the fakers ik in my life#if they fucking saw me and lived this life they would kts#clearly dont understand how this disorder works LOL#you all just think its “mpd” and all fun and dandy dontcha#even the personal fakers ik dont understand how this disorder works either I just wanted to fucking scream at them#and tell them their “case” is not real and they're being fictitious that this is imitative d.i.d. you're doing this on purpose#no you are not a minor discovered “d.i.d. system” who is “fictive heavy” with an obsurd number of “alters / headmates” actually stfu die#I just wanna slap them with sources of researchers of actual fakers and show them make them look in the fucking mirror#THIS IS YOU DO YOU NOT SEE YOURSELF IN THE MIRROR ARE YOU NOT LOOKING AT YOURSELF CLEARLY?!#even if I did that they STILL wouldnt back down and claim to my fucking face that they “suffer” from “d.i.d.”#yeah sure you fucking do with your 80/90pk+ which most of them are “introject fictives” from either your “HF / SPIN” or new media#and you act like youre rp'ing as them whenever they're brought up in convo & self dx'es with “osdd-1b” 1st and said you've done “research"#clearly not good research if you didnt figure out that “osdd1b / osdd1a” are “community terms” and not actual dx'es also claimed self dx'ed#asd adhd ocd anxiety depression & ofc “did” the other 2 are even worse all 3 of them “discovered they were systems” when they were minors#12pk rn but that number kept changing said 51 now 39 30 -> 42 -> 13 -> 12 yeah no way this is fucking real are you fucking kidding me?#all of them but ONE was a non “introject alter” yeah get fucking real buddy not even in active med help and your “member” count went down?#fuck off and then the last one's number keeps rising and rising this is like the worst one thats actually just screaming fake to my face#wow omfg 138pk now it was not like that a couple days ago you have got to be actually kidding me are you seeing yourself like actually rn#and ofc all of them are “introjects” from fucking somewhere and from very recent media too cause ofc it is cant even pretend right can you?#I cant with these fucking people man do you really think you can bullshit me like this to my fucking face with this shit do you honestly#think ANYONE ACTUALLY BELIEVES YOU#ALL THREE OF YOU ARE THE WORST PEOPLE YOU ARE ALL FUCKING DEAD TO ME#ok thats enough ranting out of me I'm just fucking sick of you people#get off the fucking internet#| ✨💫
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Tease
Chaewon x Male Reader | 8k words Tags: manager x idol, secret relationship, pent up, semi-public, sneaking away, horny as fuck, chaewon is hot as fuck, I wish it was me
Chaewon looks too good in that dress. Three weeks without sex. How long before you snap?
Jus sumn quick for yall.
Chaewon [1:42 AM]: I've been touching myself thinking about you every night this week. It's not enough.
Chaewon [1:43 AM]: Good luck keeping it professional tomorrow when you see what they have me wearing for the HOT trailer shoot 😈
You stare at your phone, heat flooding through your body. Three weeks without her. The longest you've gone since you started dating a year ago.
Fuck, she knows exactly what she's doing to you.
Three weeks without her touch has made every message like this a form of exquisite torture. You can practically hear her voice in your head as you read her texts.
You're dating Kim Chaewon. LE SSERAFIM's leader. And you're one of their managers.
It started on a company retreat last spring—a late-night conversation about music that turned into coffee, then dinner a week later, then her pressed against your apartment door, whispering that she'd wanted this since the moment you'd been assigned to their team.
You'd both agreed it would be just once.
That agreement lasted approximately 8 hours.
No one knows. Not the company. Not the members.
Not even Jiyeon, the other manager who works with you handling the girls' schedules.
And right now, your girlfriend is driving you fucking crazy.
The comeback prep for "HOT" has been exactly that—hot, intense, and keeping you both so busy you can barely catch your breath, let alone sneak away to be alone together.
You've tried everything to deal with the frustration. Late-night FaceTiming while she touches herself in her dorm room, biting her pillow to stay quiet. Watching the videos you've made together—her riding you on your couch, her bent over your bathroom sink, her on her knees looking up at you with those eyes.
None of it is enough. You need her. You need to taste her, feel her skin against yours, be inside her.
The warehouse set is all sleek white surfaces and ribbed glass partitions. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in cold natural light that makes everything look clean, sterile, and expensive. The perfect contrast to the fire they're trying to create with this concept.
Staff members in black hurry around with clipboards and equipment, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. This "BORN FIRE" trailer shoot has to be perfect—it's launching LE SSERAFIM's most ambitious album "HOT" yet.
You check your own clipboard, making sure everything's on schedule while trying not to think about Chaewon and whatever outfit has her texting you at 2 AM.
The irony isn't lost on you. Here you are, supervising the filming of a teaser—literally called "BORN FIRE"—while Chaewon herself is the true teaser. She's igniting something in you that's becoming increasingly difficult to contain. The line between her performance for the video and her performance for you is blurring dangerously.
"Manager-oppa, the director wants to run through the toy car scene again," Eunchae says, bouncing up to you in her feathered white outfit. "Have you seen Chaewon unnie? She's next."
"Still in wardrobe," you answer, keeping your voice steady. Like you're not thinking about how Chaewon moaned your name in that hotel in Jeju last month, her body shaking beneath yours as she came for the third time that night.
Sakura walks past with her stylist, the long white dress trailing behind her. You spot Kazuha already positioned on one of the white block structures that fill the set. The whole group is scattered around the space in various stages of preparation.
"Jiyeon-ssi," you call to your fellow manager, "can you check if hair and makeup are done with Chaewon?"
Jiyeon nods and heads toward the dressing area. You turn your attention back to the monitor, where the director is reviewing footage.
Then it happens.
The quiet murmur of the set shifts. You feel it before you see it.
Chaewon walks onto set, and your entire body goes rigid.
Your throat goes dry instantly. God, you love her in white—the way it makes her skin glow, how it emphasizes every curve you've memorized with your hands, your mouth. You force yourself to breathe normally even as memories flood your mind unbidden. She knows what this does to you. She's counting on it.
The white strapless dress is even shorter than it looked in the concept sketches and fittings you'd seen last week. It hugs her body perfectly, showing off shoulders you've kissed a hundred times.
The black belt cinches her waist—the waist you've held in your hands while she rode you until you both saw stars. But it's the boots that kill you. Thigh-high, black, lace-up boots that make her legs look endless.
You force yourself to look away, back at your clipboard. Professional. You're a professional.
But memories flood your mind anyway:
Chaewon straddling you in the backseat of your car, hand pressed against your mouth to keep you quiet while security guards walked past.
Chaewon pressed against your kitchen counter, panties around one ankle, begging you not to stop as you dropped to your knees.
Chaewon in your bed, hair spread across your pillow, eyes locked with yours as you moved inside her, whispering that she loves you.
You still remember the first time she said those words—three months in, both of you sweaty and breathless, her eyes wide with something like surprise at her own admission. You'd felt it too, that terrifying, exhilarating free-fall into something neither of you had planned for.
"You good?" asks one of the camera assistants, noticing how you've been staring at nothing.
"Fine," you say, the word clipped.
On set, Chaewon takes her position. In one scene, she stands tall on a miniature white car, the contrast of the boots against the white making her look like some kind of goddess. In another setup, she holds a diagram against her bare shoulder, eyes focused directly at the camera.
She's perfect. Professional. The director loves every take.
But then, during a lighting adjustment, when everyone's attention is elsewhere, she looks directly at you.
It's quick—barely a second—but in that moment, her professional mask slips. Her eyes darken. The corner of her mouth quirks up.
It's the same look she gave you the first time you told her to get on her knees.
The director calls for the next setup. Chaewon moves into position with the other members, all of them in white, creating a visual that's both innocent and somehow sinful.
You take a deep breath. You've been so good. So professional.
But when she walks past you, she whispers, "Bet you want to take this off me so bad," so quietly only you can hear it, you know exactly how this day is going to end.
You are completely, totally fucked.
You're in hell.
Not the burning, fire-and-brimstone kind. The sleek, white, glass-walled kind.
A special kind of hell designed with surgical precision by Kim Chaewon—your weakness, your fucking undoing.
The "BORN FIRE" shoot continues. It's been three hours. You've managed to stay professional for exactly none of them.
"Cut! Five minute break," the director calls.
The set erupts into controlled chaos—stylists rushing to touch up makeup, lighting techs adjusting gear, Kazuha and Eunchae huddled near the white blocks watching practice videos on their phones.
You stare at your clipboard like it contains the secrets of the universe.
Chaewon moves through the space like she owns it, boots clicking against the polished concrete floor. The sound alone makes your pulse kick.
She stands by the glass partition, sunlight catching on her hair, making it glow against all the sterile white. Your eyes follow her despite your brain screaming not to.
"Manager-oppa," she calls, voice sweet and professional. The sound hits you low in your stomach—the same tone she uses right before she begs you to fuck her harder.
"Can you bring me some water?"
She knows exactly what she's doing. Every staff member sees a hardworking idol asking her manager for a simple favor.
You know better.
You grab a bottle and walk it over to her. That's when she strikes.
Her fingers brush yours as she takes the bottle—deliberate, electric—the touch lasting a half-second too long to be accidental.
"Had a dream about you last night," she murmurs, voice pitched for your ears only.
The cap of the water bottle clicks as she twists it open. She drinks slowly, throat working in a way that triggers a vivid flashback—her on her knees three weeks ago, swallowing around you, looking up with those same dark eyes. You'd gripped her hair so tight she'd moaned around you.
Her tongue darts out to catch a drop on her lower lip. Her eyes never leave yours.
You say nothing. Your grip on the clipboard turns your knuckles white.
Jiyeon passes by, checking her watch. "Chaewon-ah, wardrobe wants to check your outfit before the next shot."
Chaewon nods, all professional sweetness. "Coming!"
She brushes past you, close enough that you catch her scent—something floral and expensive that you've tasted on her skin a hundred times before.
The stylist adjusts something on the back of her dress while she stands in front of the monitor. You try to focus on the schedule, on anything but the curve of her shoulder blades, the way the belt cinches her waist.
"Everything good?" the stylist asks.
Chaewon nods, then turns slightly. Her eyes find yours in the reflection of the monitor. "Perfect."
The tech walks away. You're about to do the same when—
"Woke up so wet this morning."
The words hit you like a physical blow. Your body responds instantly, a rush of heat that makes you grit your teeth.
She doesn't even look at you. Just keeps checking her reflection, adjusting a strand of hair like she didn't just set you on fire.
You step closer, voice low. "Watch yourself."
She smiles—sweet, sharp, fucking dangerous. "Always do. That's why I look so good."
The director calls everyone back. You retreat to the safety of the production table.
You adjust your clipboard, grateful for its coverage. This is what she reduces you to—a professional with years of industry experience hiding an erection like a teenager. The thought should embarrass you, but instead, there's a twisted pride in how she still affects you this way, even after a year together.
For exactly twelve minutes, you breathe. Focus. Reset.
Then she slides into the chair next to you.
"Can I see the schedule?" she asks, loud enough for others to hear. Professional. Proper.
You hand her your tablet without looking up. Three staff members hover nearby, discussing lighting for the next scene.
Sakura sits across the table, focused on crocheting something delicate and blue, her fingers moving with practiced precision. The click of her crochet hook provides a steady rhythm to the chaos around you.
That's when you feel it—her hand on your thigh under the table. Casual. Like it belongs there.
Your entire body goes rigid.
"Chaewon," you warn, barely a whisper.
"Mmm?" She leans in, pretending to point at something on the screen. Her fingers start to move. Slow strokes up, then down. Teasing.
You inhale sharply, willing your face to stay neutral.
The staff members move away. But Sakura is still there, focused on her project, the hook moving in and out of the yarn.
Chaewon's hand inches higher, bolder than she's ever been. Her pinky grazes dangerously close to where you're already hardening against your will.
"Stop," you hiss.
She leans closer, her breath against your ear. "I'm ovulating, you know."
Your vision blurs. Blood rushes in your ears.
"You'd feel it the moment you were inside me—"
Sakura looks up suddenly, her eyes meeting yours across the table.
Your heart stops.
Chaewon doesn't move her hand. Instead, she laughs at something on the screen, all innocent charm. "Manager-oppa, the schedule looks too tight. Don't you think?"
Sakura tilts her head, then returns to her crocheting, seemingly oblivious to the fact that your girlfriend's hand is still on your thigh, still dangerously high.
