#thread: out of the frying pan...

[fxirytxlcfxtc]

For @descended-from-fairytales - Out of the Frying Pan... Starring Ash "Cora" Waltz & Marella Cipher

Cora drops onto the couch, curling into Ciri's lap with a small whine. "I hate this waiting part. The knowing that it's gonna happen and not knowing when thing is driving me crazy."

[jupiterpilgrim]

Someone Like You

Sohyun x Xinyu x male reader

word count: 19K

You push open the door with your shoulder, bag sliding down your arm, earbuds still in, still humming the chorus of the track you were half-distractedly mouthing on the walk back. The apartment’s dim, only the low yellow glow from the kitchen light pooling under the cabinets. It smells faintly like miso and something fried earlier (maybe tofu?) and, ironically, this reminds you that you forgot something. It doesn’t hit you immediately, what you forgot. But then your eyes sweep the counter.

Empty.

The fridge hisses softly when you open it. Half a carton of milk. Some eggs. A bottle of kimchi you’re not brave enough to open. And a lonely, suspicious cucumber. Then you freeze.

Okay. Right.

You were supposed to get groceries today. Actually, you were supposed to get them yesterday too, but Xinyu cornered you after the club meeting and asked for help lifting some stuff into storage—by which she meant do all the hard work while I pretend to supervise. Time got slippery. You left campus past dark and told yourself you’d make a list tomorrow.

Well, tomorrow was today. Now today is too late.

You step out of the kitchen just as Sohyun emerges from her room, barefoot, wearing that oversized sweatshirt she lives in when she’s in a mood. Dark grey, sleeves too long, hair twisted up with two pens stabbing through the knot like she’s some sort of overworked librarian assassin. Her expression is unreadable, which is bad. It’s when she gets unreadable that you know she’s very much read you and is probably two sentences away from verbal murder.

“You didn’t go, did you?” she says. No hello. Just sharp and low. Fair enough...

You fidget, rubbing the back of your neck. “I… got distracted. Club ran long.”

Her eyes flick down to your bag. No plastic handles sticking out, no clinking bottles or leafy greens peeking. She leans her weight to one hip and folds her arms slowly, like she’s savoring the drama of the moment.

“Distracted,” she repeats. “Again.”

“It’s just the second time—”

“The second time this week,” she cuts in, and now you’re pretty sure she’s not even mad about the food. There’s something else threading underneath, something prickly and a little tired.

You drop your bag by the couch and step closer, sheepish. “I know, I know. I really meant to, I just—club stuff’s been a lot. We’re organizing that charity auction and planning the art zine printing and—”

“You’re in a crafts club, not national defense,” she mutters, turning toward the kitchen, but slower than usual, like she’s waiting for you to say something worth staying for.

“It’s called ‘Hands On’,” you remind her, trailing after. “And it’s pretty fun, actually. We’re doing embroidery on vintage denim this week.”

That earns a glance, just a flash over her shoulder, one brow twitching. “So now you’re too busy learning how to sew flowers onto someone’s ass to remember your basic responsibilities?”

You shift on your feet. “You make it sound so much lamer than it is.”

“I didn’t have to try.”

You watch her pull out the rice cooker, expression smoothing into that blank practiced calm she wears when she’s trying not to let irritation sound like concern. The rice cooker clicks, and it suddenly feels very loud in the silence you left hanging.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you say quickly, guilt tightening your throat. “Let me cook this weekend.”

She pauses, dead silent. Then slowly turns, both arms now crossed tighter, chin tilted.

“You.”

“Me.”

“You want to cook.”

“For us, yeah.”

“You nearly set the toaster on fire trying to make Pop-Tarts.”

“That was one time. And I was sleepy.”

“You boiled water in a frying pan.”

“I couldn’t find the kettle!”

“It was next to the stove.”

You press your palms together like you’re about to pray. “C’mon. Let me try. I’ll find recipes online. I’ll watch a tutorial or something. I’ll even write down a shopping list this time.”

Her eyes narrow. “You're gonna write down one egg, one cup rice, plus one extinguisher?”

You groan and sag onto the counter dramatically, forehead thunking against the cool laminate. “Have some faith in me, Sohyun.”

“I do, that’s why I don’t want to die.”

You lift your head and grin at her, and she falters. There’s a twitch at the edge of her mouth like she’s fighting it, but her arms are still crossed and her eyes are still doing that sharp thing they do when she’s trying to seem unimpressed. She fails. She always fails.

“You’ve got that face on again,” you say.

“What face.”