You wrap your fingers around her wrist under the table, stopping her hand but not removing it. A dangerous compromise.
Her pupils dilate. That's when you see it—she's not just playing with you. She's affected too. Her cheeks flushed, her breathing just a little too quick.
She's as desperate as you are.
The realization hits you like a kick to the chest.
"Two minutes!" someone calls.
She extracts her hand slowly, deliberately. Stands up, smooths down her dress. The movement pulls the hem even higher on her thigh.
"Think you can last the rest of the day?" she asks, a challenge glinting in her eyes.
Before you can answer, Jiyeon approaches. "Chaewon-ah, they need you for the car shot."
Chaewon nods, all business again. But as she walks away, she glances back—just once. Just enough for you to see the hunger there, mirroring your own.
The next hour is psychological warfare.
Around you, the set buzzes with activity. Makeup artists touch up the members between shots. The director argues with the cinematographer about lighting. A production assistant nearly trips over a cable, sending everyone scrambling.
And through it all, Chaewon wages her private campaign against your sanity.
This is high-stakes chess played under fluorescent lights.
Every staff member represents a potential career-ending leak. The director who's worked with three generations of idol groups and has seen every possible scandal. The company photographer who reports directly to the CEO. The stylists who know every whispered secret in the industry.
One wrong move, one lingering glance held too long, and everything you've both worked for collapses.
She steps onto the miniature white car, boots planted wide, the dress riding up her thighs as she poses. The camera loves her. Every angle is perfection.
You remember the first time you took her for a drive, six months into your secret relationship. She'd climbed into your lap at a deserted scenic point, the gear shift digging into her leg as she rode you, both of you half-clothed, desperate, her breath fogging the windows as she came.
Now, as she stands on that toy car, her eyes find yours between every take.
During the group shot with the white blocks, she trails her fingers along the edge of the structure, the same way she's traced paths across your chest in the dark of your bedroom. Her fingernails scrape lightly against the white surface, and you swear you can feel phantom scratches down your back.
Each pose becomes more provocative. Each glance more daring.
When the stylist adjusts her dress between shots, Chaewon stretches her arms overhead, making the hem ride dangerously high. The movement fills your nostrils with the scent of her perfume—jasmine and something deeper—that clings to your sheets for days after she leaves.
In the solo shot with the diagram pressed against her bare shoulder, she turns just enough that only you can see how her teeth catch her bottom lip—the same way they do when you're deep inside her.
Your heart hammers against your ribs. Your skin feels too tight. Every minute is torture, and the fact that you're surrounded by people—Jiyeon checking the time, Eunchae asking you questions, staff members constantly brushing past—only makes it worse.
This isn't just teasing anymore. This is Chaewon pushing both of you to the edge.
Then comes the final blow.
During the last break, when the set is buzzing with activity, she passes by the narrow space between the equipment cases where you're checking inventory.
No one can see you here. Just a sliver of space hidden from the main floor.
She stops, just for a second. Leans in.
"Just fuck me in the changing room already."
The clipboard nearly snaps in your grip.
She walks away, satisfied smirk playing on her lips.
And something in you—the last thread of your control—finally snaps.
You count to ten. Wait until she's back in position on set.
Then you move through the space with purpose, face composed, steps measured.
Professional.
You reach her just as the director calls for a lighting check.
Your fingers wrap around her wrist—firm, decisive.
She looks up, triumph flashing in her eyes.
"Do you wanna get caught, you stupid bitch?" you whisper, the words harsh but your tone almost loving.
Her lips part. A small gasp that only you can hear.
"Manager-nim, is something wrong?" the director asks.
"Wardrobe issue," you say smoothly. "Won't take long."
You pull her away from the set, past curious eyes, past Jiyeon's raised eyebrow.
The changing room is too exposed. Too many people.
Five years in this industry has taught you one thing: discretion isn't just preferred, it's survival.
You've built your reputation on professionalism, on being the manager who anticipates problems before they happen.
Chaewon is the one variable you can never fully calculate, the one risk you can't mitigate. And God help you, you wouldn't have it any other way.
You spot it—a storage room door, slightly ajar. Dark. Empty.
Perfect.
Her breath catches as you change direction, leading her toward it.
"What are you—"
You push the door open. Pull her inside The storage room door closes with a soft click.
And finally—fucking finally—you're alone.
One second passes.
Two.
Then Chaewon launches herself at you.
Her hands grab your face with bruising intensity, fingernails digging into your scalp, your jaw, anywhere she can grip. The heat of her palms sears your skin as her mouth finds yours with desperate precision. The kiss is nuclear—all teeth and tongue and hunger. She bites your lower lip, hard enough to make you taste the metallic hint of blood, then soothes it with the velvety warmth of her tongue, exploring your mouth like she's trying to devour you whole.
Her body presses against yours, tits crushed against your chest, her hips grinding with shameless need. She grabs your hands and places them on her ass, demanding your touch without saying a word.
"Fuck, I missed your mouth," she gasps, her breath hot against your lips as she pulls at your clothes, fingers trembling and scrabbling at your belt, nails occasionally scraping against your abdomen. She can't seem to decide where to touch you—her hands moving from your chest to your shoulders to your neck, back to your belt, frantic and greedy. "Missed your hands. Missed your cock."
You slam her against the shelves, the metal rattling with a satisfying clang that echoes her gasp. Your hands are everywhere—her face, flushed and warm beneath your palms; her throat, pulse hammering wildly under your fingertips; the soft swell of her breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath; the dramatic curve of her waist that fits perfectly in your grip. Every touch relearns the terrain you've been starved of for three endless weeks.
She reaches behind and grabs your wrists, dragging your hands to her ass, forcing you to squeeze the firm flesh. "Touch me everywhere," she demands, voice thick with need. "I've been dying for it."
"You took too fucking long," she pants against your lips, her voice vibrating through you as her hands finally get your pants open, the sudden coolness of air a sharp contrast to the heat of her touch. Her fingers brush against your cock, a teasing touch that makes your jaw clench.
The storage room closes around you—metal shelves on one wall digging into her back, garment racks crowded with costumes exhaling the scent of fabric softener and makeup, cardboard boxes stacked in the corner threatening to topple with each movement. A single fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting harsh shadows that carve her features into something almost feral with need, highlighting the sheen of sweat beginning to form at her temples, at the hollow of her throat.
She makes quick work of the black safety shorts beneath her dress, the fabric making a soft whisper as it slides down her legs before she kicks them away. The movement is so fluid, so urgent, that your mouth goes dry with anticipation. She grabs your hand, guiding it between her legs, letting you feel how ready she is. "See what you do to me?" she whispers, eyes locked on yours.
You spin her around, the quick motion making her gasp. For a moment, you just look at her—the elegant column of her neck where a few baby hairs escape her bob cut, curling with perspiration; the delicate slope of her shoulders, pale and perfect under the harsh light; the dramatic curve where her waist meets the swell of her ass, emphasized by the black belt that begs to be gripped. The white dress clings to every inch, revealing the heat she's generating beneath it. Your mouth waters just looking at her, tongue dragging across suddenly parched lips.
Your hand comes down on her ass with a sharp crack, the sound startlingly loud in the confined space. She jerks forward, a surprised gasp escaping her lips. The pale skin instantly flushes pink under your palm.
"Hurry up," she demands, looking back at you over her shoulder, eyes dark and glassy with impatience, pupils blown wide until only a thin ring of brown remains. She arches her back, pushing her ass against your hand, silently begging for more.
You grip her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave impressions. "Shut the fuck up."
Her breath catches with an audible hitch. You know she loves it when you talk to her like this—can feel it in the goosebumps that rise under your touch, in the way her thighs tremble slightly.
You run your hands up her sides, feeling the heat radiating through the thin fabric, then down to the hem of her dress, bunching the material as you start to lift it. The fabric makes a soft rustling sound that seems obscenely loud in the small space. Your hands slide up her thighs, skin like silk beneath your calloused palms, finding the lace edge of her panties. Black, of course. The contrast against her pale skin is stark and mouthwatering.
Another smack lands on her ass, harder this time. You watch the flesh jiggle under the impact, the imprint of your hand blooming pink against her porcelain skin. "You like that?" you ask, already knowing the answer as she pushes back against you.
"Yes," she hisses, grinding back against your hand. "Again. Harder."
You comply, landing another sharp slap, watching the way her body jerks forward before pressing back, seeking more. "Look at you," you murmur, "So perfect for the cameras, but in here, you're just a dirty little slut who gets wet from being spanked."
She moans at your words, the sound vibrating through her entire body. "Only for you," she whispers, the admission hanging heavy in the air between you.
Spinning her back around, you claim her mouth again, tasting mint and desperation on her tongue as your hand slips between her legs, pressing the lace against her. The fabric is soaked through, warm and clinging to her folds. Her hands are everywhere—gripping your shoulders, sliding down your chest, grabbing at your ass to pull you closer, like she can't get enough of touching you.
"Goddamn," you mutter against her lips, the words a vibration between your connected mouths. "Your pussy's fucking drenched."
You hook your fingers into the lace and yank it aside, the elastic snapping against her thigh. Your middle finger slides through her folds, gathering her wetness, feeling how swollen and ready she is—hot and slick and perfect against your fingertips.
"Look how fucking wet you are," you murmur, watching her face contort with pleasure as you circle her clit, feeling it harden beneath your touch. "Been thinking about this all day, haven't you?"
She whimpers, a high, needy sound that goes straight to your cock as she grinds against your hand. "I told you I've been wet since I woke up," she pants, her breath coming in short, hot puffs against your face. "Thinking about you. About this. About you bending me over and fucking me until I can't remember my own name."
She tries to reach for you, but you catch her wrist with your free hand, her pulse jumping beneath your grip as you pin it above her head against the shelves. The metal is cold against her skin, making her hiss.
"Not yet," you tell her, voice dropping to a growl. "I want you desperate first."
"I'm already desperate," she hisses, trying to rock against your hand, the movement making her belt buckle clink against itself. Her free hand grabs at your shirt, your arm, anywhere she can reach. "Just fuck me already."
You turn her again, pressing her face-first against the metal shelving. The cold surface makes her gasp, back arching instinctively away from it. She braces herself, legs automatically spreading wider on the concrete floor, the heel of her boots making a sharp click as she repositions.
You grab her belt from behind, leather warm from her body heat, using it to arch her back, positioning her ass higher. The positioning makes the dress ride up further, exposing more of her thighs, making her stance more obscene, more perfect.
Another smack lands on her exposed ass, harder than before, the sound cracking through the small room. She jerks forward, a moan ripping from her throat.
"Fucking perfect," you mutter, kneading the flesh you just struck, watching the pink handprint fade and bloom again under your touch. You land another blow on the opposite cheek, evening her out, making her squirm.
The scent of her arousal hits you fully now—musky, sweet, unmistakable. Your mouth waters at the smell of her, cock throbbing painfully in response.
You reach up, fingers finding her hair, gripping the short strands of her bob at the nape of her neck. Not pulling, just holding, controlling. The sensation makes her moan, her head falling back into your grip.
"Please," she whispers, the word a broken, ragged thing as she tries to push back against you.
You keep her in place with your dual grip on her belt and hair. "Please what?"
"Please fuck me," she begs, all teasing gone from her voice, replaced with raw need. "I need your cock inside me. Now."
You release her hair to lean over her, your chest pressing against her back, trapping her heat between your bodies. Your mouth finds her ear, teeth grazing the sensitive lobe. "After all that teasing? All those filthy little comments with people right fucking there?"
You land another hard slap on her ass, watching the flesh redden under your palm. "This what you wanted? Getting your ass slapped while the whole crew is just outside?"
"Yes," she admits, voice small but sure. "Needed it so bad."
You drag the head of your cock through her slick folds, the sensation making both of you groan—her wetness hot and silky against you, making everything gloriously frictionless. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't make you wait longer."
"Because," she pants, voice vibrating with need, "you want this as bad as I do."
She's right, and you both know it.
You guide yourself to her entrance and thrust in with one brutal stroke, burying yourself to the hilt in her tight, clinging heat.
The sound she makes is primal—half gasp, half moan, pure fucking need. Your hand clamps over her mouth immediately, palm registering the warm wetness of her breath, the softness of her lips.
"Shhh," you warn even as you pull back and drive in again, the slick sound of your joining obscenely loud in the small space. "You want the whole fucking staff to hear how you take cock? How their perfect Kim Chaewon is just a dirty little whore in here?"
She shakes her head, but her pussy clenches around you at the words, a vice-like grip that sends stars exploding behind your eyelids. You know she loves the risk, the filth, the knowledge that just outside this door, she's Kim Chaewon of LE SSERAFIM, but in here, she's just yours to use.
"That's what gets you off, isn't it?" you growl against her ear, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. "Knowing they all think you're so sweet, so professional, when really you're in here letting me fuck you raw in a storage room."
Moving your hand from her mouth to her throat, you feel her swallow against your palm, her pulse racing beneath your fingers. You don't squeeze, just hold, feeling the vibrations of her moans traveling through her slender neck.
"That's right," you growl against her ear, teeth scraping the shell. "Remember who you belong to."
Her response is a full-body shudder, her inner walls clenching around you, making you groan at the sensation.
You fuck her hard, each thrust making her body jolt against the shelves. The metal creaks ominously, the sound mixing with the wet slap of skin on skin, the harsh sounds of your combined breathing. Your hand comes down on her ass again, the sting making her gasp, her pussy clenching around you in response.
"You love that, don't you?" you murmur, watching the red handprint bloom on her pale skin. "Love getting your ass slapped while your tight little pussy gets stretched around my cock."
"Yes," she admits, voice breaking around the word. "Love it. Love everything you do to me."
Without pulling out, you grab her left thigh and lift it, the smooth leather of her boot sliding against your palm as you plant her foot against a lower shelf. The new position opens her up, lets you sink even deeper into her molten core.
"Fuck," she whimpers, head falling forward against her braced arm, the tendons in her neck standing out in sharp relief.
"That's it," you growl, watching yourself disappear inside her over and over, mesmerized by the sight of her taking you, by the glistening evidence of her arousal coating you. "Take it deeper."
You grip her belt with one hand, bunching her dress even higher with the other until it's completely out of the way. The sight of her perfect ass jiggling with each impact makes your head swim, blood rushing in your ears. It's already pink from your earlier attention, the skin warm to the touch.
Your hand slides up her spine to grip her hair again, this time with purpose. You gather the short strands in your fist, tugging just enough to make her back arch further, to make her gasp, throat exposed and vulnerable.
"Look at you," you say, voice rough with exertion, the words punched out of you with each thrust. "LE SSERAFIM's perfect leader, taking cock in a storage room, being such a whore. Such a pretty little slut with your ass all red from my hands, your pussy dripping all over my cock."
She pushes back against you, taking you deeper, her body greedily swallowing every inch. "Harder," she demands, voice breaking on the word. "Fuck me harder. Make me feel it tomorrow."
You grip both her hips now, fingers digging into soft flesh, and pick up the pace. The new angle has you hitting that spot inside her that makes her whole body tremble, makes her walls flutter and clench around you. The wet sounds of her pussy taking your cock fill the small space—obscene, filthy, perfect.
"You're so fucking tight," you groan, feeling her walls grip you like a silken vice. "Squeezing my cock like you're trying to milk it dry."
You switch your grip, one hand finding her throat again, feeling her swallow against your palm as you apply the gentlest pressure. Just enough to remind her who's in control, to make her breath catch. Your other hand comes down hard on her ass again, the smack loud enough to make you both freeze for a second, worried it might have been heard outside.
"You've been a fucking menace all day," you growl, your pace relentless, the sound of your bodies coming together a wet percussion. "Strutting around in this dress, whispering that shit in my ear, touching me under the table."
Your grip on her throat tightens fractionally, making her pulse jump against your fingers. Her only response is to push back harder, taking you deeper, her body yielding and demanding all at once.
"You'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't you?" you ask, voice low and rough in her ear. "Slap your ass, pull your hair, fuck you where anyone could walk in and see you—see what a desperate little whore you really are."
"Yes," she admits, the confession barely audible. "Anything. Everything."
The tension builds between you, a tangible thing in the small, overheated room. The air is thick with the scent of sex, with the sounds of pleasure barely contained, with the electric certainty that this is exactly where you both need to be.
You change the angle again, leaning over her back to reach around to her front. The new position grinds your pelvis against her ass with each thrust, your cock hitting new spots inside her. Your fingers find her clit, circling it in tight, firm motions, feeling it swell and harden under your touch.
"Oh fuck," she gasps, her inner walls fluttering around you like wings. "Right there, don't stop."
You don't stop. You keep up the relentless pace, feeling her get wetter around you with each stroke, her arousal making everything slick and hot and perfect. Your fingers on her clit get slicker, the combination of her arousal and your spit making obscene wet sounds that mix with the slap of skin on skin.
"That's right, take it just like that," you encourage, voice strained. "Take it like the cock-hungry little slut you are."
Instead of being offended, she moans louder, her body responding to your words as much as to your touch. You know exactly what she likes to hear, exactly how far to push the fantasy of degradation that excites her so much.
The pleasure is so intense you have to grit your teeth to keep from coming too soon. Three weeks without this—without her tight heat squeezing you, without her desperate little sounds, without the feeling of being buried inside her—has left you balanced on a knife's edge of control.
"You close?" you ask, voice strained, the words feeling like they're being ripped from your chest.
"Yes," she pants, the word almost a sob. "So close."
You reach up with your free hand, tangling your fingers in her hair again, carefully pulling her head back to expose the elegant line of her neck, watching the muscles work beneath the skin as she swallows. You bend to press open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder, right where the dress leaves her skin bare, tasting salt and sweetness.
"Think about this tomorrow," you murmur against her skin, lips dragging over the goosebumps your breath creates. "When you're sitting in meetings, when you're in practice, when you're smiling for the cameras—remember how fucked you look right now. Remember how your ass felt getting spanked while my cock was inside you. Remember what a perfect little whore you are for me."
Her breath catches. Her pussy clenches around you. She's right on the edge, her body wound tight as a bowstring.
"Remember you're fucking mine," you growl, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that makes her cry out before she can stop herself, the sound sharp and startling in the quiet room.
You cover her mouth again, palm feeling the heat of her breath, the wetness of her lips, but it's too late—the sound echoed in the small room. Both of you freeze, hearts pounding, listening for any reaction from outside.
Nothing. Just the continued sounds of the busy set.
The moment of fear transforms quickly back into desperate need. Your thrusts become harder, deeper, more deliberate. Her body responds with renewed hunger, pushing back to meet you stroke for stroke, the rhythm between you perfect and instinctive.
Your hand slips from her mouth to her throat, not squeezing, just feeling her pulse race under your palm, feeling the vibrations of her moans travel through your fingertips.
"You gonna come for me?" you ask, feeling your own orgasm building at the base of your spine, heat coiling tight and insistent. "Gonna come all over my cock like the needy little slut you are?"
She nods frantically, beyond words now. Her body tightens around you, clenching with each thrust, the pressure building visibly in the arch of her back, the tension in her thighs, the way her fingers curl against the metal shelf.
You can feel your own release building, the tight grip of her pussy dragging you toward the edge. You've been thinking about this for weeks—dreaming about it, jerking off to memories of it—and now you're finally here, buried inside her, both of you desperate and filthy and perfect.
Her breath hitches. Her pussy flutters around your cock. You know the signs—she's right there, teetering on the precipice.
One more hard slap on her ass, the sting making her gasp, her inner walls clenching around you in response.
You lower her leg from the shelf, repositioning her with both feet on the ground, but spread wide. You grip her belt again with one hand, keeping up the pressure on her clit with the other. The new angle has you grinding against that spot inside her that makes her go crazy, makes her whole body tremble.
"Come on," you urge, your own control slipping, voice rough and broken. "Come on my cock, Chaewon. Let me feel it. Let me feel what a fucking whore you are for me."
Her body responds instantly, like your words were the final trigger she needed. She buries her face against her arm to muffle the sound as her orgasm rips through her, her pussy clamping down on you in rhythmic pulses, a flood of warmth surrounding you. Her legs shake so hard you have to hold her up with the grip on her belt, feeling the tremors travel through her entire body.
The sight of her completely wrecked, the feel of her convulsing around you, the knowledge that you did this to her—it all sends you over the edge. You thrust deep one last time, grinding against her ass as you come, filling her up with pulse after pulse, the pleasure so intense it's almost pain, radiating from your core to the tips of your fingers, the backs of your knees, the top of your skull.
"Fuck, Chaewon, fuck," you chant, forehead pressed between her shoulder blades as you empty yourself inside her, feeling the way she milks every drop from you, her body greedy even in its exhaustion.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just the sound of ragged breathing, your heartbeats gradually slowing from their frantic pace, the distant muffled voices of the set filtering back into your awareness.
You're still inside her, softening but reluctant to break the connection. Her body occasionally trembles with aftershocks, her pussy giving your cock little squeezes that make you hiss with oversensitivity, the sensation bordering on too much.
You run your hand gently over her ass, soothing the skin you'd been striking moments ago. It's still warm to the touch, a faint pink that will fade before she has to be back on set. Your touch is gentle now, a stark contrast to the roughness from before.
"You okay?" you murmur against her ear, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her neck.
"Better than okay," she whispers back, voice wrecked but satisfied.
Eventually, you pull out slowly, both of you groaning at the sensation. You watch as a trickle of your come leaks from her, sliding down her inner thigh. The sight sends a possessive thrill through you, primal and satisfying.
She straightens, turning to face you. Her makeup is smeared, her lips swollen and red, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes have that dazed, satisfied look that only comes after she's been thoroughly fucked. A thin sheen of sweat makes her skin glow under the fluorescent light. Her short hair is disheveled where you'd gripped it, sticking up in places that you smooth down with gentle fingers.
You grab tissues from a box on the shelf, gently cleaning between her legs. She watches you, a soft smile playing on her lips—so different from the smirk she's been tormenting you with all day.
"Did I hurt you?" you ask, suddenly aware of how rough you were, eyes searching for marks on her throat, her wrists, her hips, ghosting your fingers over her ass where you'd struck her.
She shakes her head, running her fingers through your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp in a way that makes you shiver. "Babe, It was perfect."
You retrieve her safety shorts from the floor and help her back into them, then smooth down her dress. Your hands linger on her waist, not quite ready to let go, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric.
A smirk forms slowly on her face, eyes glittering with mischief as she leans in close, her breath warm against your ear. "Think they heard?"
You press a final kiss to her shoulder, lingering there, inhaling deeply—tasting salt and perfume and her, that essence that's uniquely Chaewon beneath the expensive fragrance. Your lips trace a path to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, feeling her pulse still racing beneath your mouth.
"Not if you keep your mouth shut next time," you murmur against her skin, unable to resist giving her one more gentle bite.
She hums, the sound vibrating against your lips. "But where's the fun in that?" she whispers, that familiar playful defiance in her voice.
As she attempts to take a step back, her legs buckle. She grabs your shoulders to steady herself, her usual composure completely absent, the bratty confidence from seconds ago vanishing.
"I can't move," she whispers, voice wrecked, blinking up at you with unfocused eyes. All the sharp edges of her personality momentarily dissolved, leaving her soft and vulnerable in a way no one else ever sees. "My legs won't work."
"Good," you murmur, unable to hide your satisfaction as you press a kiss to her forehead, supporting her weight. You hold her close for a moment, feeling the way she melts against you, completely undone.
After a moment, that familiar glint of mischief gradually returns to her eyes. The transformation is beginning; the desperate, wrecked woman slowly rebuilding herself into the polished idol.
In this moment, with her guard completely down, she looks younger, softer. The harsh fluorescent lighting should be unflattering, but somehow it just makes her look more real—smudged eyeshadow, faint red marks on her throat where your fingers were, her hair disheveled despite her attempts to smooth it. For a few seconds more, she's just yours.
She reaches up, her hand cupping your cheek with surprising tenderness. Her eyes, usually sharp and mischievous, soften as she looks at you. She leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips—so different from the desperate ones you shared minutes ago. This one is deliberate, unhurried.
"I love you," she whispers against your mouth, the words barely audible but unmistakable. It's not something she says often—both of you knowing how dangerous those words can be in your situation.
Your hand comes up to cover hers where it rests against your face, holding her there for a moment. "I love you too," you reply quietly, the words filling the small space between you. "Even when you're being a menace."
Her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Especially when I'm being a menace," she corrects, and you can't help but smile.