“The grumpy ‘my idiot roommate is testing my will to live’ face. I don’t like that face. Gimme a better one.”

She turns away a little, her hip brushing the counter, but you catch the way her lips almost curve. You lean in slightly.

“C’mon, just a little one. Gimme a smile. I’ll even do the grocery run tomorrow and the day after.”

“That’s your responsibility anyway,” she mumbles, but softer.

“Yeah, but I’ll do it extra good. Promise. Just smile.”

She tries to keep her mouth straight, but it’s not fair, because you’re looking at her like a puppy that dropped its leash and still thinks it deserves a treat. And you know what you’re doing; weaponizing that whole innocent soft-boy thing, but it works. She finally lets one side of her mouth curl up, barely, like a crack of sunlight through clouds.

“There,” you say, triumphant, and point like it’s proof. “That’s the one. See? You look way less murdery when you do that.”

“Shut up,” she says, but she doesn’t move away when you lean against the counter beside her. Her shoulder is warm against yours, and she doesn’t pull away. You can feel her relaxing, even if she keeps up the grumble.

“Seriously though,” you say. “Thanks for cooking all the time. I know I suck at adulting. I’ll get better.”

“Yeah, well. Someone has to keep your malnourished ass alive.”

You laugh, and she pretends like that wasn’t a compliment buried in salt. The silence after isn’t tense anymore. It’s familiar. She leans over to rinse some rice, and you stay close, watching the way her fingers move, the easy rhythm of someone who knows what they’re doing. It’s kind of hypnotic. You catch yourself staring a little too long and glance away, ears warm.

“You know,” you say, just to fill the quiet, “Xinyu said she wants to teach me how to make handmade dumplings. Apparently she’s some kind of food goddess outside of club stuff.”

You don’t notice how still Sohyun goes. How her shoulders tighten just slightly. You’re busy thinking about how Xinyu had smiled at you when she said it, the way she tilted her head and asked if your hands were good with dough. Like she was measuring your answer with something hungrier than curiosity.

You don’t notice the way Sohyun’s grip on the strainer shifts. Or the small exhale she lets out, short and flat. But you do catch the quiet that follows your sentence. Heavy again. And not the good kind.

You glance over. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, too fast. “Sounds like she’s keeping you real busy lately.”

“I guess? I mean, she’s just super involved in everything. She’s got all these ideas. And people really listen to her. It’s kinda cool.”

She hums, then dumps the rice into the cooker with a clatter that sounds more aggressive than necessary.

“Cool,” she repeats under her breath, but you don’t catch the tone.

You yawn and stretch your arms above your head. “Anyway. I’m gonna shower before dinner. Thanks for not killing me.”

“No promises,” she mutters.

As you disappear down the hall, you don’t see the look she gives the kitchen doorway. Not angry. Not exactly sad, either. Just a look like someone watching a window slowly shut on something they hadn’t even realized they were leaning out of. The rice cooker beeps behind her, forgotten. Her reflection stares back at her in the microwave door, and she doesn’t like what she sees there.

—

The air outside the lecture hall is too crisp for how warm your neck feels under the collar of your hoodie. Your econ professor dragged out the last five minutes of class with a winding tangent about inflation and donuts, and your brain’s still foggy from trying to stay awake. The hallway hums with the usual end-of-class shuffle—backpacks zipping, shoes squeaking on linoleum, someone laughing too loudly down the hall, the flick of water bottles being opened like a chorus of bored seals. You dig your phone out of your pocket, thumb tapping out a quick message to Sohyun to let her know you might head home soon—and then you hear your name.

Not called. Sung.

“Heeeey!”

You don’t even get the full chance to turn around before something soft and perfume-sweet hooks around your elbow and starts pulling. It’s instinct, at this point. You don’t even resist. You know that voice, and sure enough, there she is: Xinyu. In a velvet jacket the color of overripe cherries, hair twisted in a high braid that bounces with every movement, eyes bright with some new scheme. She's wearing high heels, which emphasizes her height (1.74cm, and she doesn't even need the heels to be taller than you).

“You have legs. You’re walking. Perfect. C’mon,” she says, already dragging you past two people in the hall who double-take like they’re seeing something illegal.

“Uh—hi? What—what’s going on?” You try to plant your feet but she’s stronger than she looks. “I actually need to get home kinda early—”

“It’ll be quick,” she chirps, which you immediately recognize as a lie, the same way Sohyun always does when you tell her you’ll “just check something real fast.” Xinyu gives you a sideways glance, all long lashes and a grin that should be registered as a performance-enhancing drug. “We’ve got a situation and you, my sweet dumb boy, are just the man to solve it.”