You glare at her playfully, and she giggles—the sound at complete odds with what just happened, with the filthy things you both just did, with the woman who was begging for your cock and calling herself your whore minutes ago. The contrast is jarring and perfect; this duality of hers that only you get to witness.
She leans in and kisses you deeply, but without the desperate edge from before. This kiss is softer, a promise.
When she pulls back, you can see the clock ticking in her head. Reality intruding.
"You go first," you say, checking your watch. "They'll be looking for you. The shoot needs to wrap in twenty minutes."
She nods, takes a deep breath, and you watch in fascination as she transforms back into LE SSERAFIM's leader right before your eyes. Her shoulders straighten, her chin lifts, her expression becomes more controlled. It's like watching an actress step into character—except you know both versions are equally real.
She checks her reflection in her phone, adjusts her belt, smooths her hair with practiced precision. Only you would notice the slight tremble in her fingers, the pink marks on her hips where your hands were, the satisfied glow in her eyes that the camera won't quite catch but you can see clearly.
"How do I look?" she asks, voice steady now, almost back to the professional tone she uses with everyone else.
Like she's just been thoroughly fucked. Like her thighs are still sticky with both of you. Like she's hiding a universe of secrets behind that poised expression. Like she's yours.
"Perfect," you say instead, swallowing the possessive thoughts.
She smiles—not the coy smirk from before, but something genuine that crinkles the corners of her eyes. Then it's gone, replaced by the polished mask she wears for everyone else.
Just as you think she's about to leave, she presses one last kiss to your jaw, her fingers trailing down your chest with deliberate slowness. Her lips move to your ear, breath hot against your skin.
"I'll be thinking about this all night," she whispers, voice dropping to that register that makes your pulse quicken despite your recent release. Then, even lower, just for you: "And touching myself the second I get back to the dorm."
Before you can respond, she's slipped out the door with a final squeeze of your hand, leaving you alone in the storage room with her promise echoing in your mind, the scent of sex still hanging in the air, mingling with her perfume.
You give it two minutes before following, clipboard held strategically in front of you, expression carefully neutral as you adjust your own mask—the efficient manager, all business.
By the time you return, Chaewon is already back on set, taking direction for the next shot, nodding professionally at the photographer's instructions. Her posture is immaculate, her expression perfectly calibrated—looking as composed and professional as if she'd just been touching up her makeup instead of being bent over a shelf with your hand prints on her ass.
No one looks at her twice. No one notices the way she stands slightly differently, favoring one leg. No one sees the slight darkening at the base of her throat where your mouth had been.
You watch from behind the monitor, maintaining a careful distance, occasionally checking your phone or making notes on your clipboard. The perfect picture of professionalism.
She gets into position, poised and beautiful under the lights, following direction flawlessly. The camera loves her—captures her elegance, her poise, but misses completely the woman you know.
Then she glances directly at the camera, and for just a second—
The look she gives—half-lidded eyes, the barest hint of teeth catching her lower lip, a fleeting microexpression of remembered pleasure—that's just for you.
And you know, watching her seamlessly return to her perfect idol persona, that you'll both be counting the minutes until you can be alone again.
...
AN: Yes I'm a certified CHAEWON simp. This is strike 3 chaewon from me with more coming.
#cloudtrnsprncy#cloudtsmut#malereader#kpop smut#chaewon x reader#kim chaewon#chaewon#chaewon x male reader#lesserafim#chaewon hot
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Dc x Dp #42
Danny raising both de-aged Dan and Dani in Gotham and a small apartment. Everything seemed to be fine for the most part. Though he was tired of how many different jobs he had to keep taking because of all the rogues running around and trashing the place. He came home and complained everytime about the stupid rogues that was causing trouble. The latest was the Joker with his bombs blowing up the coffee shop he worked at.
He complained as he made his way into the kitchen to prepare dinner, missing the look that was shared between Dani and Dan.
Because while they were physically regressed to the ages of toddlers, their powers still stayed intact. Of course, the most Danny had to deal with was the two occasionally floated when they were sleepy or excited. Which he could handle. He didn't know how much the two were holding back in his presence to appear on their best behavior.
Which lead to Red Hood standing over said toddlers in the middle of the night. Dan holding a bloodied Joker by his hair. And by the faint trail of blood behind him, they were obviously dragging him somewhere.
Now, he's dealt with kids with superpowers before, but he didn't think he would have to deal with literal babies.
"So, what do you kids got there?" He asked, voice inquisitive yet static-like due to the voice modulator in his mask.
"We got a bad clown!" The girl chirped, blue eyes piercing with a proudness that no toddler should have about beating up someone. Though, he'll give it to her, he was a bad clown.
"And why do you have the bad clown?" He asked, ignoring the pained groan said clown let out that was muffled due to him being face down on the concrete. Hearing the sound, the young boy that had him lifted his head and slammed it down on the ground with a strength that startled Jason for a moment. His hand reflectively going for one of his pistols before settling.
Well, that answered the question of whether or not the kids did it themselves. Sparing a glance between two, he noticed the boy was a bit more roughed up
"He upset mama." The boy answered plainly, frowning as if upsetting his mother was the most unforgivable thing there was. Though, what kid didn't think that way? "He made mama job go boom!" She said, spreading her arms in an exaggerated manner to imitate an explosion.
Ah, Jason did remember Joker did blow up a few buildings the other day. He guessed their mother was working at one of them. Did that mean that she was a meta on the run, a civilian with two meta children, or some sick handler of child soldiers?
"Well, we better bring him to mama, shouldn't we? Bet she'd be really surprised to see what you two did." He offered, curious to see their reactions.
Both children suddenly looked up at him with matching blue eyes that sparkled with excitement. Probably because he wasn't going to stop them from what they were doing.
"Let's go see mama!" The young girl cheered, the boy giving a nod in affirmative before the two began walking down in a direction that was no doubt their home. The boys grip on the Joker's hair unfaltering as he continued to drag him through the pavement.
Jason followed the strange group, hands nestled in his pockets as he couldn't wait to see the reaction of their mother when the group returned home.
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everything's in the air . jww
preview



You're not his sugar baby, and you're definitely not his girlfriend. But you're something to him and maybe that's enough.
✶ ceo!wonwoo x college student!reader ✶ w.c: 20k (as of now 🙂↕️) ✶ genre: porn with plot. minors dni ✶ warnings: explicit content 🔞. age gap (reader is implied early-mid 20s, wonwoo late 30s), college/university au (reader is a grad student), brief reader x chan (blink & you miss), sugar baby au?? kind of. reader wears glasses. please let me know if there is anything else you think i should include! ✶ date coming : -- ✶ notes: aaaa i promise this is coming soon ive just been both busy & this is way longer than i was expecting it to be. thank you for being patient with me and thank you for all the support and love on my first fic!! hope you will like this one just as much. 🤍
“He's not my sugar daddy.”
Your best friend scoffs, “What else do you call the very rich man that's paying all your bills?” And then, because she thinks better of it, “Fine, your boyfriend then.”
“I’m not dating him.” You roll your eyes, “And I call him Wonwoo, you know, his name.”
She gives you a look that could curdle milk, “You’re fucking him. He’s paying your rent, hell, he bought you a car because you showed up to his apartment late once. That’s way more than I get from the people I do date.”
You grin around your straw. “Maybe you just need to have higher standards.”
“Maybe you need to figure out what this is before he decides it for you.”
That sobers you just a little. Because it’s true. Wonwoo calls the shots—always has. He decides when, where, how. He decides what gets touched, what gets taken off first, how long you stay, how hard you fall. And you? You let him. You let him because when he’s there, when he’s in it, he makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the world that can pull him away from the weight of everything else he carries.
But when he’s gone, he’s gone. Silent. Distant. Untouchable. Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t have you trembling under him, whispering your name like a secret too dangerous to say out loud.
You pick at the edge of your nail, suddenly needing something to ground you. “It’s not like that,” you murmur.
Soomin watches you carefully now. No more teasing, no more smirking. Just quiet understanding, the way only a best friend can deliver. “Yeah,” she says finally. “But maybe that’s the problem.”
You don’t respond. What could you even say?
Your phone buzzes again—another message. Not from him this time. A class group chat reminding you of tomorrow’s midterm. You ignore it, but the glow of the screen is enough to pull you back to the ticking clock. 10:42 PM. You should get going soon if you’re going to be on time.
You rise from your chair and stretch, grabbing your tote bag and slipping your notes inside, careful not to fold the pages you’ve marked up.
Soomin raises an eyebrow. “So that’s it? You’re going?”
“I said I’d be there by midnight.”
“Did you say it, or did he?”
You sling the bag over your shoulder. “Does it matter?”
She gives you a tight-lipped smile. “You tell me.”
There’s nothing else to say, really. She’s said her piece. You’ve deflected, like always. The rhythm of it is familiar, almost comforting in how dysfunctional it is.
“I’ll text you when I get back,” you offer.
You grab your phone, pull up your messages, and finally open the unread one. Be here by midnight. No “please,” no emoji, no warmth. Just an instruction. Just like him.
But he didn’t need warmth to get under your skin. He never did.
You tuck the phone into your bag and head for the door.
And behind you, Soomin calls out one last thing, low and sharp and not entirely joking:
“Just don’t fall in love with him.”
You don’t answer.
Because that’s the one thing you can’t promise.
🍸
Two Years Ago
You weren’t supposed to be there. Technically speaking.
The email invite to the closed-door roundtable for "Private Influence in Public Governance" was meant for graduate students and faculty only. But your professor, jaded and permanently exhausted, owed you a favor after you ghost-wrote half his lecture slides last semester. One word from him and you were slipped onto the guest list with a name tag and a lanyard you hadn't earned.
You didn’t care about etiquette. You cared about proximity.
You were majoring in political science, with a minor in journalism. And this event? It was like a live autopsy of everything corrupt and powerful that textbooks liked to talk around. Wealthy donors, private equity reps, CEOs disguised as “policy contributors.” You had your eye on all of them.
But you hadn’t expected him.
Jeon Wonwoo.
He wasn’t listed in the program. No name tag, no title placard. Just a tailored black suit, a heavy watch, and a face you recognized from articles about mergers, lobbying scandals, and two separate exposés that mysteriously disappeared from the internet after a week. He sat at the end of the table, silent, his attention divided between the room and something on his phone.
He looked like someone who didn’t need to speak to be heard.
You didn’t realize you were staring until he looked up. Eyes locking on yours across the room like he'd felt it. A pause—maybe a second, maybe longer. You looked away first.
But he didn’t.
When the session ended and everyone flooded toward the catered wine and networking corner, you ducked into the adjacent exhibit hall to grab your notes and recalibrate. Alone, for five seconds, until you weren’t.
“Undergrad?” a voice said behind you—smooth, low, and close enough that you turned like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t.
He was standing just inside the doorway. No name badge, no reason to be here except for the fact that the entire world seemed to rearrange itself when he entered a room.
You swallowed. “And here I thought you were going to ask for my number first.”
He smiled—not with his mouth, but with the kind of glint in his eyes that made you feel like prey he was deciding not to eat just yet. “That depends,” he said. “Do you always make a habit of sneaking into closed-door policy sessions?”
You tilted your head. “Do you always stalk college students into side rooms?”
A beat.
Then he walked closer.
Not menacing, not hurried—just enough to make your pulse skip. His steps were silent, deliberate, like he’d long since learned how to take up space without ever seeming to fight for it.
“I’m Jeon Wonwoo,” he said, like it was supposed to mean something.
And it did. But you didn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Congratulations.”
He chuckled, low in his chest. “You’re brave.”
You didn’t move. “You’re old.”
He smiled again—this time, amused. “Do you flirt with all the men who could buy your university?”
You leaned against the table behind you and smiled back. “Only the ones who look like they know they’re going to hell.”
That made him pause.
Not because he was offended.
Because he liked it.
“I don’t believe in hell,” he said.
You tilted your head. “Of course you don’t. You’re already in charge of it.”
He exhaled a soft laugh, studying you now like a new acquisition. Like someone had left something sharp and pretty on his desk, and he wasn’t sure if it was a weapon or a gift.
“Name?” he asked.
You hesitated just long enough to make him work for it. Then: “Why? You going to blacklist me from the next event?”
“No,” he said. “I want to remember it.”
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mr and mrs ‘let me do it’
A/n; I haven’t wrote for marvel in so long… anyhow, headcanons because I can and I want to
warning(s): both miles are stubborn in their own ways, mrs independent woman reader, slithers of mama Rio, a little bickering, mentions of social norms, pet names, rusty spanish, and language l
earth 1610 miles! who’s love language is acts of service, —as well as physical touch— in which it literally makes him go insane when you don’t let him do something for you. drastic or mundane you volunteer yourself everytime and he hates it
earth 1610 miles! who has to learn to somewhat bully his way into doing things for you… you guys sitting together during lunch and you forgot to get utensils? before you can even swing your leg over the bench of the cafeteria table he’s already up walking back to the cart that carries condiments, napkins, plastic packaged utensils and things of the sort
earth 1610 miles! where you both turn it into a little competition on who can help the other one more. you ask him to hold your phone so you can tie your shoe? that’s cute, meanwhile he fully gets down on one knee and ties them for you. Oh, his dorm is messy and he can’t find his notes he needed to finish over the weekend back home? meanwhile, your in your own room copying down what you you wrote from your notes filled with scribblings of words onto his semi empty notebook.
earth 1610 miles! who likes to do something to make your life a little easier no matter how big or small. your about to have a study session and you ran to the bathroom? guess who taking all the text books and notes out of your bag so you don’t have to rummage thought it? Well miles of course :)
earth 1610 miles! who loves you because you think about him and your actions really show it. he had to patrol and couldn’t watch the new episode of his favorite super hero, guess who recorded the who thing start to finish so he could watch it in his down time?
earth 1610 miles! who is in a healthy happy competition of completing services for one another with you because “Te amo aunque seas terco, mi vida.”
ミ★ミ★ミ★
earth 42 miles! who is quite literally wont take no for an answer. it got to a point where he would just start doing things for you instead of asking. you look like you’re carrying too many bags on your mini splurge at the mall? welp now you’re carrying NOTHING.
earth 42 miles! where you both grew up around the social norm of ‘the man should pay for dates with a woman’ and rather he knew it or not, miles subconsciously adapted it into his life. you on the other hand couldn’t call bull shit fast enough to save your life. however, while miles really did value your core beliefs he couldn’t really be bothered to break the habit. he wasn’t wealthy per say, but he had enough to simultaneously spoil you with things as well as help his mom with necessities.
earth 42 miles! who mutters a “watch out ma” when you even try and reach for your purse to pay for ANYTHING. total of $8.67 at the bodega trying to get snacks for your movie night? “I got it.” total of $78.92 after having appetizers, meals, and dessert? “I got it.” $250 to go get some self care done “I got it.”
earth 42 miles! that gets you so frustrated that you guys start to have petty arguments that mama Rio doesn’t stand for. yes you’re lovers, but she will still make you hug in the oversized, OVERSIZED, tshirt until you figure it out like you’re siblings.
earth 42 miles! who you have to learn just loves that way and if you want a change you have to force it yourself. the look he gave you when you came back from the “restroom” on your next weekly date having found out when he waived down your waiter that the meal was already paid for was priceless and so was the small twitch of his lips upward at the bright, proud look on your face.
©2024 thewriterg spooktober do not copy, translate, or modify.
#miles morales#miles morales x you#miles morales x reader#earth 1610 miles morales x reader#earth 42 miles x reader#earth 42 miles morales x reader#earth 1610#earth 42#miles morales 1610#miles morales 42#spiderverse x reader#atsv x reader#spiderman across the spiderverse#flufftober#romance#fluff#fem!reader#spooktober#thewriterg#i love you
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Melatonin in Human Form

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader
Fandom: WNBA-Dallas Wings
Summary: can’t sleep without Paige—childhood naps turned forever habit.
A/N: I would like to publicly apologize for my most recent post. It was very wrong and insensitive of me to post, and I take full accountability for the harm it may have caused. Please forgive me.
Especially too: @iwasbored-okay , @cowboybueckers , @yailtsv , @elalfywhore , @elswhore , @sillylittlepop , @elliesglock , and @authentic-girl03
🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @unknowgirlypop , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @starfulani , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom
I don’t remember the first time I fell asleep with Paige. Her dad probably does, because he never stops talking about how we were “two little Velcro babies who refused to nap without being tangled together.”
My parents even saying the same.
I do remember the warmth.
The safety.
The way her breathing always found its rhythm first, and how mine followed like it knew where home was.
We were maybe six, freshly worn out from a birthday party and some feral rendition of musical chairs, when I ended up passed out on her beanbag chair with her arm slung across my waist like we were puzzle pieces.
And from that moment on, I was done for.
Sleep, for me, has never just been about closing my eyes.
It’s always been about proximity.
Paige-shaped proximity.
And now, years later, that hasn’t changed.
Back in high school, before we were anything more than best friends who happened to blush a little too hard during sleepovers, I tried to downplay it.
I’d crash on her floor during study nights or after games, making excuses about her mattress being comfier or my house being too loud.
She never called me out for what it was—pure, undiluted dependence.
By the time we got to UConn, it was a running joke with her teammates.
“I swear Y/N has Paige set as her melatonin,” Sarah once said, deadpan, as I yawned through breakfast after a night apart.
Paige had just come back from a weekend home, and I barely made it 48 hours before showing up at her dorm door like a stray cat.
“You didn’t sleep again, did you?” she asked, smirking knowingly.
“Define sleep.”
Now we’re in Dallas.
New city, new league, new pace—but the same me.
Same needy, cuddly, sleep-inept me.
And the same Paige, only shinier.
She’s Paige Bueckers, WNBA rookie, endorsement magnet, face-of-everything-all-at-once. And she’s also my fiancée.
Which still makes my stomach flip if I think about it too hard.
Our apartment is big enough to breathe in—exposed brick, sunlight that spills into every room like a golden retriever.
We even have a home office now.
Which I’m currently standing outside of, barefoot in a hoodie and cocooned in a fluffy duvet like a deranged burrito.
It’s 12:42 a.m. I’m tired. But not the kind of tired that leads to sleep. Not when I’m in bed without her.
I knock softly on the office door.
“Paigey?”
No response.
She’s got her AirPods in, probably typing an email to her Nike rep or something equally business-y and important.
I open the door just enough to peek in.
Her laptop casts a blue glow over her face, and her glasses—glasses that I specifically told her made her look like a hot librarian—are sliding down her nose.
I shuffle in like a slug wrapped in cotton.
Her eyes flick to me and soften instantly. “Baby… what are you doing?” she asks, voice low and warm, pulling one AirPod out.
I don’t answer. I just wobble toward her like I’ve been drugged and then, without warning, climb into her lap, duvet and all.
“Y/N!” she laughs, startled, but instinctively adjusts her chair and cradles me like I’m made of something delicate.
“I can’t sleep,” I mumble, face smushed into her neck.
“I told you I’d be done in fifteen.”
“You said that forty minutes ago.”
“You were awake then.”
“I tried. I really tried. I even put on our playlist and laid on your pillow. But it’s not the same.”
Her hands start tracing circles on my back through the blanket. My eyes flutter, already sinking.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, kissing my temple. “I just had one last email to send about the Puma shoot next week.”
“Mmm.”
“I should’ve stopped when I saw you still tossing around twenty minutes ago.”
“You’re forgiven,” I murmur, “if you never leave me alone at night again.”
She snorts. “Deal.”
I feel her return to typing, hands moving carefully so she doesn’t jostle me.
My cheek is pressed to her collarbone, and her heart is beating in that perfect, sleepy metronome I’ve known since childhood.
“Do you remember that one time we fell asleep in your trampoline net?” I ask, already halfway gone.
“I remember waking up covered in mosquito bites and somehow still thinking it was worth it.”
“Because I was there?”
“Because we were there.”
There’s a pause. She finishes typing, clicks her trackpad softly, then wraps both arms around me fully.
“I’m done now,” she whispers.
“Good,” I sigh, pulling the duvet higher over both of us.
“I really am your melatonin, huh?”
“You’re more effective than any sleep aid known to man. I should bottle you up.”
She laughs again, quieter this time, and kisses the top of my head.
“I’ll never get tired of being needed by you, you know?” she says, her voice humming against my skin. “Even if it’s just for sleep.”
“It’s not just for sleep,” I yawn. “It’s for everything. I only function right when I’m close to you.”
I expect her to tease me, maybe crack a joke about my codependency, but she just holds me tighter.
“I love you, burrito girl,” she murmurs. “You can stay in my lap forever if you want.”
“I plan to. Even when we’re eighty.”
“You’ll still be dragging your blanket into my wheelchair like this?”
“Yup. Snoring on your shoulder while you answer emails from the grandkids.”
She hums a soft chuckle, and it’s the last thing I hear before I finally—finally—fall asleep.
Wrapped in her arms. Right where I belong.
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�� -Thank You For Reading!💚💙
-prettygirl-gabi✨️💗
#paige bueckers#uconn wbb#gabi writes#support the writers!#wbb#gabi answers#°~prettygirlgabi ask~°#uconn women’s basketball#uconn huskies#oneshot#paige bueckers dallas wings#dallas wings x reader#wnba dallas wings#dallas wings#paige bueckers x reader#paige x reader#paige bueckers x you#paige bueckers fanfiction#wnba paige bueckers#wnba x reader#wnba
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@auras3ye asked "What are you gonna do about it?" // Over the Garden Wall Starters -- Accepting
"I'm gonna do the very best I can ..." he muttered with dry sarcasm; it was a defense mechanism, really, his sense of humor -- it tended t mask the absolute chaos and panic he felt in moments like this when he actually didn't know what he was doing.
Like, you know, being in a strange place ... with the WRONG MAP.
FFS.
"You wouldn't ... happen to know ... where the nearest bus terminal is, would you?" At least there, he could find accurate maps, right?
#auras3ye#42: the answer#verse: mayhem and midterms#thread: a map through time and space#// Oh my goodness HELLO!#// Thank you for sending this in!#// I hope this is okay.#// And I hope this is okay that I made this its own thread#// I look forward to writing with you!
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Left on Read



── .✦ content warning : SMUT! MDI!!! fem!reader; kinda angst; mild burnout; miscommunication; light argument; explicit sex;
✮⋆˙ pairing: idol seungmin × fem!reader
✮⋆˙ word count: 2,1k
✮⋆˙ synopsis: “He shuts you out. You show up anyway. Tension snaps, words cut, and then it's just hands, mouths, desperation — because silence never kept you from choosing him.”
✮⋆˙ A/N: heyy!! I personally didn't like this one – cause I hate writing short ones – I just wanted to post something so the blog doesn't ""die"". if you have some requests or thoughts you want to share, please feel free to send me a message and lmk what you think. don't forget to like and reblog it!! xox ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა
The lights in the apartment clock flashed 00:42 AM. I sat curled up on the couch, my phone screen glowing in my palm as I stared at the latest message I had sent him.
No response. Again. I had already double-checked if the messages were delivered. They were.
I sighed and typed another one, shorter this time.
[00:42 AM] Y/N: Are you still at the studio?
[00:56 AM] Y/N: Seungmin?
[01:09 AM] Y/N: Do you at least ate?
Still nothing.
My lips pressed into a thin line. I tapped on Chan’s name instead and sent a quick text:
[01:14 AM] Y/N → Chan: Is Seungmin still at the company?
The reply came almost instantly.
[01:14 AM] Chan: Yup. Still in the recording booth.
[01:15 AM] Chan: He’s arguing with himself about how his vocals suck.
[01:15 AM] Chan: You should probably come take him home before he erases the whole track.
My jaw tightened, fingers clenching around the phone. This wasn’t the first time. I tossed a hoodie over my tank top, grabbed my keys, and headed out.
The city passed like a blur outside the window as I drove, hands tight on the steering wheel, jaw clenched. Maybe this was insane. Maybe he just needed space. Maybe I was overreacting. But I knew him. And if there was one thing Seungmin was good at, it was pretending he was fine when he wasn’t.
The building was mostly empty at that hour, the distant hum of ventilation systems the only sound as I made my way through the halls. When I reached the studio, the door was slightly ajar, a soft trail of Seungmin’s voice leaking through.
Chan was in the producer’s chair, arms folded, head leaning back like he was halfway to sleep. He turned when he heard the door creak. His eyebrows rose. “Wow. He really pushed you, huh?”
I dropped my bag onto the couch with more force than necessary. “He’s not answering me. Again.”