“I never agreed to—wait, what situation?”

“You’ll see,” she hums.

That’s how it always starts.

She marches you through campus like she’s late to a parade, and you end up outside the “Hands On” club room (formerly the Sad Little Arts Supply Closet), now upgraded with banners, fairy lights, a suggestion box shaped like a gumball machine, and one extremely passive-aggressive cactus on the windowsill that someone (probably Xinyu) glued googly eyes onto. The room smells like fabric glue and lavender cleaning spray. You can already tell something’s going on. Half the tables have fabric swatches and scissors laid out, while the other half are in chaos—cardboard boxes, paper stacks, craft knives, sticky notes everywhere like a crime scene made by a kindergarten teacher.

Xinyu kicks the door shut with her heel, and immediately spins to face you, hands clasped dramatically.

“Emergency,” she declares. “Our treasurer—bless his little heart—forgot to print half the zine inserts for tomorrow’s showcase. And he left town to visit his boyfriend and won’t be back until Monday.”

You blink. “Okay. And that involves me… how?”

She gives you a look, then grabs a stack of prints and holds them out with both hands, like she’s offering an ancient tome. “We need to trim the inserts, fold them, and pair them with the right zine covers tonight. I would do it myself, but I’m already running final checklists, and I need someone with…” She pauses, eyes dragging slowly down you in a way that makes your spine twitch. “…delicate hands.”

You’re not even sure what that means, but it works embarrassingly well. You shift your weight awkwardly, try not to smile, fail.

“I’ve got readings to do, though,” you mumble, still reaching for the stack anyway.

She leans in, nose almost bumping yours. “Just thirty minutes.”

You know it’s going to be at least two hours. But you’re already sitting down.

You work through the inserts like a factory line, trying not to get glue on your hoodie, trying even harder not to look too happy that she keeps hovering over your shoulder. Every few minutes she passes behind you, laying a hand on your back, leaning to read something over your shoulder, her perfume brushing against your cheek—light and heady, like peonies dipped in honey. When you mess up the first fold, she just laughs and reaches over to fix it, her fingers brushing yours deliberately.

“See? You’ve got the touch,” she says after you finish the third stack, peeking at your neat line of trimmed edges. “You’re careful. Precise. You’d make a good production lead.”

You pause, scissors halfway through a page. “Production what?”

“For the club.” She spins one of the folding chairs around and straddles it backwards, arms folded over the backrest like she’s about to make a TED talk. “We need someone to manage all the materials and oversee project prep days. It’s not super intense, just a couple meetings, task lists, making sure stuff gets done right. I’ve been doing it all myself, but honestly, you’re way more organized than I expected.”

“Uh. Thanks?” You’re not even sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.

She grins. “I'm serious! You’ve got this sort of… reliable energy. Like the kind of guy who double-checks the batteries before a camping trip.”

“Are you saying I’m boring?”

“No,” she says, tipping her head. “I’m saying you’re hot in a very unexpectedly domestic way.”

Your brain short-circuits a little. You drop a sheet. She laughs.

“That’s not—what even is that?”

“Means I could leave you alone in a room with a pet bunny and a glue gun and not worry about either of them dying.”

“…That is the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“And yet you’re still blushing.”

You turn your head away, trying to pretend you’re not. You totally are.

The idea of the position swirls in your head now, even as you keep folding. You picture being in charge of something, even something this small. Making lists. Making things run. Sohyun would probably laugh if she heard it. Or roll her eyes. Or both. Still. There's something weirdly satisfying about the idea of being useful like that. And then there’s the fact that it means more time here. Around her. Around this energy that makes you feel like you’re slightly floating, like maybe you matter in a way you hadn’t thought about before.

“I dunno,” you say. “I’ve never done anything like that before. And I’m still learning how the club works…”

“I’ll help you,” she says immediately. “Seriously. I wouldn’t throw you in alone. I just need someone I trust. And you’ve got this chill thing going on that keeps people from freaking out. I like that.”

You feel your ears heat again.

“I’ll think about it,” you say.

She pouts, and it’s completely weaponized. “But I need you.”

You choke on your breath.

She leans closer across the table. “Please? You’d be perfect. You’re already half in love with this place anyway.”

“I am not.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “You’re literally here folding paper on a Friday night.”

“…Point taken.”

She smiles then, something soft but electric, and somehow the room feels warmer. She taps the side of your hand lightly with a fingernail.