Chan shrugged with a tired smile. “He’s locked in perfectionist mode. Keeps saying his tone sounds wrong. I’ve told him to stop at least four times. He argued. I gave up.”
I crossed my arms. “Is he eating?”
“No. He’s eating self-hatred and... vocal fry.” That earned a half-smirk from me.
Chan stood, slinging his jacket over one shoulder. “He might listen to you, though. I mean... if the pissed-off girlfriend look doesn’t make him flinch, I don’t know what will.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Coward.”
“Correct.” he said, grinning as he walked to the door. “Good luck. Don’t destroy any equipment.”
When the door clicked shut behind him, I finally turned to the booth. Seungmin was inside, headphones on, replaying the same take, muttering under his breath as he adjusted the mic. He hadn’t noticed me yet. I moved closer to the glass, arms folded.
Eventually, he turned and froze. Our eyes locked. He blinked, surprised, pulling off his headphones. I didn’t wait for an invitation, I opened the booth door and stepped in.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice rough. Seungmin blinked, pulling the headphones off. “It’s late.”
“Yeah. No shit.” I stepped further in. “Did you plan on ignoring me until morning or…?”
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean to. I’ve just been working—”
“You always say that.” My voice cracked, just barely. “I get it, Min. You love what you do. But I’m not just some… background character in your day.”
A beat passed.
“I just... needed to get this right.” he muttered.
“You’ve been doing this for days. Skipping meals. Coming home after I’ve fallen asleep. Acting like I don’t exist.” His jaw clenched. “You think I’m mad because you’re working? I’m mad because you won’t let me in.” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, Seungmin. Not when I’m right here.”
He exhaled slowly, voice strained. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Yeah well, too late for that.”
He looked at me, finally meeting my eyes. And for a second, he looked smaller. Tired. Vulnerable. “I’m sorry.” he said. “For shutting you out. For making you feel like you don’t matter. You do. More than anything.”
I softened, stepping closer. “I’m sorry too. For making you think you can’t fall apart in front of me.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something more, but the words didn’t come.
“Let me hear it.” I said. He hesitated, then pressed play. The recording played softly in the background. His voice filled the booth — raw, imperfect, and beautiful. I didn’t look at the monitor. I watched him. When it ended, silence hung between us.
“You sound like you mean every word.” I said. “It's good. Better even.”
He let out a shaky laugh. “You always say that.”
I reached up, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “Because it's always true. That’s the curse of caring too much.”
He leaned into my touch without thinking.
“I missed you.” I whispered.
“I’ve been here.”
“Not really.”
He looked at me again — really looked this time — and everything about him softened.
“I’m sorry.” he said quietly. “For not replying. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I wasn’t listening.”
I stepped forward, my voice lower now. “Sorry if I made you feel like you’re never doing enough. That’s not what I think. That’s never what I think.” The tension in his shoulders. The tired edge in his voice. I leaned in, closing the space between us slowly, giving him time to stop me. He didn’t.
Our lips met, slow and deliberate, like we were savoring something we weren’t sure we’d be allowed to taste again. There was nothing rushed about it. It was all breath and longing and the echo of weeks spent in silence. His mouth moved against mine like a silent apology, and I kissed him back like I wanted to undo every minute of distance with nothing but my lips.
The way he touched me wasn’t hungry at first —it was careful. Like I was glass. Like he was afraid I’d shatter and disappear. His hands rested at my waist before sliding up, tentative, brushing under the hem of my hoodie. The heat of his palms made my skin jump, and I gasped into his mouth when his thumbs grazed my ribs.
I pulled him closer, fingers threading into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. His soft groan vibrated through me. It was the kind of sound you only make when something feels too good to be real.
And it did feel unreal.
The studio was quiet, lit only by the soft glow from the control board. The world outside didn’t exist anymore. Just me, him, and the months of tension unraveling with every brush of skin.
He broke the kiss first, breathing hard. “You should go home.” he whispered, but his arms tightened around me like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.
“Not happening.” I murmured, my lips ghosting across his jaw. “You don’t get to shut down and pretend I don’t exist just because you’re scared.”
His eyes fluttered shut, like he was fighting something heavy inside him. “I’ve been so fucking lost lately.”
“Then let me find you.” I pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it somewhere behind us. My hands moved automatically, relearning him — his collarbones, the heat of his chest, the slight tremble in his stomach when my fingers dragged down his abs. His breathing hitched.
“You’re shaking.” I said quietly.
“I haven’t touched you in weeks.” he replied, voice wrecked. “I’ve been thinking about this every damn night.”
My hoodie was next. He peeled it off slowly, reverently, like each inch of skin he uncovered was sacred. When he kissed my shoulder, just below my collarbone, I felt my knees weaken. Then he looked up, eyes dark, lips parted. “I don’t remember how to take it slow.”
“You don’t have to.”
I pressed my body to his, grinding slowly against the bulge in his jeans. He cursed under his breath, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. When he kissed me again, it was messy and breathless. No more restraint, just weeks of built-up tension crashing into us like a wave.
He backed me toward the padded bench, lips never leaving mine, hands everywhere, waist, hips, the underside of my breasts. He pushed me down gently, then stood between my legs, looking down at me like I was some beautiful secret he didn’t know how to deserve.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” he whispered, almost angry with himself for not saying it sooner.
He kissed his way down my body — hot, open-mouthed kisses on my chest, my stomach, the insides of my thighs. When he pulled my underwear down with his teeth, I thought I might combust right there.
He looked up at me from between my legs, eyes smoldering. “Let me taste you.”
I barely had time to nod before his tongue slid over me, slow, firm, deliberate. My hips bucked involuntarily, and he moaned into me like the taste alone was enough to undo him.
His tongue worked me open with practiced ease, lapping, teasing, circling my clit just right before sliding two fingers inside me. I gripped the edge of the bench, gasping, back arching as he pushed deeper, curling his fingers until I saw stars.
“Seungmin— fuck— don’t stop—”
“I’m not going anywhere.” he growled against me. “You’re shaking so pretty for me.”
And I was, legs trembling, breath ragged, vision blurring. He kept going, steady and relentless, until my orgasm hit me hard. I cried out, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs clamping around him as I came with a force that made the world tilt sideways.
He didn’t stop until I was panting, sensitive, trying to push him away with shaky hands.
Then he stood, wiping his mouth, looking thoroughly wrecked and incredibly proud.
“My turn.” I said, breathless.
I pulled him down by the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button with slow, teasing fingers. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, and when I wrapped my hand around him, he hissed through his teeth.
“You’re killing me.”
“You like it.”
“Too much.”
I stroked him slowly, dragging my thumb over the head, watching his jaw clench and his eyes flutter shut. When he looked down at me, his control was visibly cracking. “Turn around.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Bench.” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Hands on the bench. I need you.”
The words made heat pool in my stomach. I did as he said. Bent over the bench, back arched, looking over my shoulder at him.
He lined himself up behind me, running the head of his cock through my folds. “You’re dripping,” he muttered. “Fuck. You feel ready?”
“Don’t make me beg.”
He slid in slowly, inch by inch until he was fully seated inside me. We both groaned. My hands clenched the edge of the bench as he pulled out halfway, then slammed back in, making the whole booth shake.
“I missed you.” he rasped against my ear.
“Shut up and keep fucking me.”
He obeyed, thrusts hard and deep, filling me completely. The sound of skin on skin, his breath in my ear, the ragged moans he tried to hold back, it was too much. And not enough.
I pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, panting his name between gasps. One of his hands slid under me, fingers finding my clit again. I jolted. “Oh my god— Seungmin— ”
“Come again for me, baby,” he growled. “I want to feel you fall apart.”
And I did. Harder than before. My vision went white, body clenching around him, drawing him deeper. He cursed loudly, fucking me through it, and moments later, he stilled, burying himself deep as he came with a broken gasp, his chest pressed to my back.
We stayed like that for a long time, breathing in sync, sweat cooling on our skin. He kissed my shoulder again, softer this time. More tender than desperate.
“You okay?” he whispered.
I nodded, twisting just enough to see him. “That was... good.”
He pulled me into his arms, tucking me against his chest like he couldn’t stand the thought of space between us. We stayed like that, still tangled, breathing each other in.
Eventually, I smiled. “I guess I really did have to come get you.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Please keep doing that.”
I kissed him again, softer this time, and in the quiet hum of the booth, it felt like the rest of the world could wait.
#skz#skz imagines#skz smut#skz x reader#stray kids#stray kids smut#stray kids x reader#seungmin x reader#seungmin smut#seungmin#kim seungmin#kim seungmin smut#kim seungmin skz#kim seungmin stray kids#kim seungmin scenarios#kim seungmin x reader#kim seungmin x you#kim seungmin x y/n#stray kids scenarios#stray kids seungmin#stray kids imagines#stray kids oneshot#skz scenarios#skz seungmin#skz x you#skz oneshots
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❝𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗟𝗘𝗙𝗧 𝗠𝗘.❞
Caleb x you [non-mc] | Caleb x mc
𝑺𝒚𝒑𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒔 : After the war ends and the world is declared wanderer-free, you wait for the man who promised to return—Caleb, your over and a colonel with gravity powers. But he never comes back. Years later, you finally met again.. but things were different. He's Alive. Older. With no memory of you. Now, watching him smile at another, living the life you once dreamed of, you're left with only one question: 𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗶𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗱—𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗹𝘆 𝗻𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀?

"Do you really have to go?"
Your voice barely carries through the heavy silence of your shared quarters. You sit on the edge of the bed, hands trembling, knuckles white as you clutch his glove. Caleb turns at the door—tall, imposing in his colonel’s uniform—yet softened by the tenderness in his eyes as he looks at you.
You already talked about this. Pleaded. Asked him to resign. But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
“This is my duty,” he’d said. “My dream. I want to protect you—so you could live without having to worry about wanderers. to everyone else too."
You remember how his arms wrapped around you that night. How he whispered promises against your skin. "I’ll come back to you. I always do."
So you let him go.
And you waited.
The world descended into chaos. Wanderers roamed freely, grotesque echoes of corrupted Evol energy. Evolvers fought back—Caleb among them. The government ordered a lockdown. Civilians were instructed not to interfere. Rations were delivered. Streets emptied. Skies darkened.
But you waited.
Weeks became months. Months turned into years.
You blamed yourself more often than not.
You were powerless—just a civilian. No Evol, no strength, no use.
All you could do was survive.
All you could do was wait.
Then, the world declared itself Wanderer-Free.
The war was won. The streets opened again.
And Caleb...
Didn’t come back.
You went to the Farspace Fleet. Demanded answers.
They told you he was missing. Then, days later—presumed dead.
Just another name on a long list of the lost.
You didn’t believe it. You refused to believe it.
You waited still.
Two Decades Later – Winter, Linkon City
You’re 42 now. You look it too—lines softening your once-youthful face, silver threads starting to braid into your long, uncut hair. Hair he once trimmed for you. You never let anyone else touch it.
People asked you to move on. Some even tried to love you. You turned them away.
How could you let go of a love that never said goodbye?
Then you met her—MC.
A kind woman who recently moved to Linkon City. Around your age. Warm-hearted. Glowed when she spoke of her son, and her husband.
You liked her. You liked the boy, too. Ten years old. Bright eyes.
But the first time you saw him, your heart stuttered.
He looked familiar. Too familiar.
You told yourself it was just your imagination.
Today – Outside the Library
“Mom! Dad is here!” the boy calls out as he runs toward the man waiting by the curb.
MC laughs. “Ah, my dear’s here.”
She turns to you. “Come! Let me introduce you—this is my husband—”
Your world stops.
“Caleb...?”
You don’t mean to say it aloud. But it spills from your lips before you can catch it.
The man—taller, older, refined with age but unmistakably him—blinks, puzzled. “Do we… know each other?”
MC tilts her head. “Oh? You two know each other?”
You force a shaky smile, swallowing the sob clawing at your throat. “...Childhood friends,” you lie. “We were childhood friends.”
Caleb’s brows knit slightly, and then he offers a small, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry… I had amnesia. During the war. Some memories never came back. If we were close… I’m sorry I can’t remember.”
MC gasps softly. “That’s unexpected… but what a small world.” She beams at you. “I’m so glad you found someone from your past!”
Caleb smiles, warmer now. “It’s good to know I still have connections here. Even if I don’t remember them.”
“Maa! Let’s go home! It’s cold!”
The child tugs at his sleeve. Caleb chuckles and bends to lift him into his arms.
He turns to you one last time.
“Nice to meet you… again, I guess.”
And just like that, he walks away. Hand in hand with his wife. With their son.
With your dreams.
You stand frozen in place, the ghost of his smile seared into your memory.
“Yeah… it’s nice to see you again,”
you whisper, but your voice trembles. Cracks.
You don’t move, even as their silhouettes blur into the snowfall.
He’s alive. Caleb is alive.
And he doesn’t remember you.
He built a new life. New love. New child.
You should’ve been in her place. It should’ve been your family.
But you can’t hate her.
She didn’t steal him—she simply loved him in your absence.
And he…
He loved her the same way he once loved you.
And so, beneath the heavy silence of winter: “Maybe it’s time I accept the changes…” you whispered, as snow began to fall. But the wind carried no answer.
Just silence.
And still—you waited.
Not for him.
But for the day it would stop hurting.
You were once his future.
Now you’re just a whisper from a forgotten past.
And fate, cruel as ever, let you live to remember it.
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : i just lost caleb to zayne, and i'm legit crying. because i already didn't got sylus's "where the heart lives" (i started playing during sylus's bday) and now i also didn't get caleb's birthday "no return night" so yeah, i'm gonna be petty and write caleb angst because i didn't get him.

#love and deepspace#lads#lnds#caleb x reader#Caleb x mc#Non-mc#juneleb#lads caleb#lads zayne#lads xavier#lads rafayel#lads sylus#angst#casxandraꔛ♥️
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Veilguard Tumblr Stats: The Results
In December I ran a Google Form looking to compare the official Bioware player statistics to those of the tumblr fandom. I received 3031 unique responses, and am now making the results available to you! This was a solo endeavor and I'm so grateful to every single one of you for your participation! All I ask in return is that we keep it positive: this was a fun project, let's keep it that way!
The results are in graphic form under the cut (alt text is available for every graphic). I have also captioned them with the official Bioware stats for comparison purposes where applicable. You can view the raw data in the form of a Google Sheet here. Please note that these results contain major endgame spoilers.
Thank you again, please reblog for reach!
Bioware did not provide hard numbers, but their ranking is: Neve, Lucanis, Taash, Harding, Bellara, Davrin, Emmrich
Bioware stats: 44% freed the archive spirit, 56% kept the archive spirit; 54% had Emmrich become a lich, 46% saved Manfred
Bioware stats: 33% sent the griffons to the Wardens, 67% sent the griffons to Arlathan
Bioware stats: 22% forgave Illario, 78% sent Illario to jail; 21% had Taash embrace Qunari culture, 79% had Taash embrace Rivaini culture
Bioware stats: 39% had Neve become an inspiration, 61% had Neve become a protector; 16% had Harding embrace anger, 84% had Harding embrace calm
Bioware stats: 22% banished the mayor to the Grey Wardens, 36% saved him, 42% left him for dead; 64% punched the First Warden, 36% reasoned with him
Bioware stats: 49% saved Minrathous, 51% saved Treviso
Bioware stats: 46% for Davrin as the distraction team leader, 54% for Harding as the distraction team leader; 58% had Bellara shut down the wards, 42% had Neve shut down the wards
Bioware only provided top 3 picks for each: Emmrich, Neve and Bellara are top 3 for unravelling the wards and Lucanis, Taash and Emmrich are top 3 for going after the Venatori. Please also note that these questions were optional on the Google Form and was not answered by all respondents.
Bioware only provided top 3 picks for each: Taash, Davrin, and Emmrich are top 3 for fighting the Juggernaut and Taash, Davrin, and Harding are top 3 for the counter-attack. Please also note that these questions were optional on the Google Form and was not answered by all respondents.
Bioware stats: 3% sacrificed Rook, 8% fought Solas, 17% outsmarted Solas, and 72% redeemed Solas; 43% of those who redeemed Solas had the inquisitor join him in the Fade
Bioware stats: 31% played rock, paper, scissors with Manfred; 50% petted Assan
Bioware stats: Human at 43%, Elf at 40%, Qunari at 11%, Dwarf at 6%
Bioware stats: Grey Wardens at 24%, Shadow Dragons at 24%, Antivan Crows at 16%, Veil Jumpers at 15%, Lords of Fortune at 11%, Mourn Watch at 10%
Bioware only provided stats for the three core classes: Mage at 40%, Rogue at 30%, and Warrior at 30%
#dragon age#dragon age the veilguard#datv#veilguard#da:tv#solas#varric#bellara#bellara lutare#davrin#assan the griffon#emmrich#emmrich volkarin#lace harding#scout harding#taash#neve gallus#lucanis#lucanis dellamorte#grey wardens#veil jumpers#antivan crows#lords of fortune#mourn watch#shadow dragons#mine
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Escape — A. Putellas x Reader
"Getting Caught In The Rain"
WC: 3.8k
Summary: Alexia’s trying again, but it only makes you realize that it’s been a long time since you felt like you were seen and understood.
Pt. 1
Alexia didn’t say anything when she got home. Just dropped her bag by the door, kicked her shoes off with the practiced heaviness of someone trying not to wake anyone up. Even though it was 5:42 p.m. and the hallway light was still on. You were in the kitchen, pretending to read, pretending to care about the last email from work, pretending you weren’t holding your breath for her footsteps.
She walked past you without a word, without eye contact, and you thought, same old story. The sting had dulled by now, like pressing on a bruise out of habit.
Until you heard her voice.
“You, uh… you moved the plant.”
You blinked at the book in your lap. Took a slow breath.
“Yeah.”
“It looks good there,” she added. You could hear the words straining. Trying to sound casual. Normal. Like conversation was still a thing that lived in this house.
You didn’t answer.
“I was thinking,” she tried again, stepping further into the room.
“Maybe we could get a new one for the windowsill? Something low-maintenance. Like… a cactus or whatever.”
A cactus.
You turned the page. “We already have one.”
“Oh,” she said, and you didn’t even need to look to know she was scratching the back of her neck. “Right.”
Silence stretched long and thin.
You looked up. She wasn’t looking at you, not directly, just sort of gesturing toward the counter with a weirdly shy motion.
“I saw this at the airport. Thought you might want it.”
That made your eyes flick up.
She stepped forward, sheepish. Like she didn’t quite know how to be here anymore. She held out a small paper bag, wrinkled from travel.
“It’s dumb. I just saw it and… yeah.”
You took it carefully, like it was a bomb that was about to explode in your face. Inside it was a snow globe.
Small. A little cheap. Inside, a tiny, glitter-dusted coastline and a red kayak.
You stared at it for a beat, then another, your fingers going loose around the base. It was the same coastline you’d kayaked on together four summers ago, the time she got sunburned and made you stop every ten minutes to reapply SPF like a paranoid grandma. The one trip you still couldn’t think about without smiling, even if everything after it had unraveled.
“I remembered it made you laugh,” she said, voice so quiet you almost missed it. “That trip.”
You ran your thumb over the plastic base. “You remember that?”
Alexia shrugged. “I think about it more than you’d think.”
Your chest twisted. Not in pain. Not relief either. Something more complicated, and heavy and unsure.
You didn’t say thank you. But you didn’t hand it back. And that was maybe the biggest thing you’d done all week.
That night, you left it on the kitchen counter. You didn’t know why. Maybe so she’d see you hadn’t ignored it. Maybe so you’d believe it was real.
And in the morning, she was gone again. Off to training. But there was a small plate waiting on the counter. French toast, your favorite marmalade, a halved orange with the rind scored for easy peeling. A mug of coffee with a splash of milk, and whipped cream in the shape of a heart like she used to do.
And a note, scribbled in her hurried handwriting:
Hope today’s kind to you, take care.
— A.
You stared at it for a long time.
Then sat down and ate the toast.
She was in Bilbao this time. Another away game. Another cold bed, another text that never came. The trinket still sat on the shelf, the whipped cream heart a fading memory. You didn’t know what you were supposed to feel. Grateful? Guilty? Hopeful?
So instead, you opened Chattr.
[go4goald2]: Important question: would you rather fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses.
[lostinthecrowd]: It’s 11pm and this is how you start???
[go4goald2]: You say that like it’s not the most vital debate of our generation
[lostinthecrowd]: I’d take the duck. 1v1. Eye contact. No mercy.
[go4goald2]: Bold. Disrespectful to the mini horses. But bold.
You laughed into your blanket, curled up on your side like a kid at a sleepover.
[lostinthecrowd]: They have tiny hooves. I’m not getting stomped to death by a barbie pony.
[go4goald2]: Tiny hooves, BIG ambition. Don’t underestimate ponies. They´re evil.
[lostinthecrowd]: I feel like there's a story behind this. Also can’t believe this is how I’m spending my night.
[go4goald2]: I can. And it’s perfect. Admit it.
You grinned. Tucked your phone closer like it was a secret you wanted to protect.
The conversation spiraled into weird snack combos, irrational childhood fears (yours: mascots, theirs: escalators), and an intense five-minute tangent on the politics of sock-and-sandal combos.
Your cheeks actually hurt from smiling. And somewhere between their rant about pineapple pizza and your confession that you once tried to cook pasta in a kettle, something softened inside you.
You typed, slower now:
[lostinthecrowd]: My partner did something nice for me today. Out of nowhere.
[go4goald2]: Whoa, plot twist. What kind of nice?
[lostinthecrowd]: Just… a small gift. Not flashy. Thoughtful.
[go4goald2]: You’re being suspiciously vague and I’m incredibly nosy. Spill.
[lostinthecrowd]: It’s tied to a memory. Something small, but really specific to us. A moment we shared years ago.
[go4goald2]: Okay wow. That kind of gift hits like a freight train.
[lostinthecrowd]: Yeah, it really did. Caught me completely off guard, I didn’t know how to react.
[go4goald2]: Because it reminded you what it used to feel like to be known?
[lostinthecrowd]: Exactly that. Like someone woke a part of me I forgot was still there.
[go4goald2]: Do you think it was intentional? Like… a real attempt?
[lostinthecrowd]: I want to think so, but then it just made everything feel more fragile.
[go4goald2]: It’s weird how one small thing can make your whole chest ache.
[lostinthecrowd]: It made me remember how much I miss her, or who she used to be. Or maybe who I used to be when we were still okay.
[go4goald2]: You still deserve those moments even if they’re rare. Even if they confuse the hell out of you.
[go4goald2]: And for what it’s worth… I'm really glad you told me.
You let your phone rest against your chest, pulse kicking up a little. It felt too good. Too soft. Too dangerous.
Because it wasn’t just that they cared. It was that they cared in real-time. Gave you space to unravel and didn’t shy away when the threads got messy.
Your lips tilted into a smile. Tiny, involuntary, like a reflex from some version of you that hadn’t been used in months.
Alexia hadn’t texted once. Not even after the match. Not even a “night.”
But this stranger had stayed up with you.
Held space for you.
Made you feel like a person instead of a ghost someone used to love.
And that flutter came back. Not a rush, just a flicker. A warmth that settled behind your ribs like the beginning of something.
You didn’t push it away.
But god, the guilt that followed.
You weren’t doing anything wrong. You told yourself that. Over and over.
But the truth was, your smile hadn’t looked like this in months.
And your wife hadn’t been the one to cause it.
You didn’t expect anything when you unlocked the door. Maybe a quiet hallway. The faint hum of the fridge. Your own footsteps echoing against the tile. It had become a rhythm now. Come home, drop your bag, exist in silence. You had stopped hoping to be greeted. Stopped wondering what mood she’d be in.
So when the smell hit you: sharp, burnt and unmistakably wrong, it made you pause mid-step. There was a bitter tang in the air, like overcooked garlic and something else. Something sour. A hint of lemon buried under the scent of a meal gone wrong.
You followed it to the kitchen and stopped in the doorway.
Alexia was standing in the middle of it, barefoot, her hoodie sleeves rolled up, her hair pulled back in that messy twist she only did when she was stressed. There was a pan smoking on the stove. A cutting board covered in unevenly chopped herbs. The sink was full of pots. And her face, her face looked wrecked in the most human way.
She glanced up when she saw you, startled. “Shit. You’re home early.”
You weren’t.
You said nothing.
“I was trying to…” she gestured vaguely to the chaos around her.
“Dinner.”
You stepped further in. Looked at the pan. Something once resembling chicken was stuck to the bottom, blackened and curling at the edges like it was trying to leave the scene of the crime.
“It’s your favorite,” she added quickly. “That lemon-herb thing. The one I used to make after we went to the farmer’s market on Saturdays. Remember?”
You did. Back when the kitchen smelled like warm citrus and clean herbs, when she’d dance barefoot to whatever song was playing, bump your hip and kiss your neck while the chicken rested. That version of the dish smelled like comfort. This one smelled like frustration and something sour unraveling.
“Something went wrong with the sauce,” she mumbled. “Or maybe I forgot how to… I don’t know. I was trying.”
And god, she looked so small at that moment. Not physically, Alexia was never small, but emotionally. She looked like a little kid caught drawing on the walls, holding out sticky fingers and hoping it still counted for effort. It knocked something loose in your chest.
Your heart didn’t break. It cracked. Just a little.
You stepped in. Reached past her and turned off the burner before the fire alarm could make things worse.
“We can save it,” you said quietly, even though you knew it wasn’t true.
She stayed where she was, arms hanging a little helplessly at her sides while you opened the fridge and scanned for solutions. There was a half-used tub of ricotta, a jar of pesto, and some leftover stock. You pulled them out without speaking. It was easier this way, fixing things with your hands and not your voice.
“I thought it might be nice if you didn’t have to cook tonight,” she said softly, somewhere behind you. “You’ve been working so much, and I wanted to do something.”
You kept your back to her. “You could’ve just asked me to cook with you.”
“I didn’t want to make you do more work.”
“I don’t want to feel like a guest in my own kitchen.”
There was a long pause. Then the quiet sound of her setting down a spoon.
You poured a little cream into the pan, scraping at the burnt edges while the sauce hissed and fought you. You could feel her watching you closely and carefully. Like if she stared hard enough, she’d understand how to fix it all.
She moved to stand beside you. Too close. Her arm brushed yours lightly, and you flinched. Not because you were scared. Just because you weren’t used to being touched anymore. Not by her. Not kindly. Not like this.
She froze. You saw it from the corner of your eye. Her shoulders tensed. The guilt bloomed across her face. But you didn’t say anything. And she didn’t try again.
Instead, she grabbed plates and set the table while you boiled pasta and tried to coax the ruined sauce into something edible. It wasn’t good. But it was something.
By the time you sat down, the steam had mostly settled. She watched you take a bite, searching your face for any kind of reaction. You chewed. Swallowed. Didn’t make a face.
“It’s fine,” you said.
And she smiled, almost like that was a win.
Not a real smile. But something tired and tentative. Something that said thank you for not hating me tonight.
The two of you sat in that dim kitchen, eating a salvaged dinner that tasted like memory and ash. And for a moment you could almost remember what it was like to share a life that didn’t feel so quiet.
Even if you didn’t trust it just yet.
You didn’t go to bed after dinner.
Alexia did though. She didn’t say it directly, but you saw the way her shoulders slumped after the dishes were done, the way her fingers lingered awkwardly near your elbow like she might touch you and thought better of it. She murmured something like “I’m gonna lie down”, then disappeared down the hall with slow footsteps and a closed door that didn’t quite latch.
You couldn’t follow her. You weren’t ready to share a space that intimate. Not yet. Maybe not ever again.
So instead, you took a half-full bottle of wine from the fridge, grabbed a throw blanket off the back of the couch, and slipped outside. The balcony used to be your favorite spot together. Just two chairs, some tangled fairy lights strung along the railing, the soft hum of the city below. You used to sit out there for hours, her legs tangled with yours, music playing low from your phone while she pointed out constellations she made up on the spot. There was always laughter. Always warmth. That soft, lived-in kind of love.
Now it was just cold metal and silence. One chair is empty. The lights were still up but never turned on. Like the memory of joy had been boxed up and left to fade in the wind.
You curled into the blanket, set the wine between your knees, and stared out at the city that didn’t notice you anymore. This was your nest now. Quiet. Still. Full of grief that didn’t ask for attention, just stayed perched and waiting.
And then, like muscle memory, you opened Chattr.
There was already a message waiting.
[go4goald2]: I tried tonight. Made an effort and still fucked it up.
You exhaled, soft and surprised. A strange flutter of recognition sparked in your chest.
[lostinthecrowd]: That’s more than a lot of people do.
[go4goald2]: Doesn’t feel like enough.
[lostinthecrowd]: What happened?
[go4goald2]: I wanted to do something good, something small. I thought it would matter, but all I did was remind her how long it’s been since I got it right.
You rested your chin on your knee, letting the blanket shift around your shoulders. The night air was cool against your skin.
[lostinthecrowd]: The effort counts even if it’s awkward and late.
[go4goald2]: I don’t know. Sometimes I think it just makes things worse. Like I pop back up trying to play house and she’s already rewritten her life without me in it.
You hesitated before responding.
[lostinthecrowd]: What made you pull away in the first place?
The reply didn’t come fast. A full minute passed. Then two. You thought maybe they’d closed the app.
But then the typing bubble appeared.
[go4goald2]: I got busy. I know it's not an excuse, but it started with wanting to give her everything and to make things easier. Pay the bills, say yes to every work gig and be someone she could be proud of.
[go4goald2]: But then it became… noise. So many meetings, late nights planning the next steps at work, connecting with investors and people wanting things from me all the time. Every time I came home, I felt like a shell. But she was still there, always waiting patiently. I didn’t know how to face her.
[go4goald2]: So I stopped showing up. Told myself I'd come back when I was less tired and more present. But I kept putting it off until it became normal to be gone.
You swallowed hard. Something about the rhythm of it, and the way they said “be someone she could be proud of” twisted in your chest.
[go4goald2]: And now I don't know how to come back. Not without her seeing everything I let fall apart.
[go4goald2]: I'm ashamed.
You stared at the screen.
Because how do you comfort someone whose regret sounds so familiar it might as well live in your house?
[lostinthecrowd]: It’s not too late, not if you mean it. Not if you’re willing to rebuild instead of rewind.
Another pause.
[go4goald2]: What if she doesn’t believe me anymore? What if I waited too long?
[lostinthecrowd]: Then show up anyway, consistency is louder than promises.
A breeze caught your hair, lifting it off your forehead. You tilted your head back and closed your eyes, breathing through the weight in your ribs.
[go4goald2]: I want her to know I see her. Really see her. Not just when she’s upset, not just when she’s slipping away, but every day.
You didn’t respond right away.
Your thumbs hovered, useless, the words sitting heavy on your screen.
There was something about the way they phrased it, quiet and earnest. Like they meant it, even if they didn’t know how to say it out loud to the right person yet.
You sipped your wine and stared out over the city. The lights blurred softly against the dark, the breeze tugging gently at the frayed edges of the blanket in your lap.
You used to be seen like that. Or maybe you just liked to think you were.
You put your phone down for a second, face tipped to the sky, letting the silence settle where something like comfort should’ve been.
And when the tears came, they weren’t loud. Just slow. Private. The kind that don’t ask to be noticed. The kind you wipe away quickly, just in case someone walks out and asks if you’re okay.
But no one did.
The effort started showing up in little things.
Alexia folding the laundry before you got to it. Running to the store to pick up oat milk without being asked. Saying “Want to watch something?” instead of disappearing into the bedroom with her headphones and going on a call with her agent. She didn’t get it all right, she brought home the wrong brand of oat milk, folded the sheets inside out, and picked a movie you’d already seen twice. But she was trying. God, was she trying.
It wasn’t the kind of effort that made your heart swell. It made it ache. Because it felt like watching someone fumble through a routine they used to know by heart and now had to relearn from scratch.
On Wednesday night, she came home with takeout from that noodle place near your old apartment. The one you used to walk to in the middle of summer, sweaty and stupidly in love. She placed the bags on the counter like a peace offering and said, “Thought we could eat together tonight?”
You nodded. She brightened like it mattered.
She talked through most of dinner. Nothing serious. Just training, the new physio, the girl on the team who always forgot her cleats. You let her talk. Let her fill the space. She was trying to be light. Normal. Like maybe if she kept talking, she could talk you back into caring.
And for a second, you let her believe it was working.
After dinner, she hovered. You were rinsing dishes and she leaned against the counter, fingers tapping nervously against the edge. You knew that look. That “I want to say something but I’m scared of the words” look.
“I’ve been thinking…” she started, voice quiet. “About us. About how I’ve-”
Her phone buzzed. Loud. Jarring.
You saw the hesitation. The flicker of conflict.
But she answered it.
“Yeah?” she said, already walking toward the hallway. “No, it’s fine. I’ve got a minute.”
And just like that, the moment shattered.
You turned back to the sink, slowly rinsed out the last bowl. The water ran too hot, but you didn’t adjust it.
She didn’t come back in. You heard the bedroom door click closed a few minutes later.
The next night, she showed up with your favorite wine. The one you used to save for anniversaries or good news. She held it up like a trophy. “Got this on the way home. Figured we could split it and hang out a bit.”
You stared at the label. Something in your chest twisted.
“I can’t drink,” you said, keeping your voice even. “I’m on antibiotics.”
She blinked, thrown. “Oh. Since when?”
You shrugged. “Couple days. I’ve been sick.”
“Oh,” she said again.
She looked like she wanted to say more, but didn’t. Just set the bottle down and muttered something about putting it away for later.
You stood there for a moment after she walked off. Letting the silence settle over your shoulders like a too-heavy coat.
She hadn’t noticed.
You’d been in bed for two days. Tired, congested, barely eating. And she hadn’t noticed.
Not until you said it out loud.
Still. You weren’t made of stone.
There were moments where her effort chipped at something soft. The way she offered you tea that night without you asking. How she turned off the hallway light so it wouldn’t bother you when you tried to nap. How she lingered a little longer at the door when she left for training, like she wanted to say something.
But the thing that hurt most was how she still couldn’t say the one thing that mattered: I miss you.
She tried everything else. But not that.
Later, once the house had gone quiet and the wine sat untouched in the cabinet, you curled up on the couch with a blanket and opened Chattr.
[lostinthecrowd]: You ever feel like someone’s knocking, but it’s on the wrong door?
[go4goald2]: Jesus, yeah. All the time.
[go4goald2]: Weird coincidence… I always feel like I'm on the other side of that.
You smiled. A small one. Just for yourself. Sad. Quiet. The kind that doesn’t touch your mouth, only your chest.
[lostinthecrowd]: Someone brought me something today. Something they thought I'd love, but they didn’t realize I couldn't have it.
[go4goald2]: Ouch. That's… rough.
[lostinthecrowd]: Yeah, it’s like they remembered the old version of me. Not who I am now.
[go4goald2]: I get that. It's like when someone keeps reaching for the person they think you are, and you’re standing there, changed, wondering if they’ll ever notice.
[lostinthecrowd]: Exactly.
[go4goald2]: They probably meant well, doesn’t make it hurt less though.
[lostinthecrowd]: No. It doesn’t.
There was a beat of silence. Only the glow of your phone, the buzz of the city outside the balcony, and the heaviness in your chest that had nowhere else to go.
[go4goald2]: I think I want to want them again but I don't know if that’s the same thing as actually wanting them.
[lostinthecrowd]: I think that’s the loneliest kind of love.
The typing bubble appeared. Vanished. Appeared again.
[go4goald2]: What are you doing right now?
[lostinthecrowd]: Talking to you. Not sleeping. Being dramatic. The usual.
[go4goald2]: Good. Stay.
And so you did. Talking about nothing and everything. How certain smells always bring you back to childhood. How you hate the sound of ticking clocks. How lately, someone’s been trying to come back to you and you want to believe it matters. You really do. But there’s a part of you that keeps wondering if effort can still mean something after the silence has settled in too deep.
You didn’t mean to say that last part out loud. But you did. And they didn’t mind.
Alexia was down the hall. Lights off. Door closed.
You were somewhere else entirely.
Pt. 3
#alexia putellas x reader#woso x reader#alexia putellas#alexia putellas fanfic#alexia putellas imagine#alexia putellas angst#alexia putellas imagines#fcbfemeni x reader#woso fanfics#woso community#woso blurbs#woso fic#woso imagine#woso soccer#woso#barcelona femeni#fc barcelona femeni#barca femeni#woso appreciation#woso writers#woso imagines#woso fanfic
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