“Just say yes.”

You hesitate.

But it’s barely even hesitation.

“Okay,” you mumble, and you look down because her smile makes it hard to breathe right.

“I knew you would,” she says, sing-song and smug.

You keep working, heartbeat annoyingly loud, the sound of scissors and paper and her humming filling the room like you’ve stepped into a whole different orbit. Something not quite safe. But not bad, either. Just new.

And when you finally look at your phone later—two hours later—you realize you never texted Sohyun back.

—

You fumble with your keys at the door like they’ve suddenly become a math problem, plastic bags hanging heavy off your wrists, sleeves bunched up, hoodie damp with the sweat of a rushed walk to the market. You’re late. Not “forgot the time” late; actual late. Like, over-an-hour-past-the-“I’ll be home by six”-mark late. And that’s with the shortcut through the back alley that smells vaguely like wet cardboard and moldy pizza. You exhale, brace yourself, and nudge the door open with your foot.

Inside’s warm, lit up with the kitchen lights already on, even though you’d planned to turn them on yourself, cook like a responsible adult for once, surprise Sohyun with your flawless (okay, barely functional) culinary debut. Instead, there’s quiet rustling in the living room and the telltale smell of rice already cooking.

Damn.

“Sohyun,” you call out quickly, pushing in and kicking the door shut behind you. “Wait—don’t cook, I’m doing it! I swear!”

She appears before you can get another sentence out, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room with her arms folded like she’s on break from interrogating someone. That same sweatshirt again, sleeves half covering her hands, her hair up in one of those loose, tired buns that somehow makes her look even more intimidating. She doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you.

You lift the bags. “Groceries. All of ‘em. Even got the brand of gochujang you like and those overpriced Belgian chocolate bars you keep ‘not liking’ but always finish.”

That gets her eyebrow twitching upward, just a little. But the frown’s still hanging around her mouth.

“I said I’d cook,” you add. “I didn’t forget this time.”

“You’re late.”

“I know, I’m sorry. There was… stuff. At the club. Unexpected stuff.”

She doesn’t ask what. She just moves aside so you can shuffle into the kitchen and start unpacking the bags. Vegetables. Noodles. Chicken. Soy sauce. Two bars of that milk chocolate with sea salt she thinks you don’t notice her hoarding in the freezer like contraband. She watches silently as you line things up on the counter, sleeves rolled up like you’re about to operate instead of cook.

“Okay,” you exhale, trying to sound confident and not like you’re internally googling how to dice an onion without making it look like a hate crime. “Tonight, we are making… stir-fried noodles. With chicken. And bok choy.”

Sohyun leans against the doorframe, arms still crossed. “You’re stir-frying something.”

“Technically, yes.”

She watches you wrestle the chicken out of its package like it’s a test of your moral fiber.

“You know,” she says after a long moment, “the whole point of you cooking was to not make me do anything.”

“I got this.”

You do not got this. Five minutes later you’re trying to figure out which knife is for chicken and which is for not-dying, when Sohyun lets out a sigh and walks over. She ties her hair up tighter, grabs a cutting board without a word, and starts slicing the bok choy with precision so sharp it’s almost smug.

“Hey—” you protest, “I said I got this.”

“You said a lot of things,” she mutters. “At this rate, we’ll be eating at midnight.”

You shut up and just let her work beside you. There’s something comforting about it, the shared silence while you both prep, the sound of knives on wood, the little clatter of bottles and bowls. You glance over at her hands a few times—how practiced they are, how she moves like she’s not even thinking about it. You’ve never been able to do anything that confidently. Not like her.

She doesn’t look at you when she speaks next. Her tone’s quiet. Even. Too even.

“So. This ‘unexpected stuff’ at the club.”

You clear your throat. “Just Xinyu stuff.

“Of course.”

“She needed help setting up some print stuff for the showcase tomorrow. I told her I couldn’t stay long, but…”

“But you stayed anyway.”

You hesitate. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

You glance up. She’s slicing scallions now, but her hands have slowed, like she’s not as calm as she wants to sound.

“She just needed help.”

Sohyun sets the knife down, finally looks at you.

“She always needs help, doesn’t she?”

You blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sohyun wipes her hands on a dish towel. “It means girls like her know exactly what they’re doing when they lean in too close and smile too wide and ask for just one little favor. And boys like you—”

“—what about boys like me?” you cut in, more defensive than you expected.

She studies you. “You’re too nice. Too soft. You think people mean what they say when they smile at you.”

Your chest tightens, and you try to laugh it off. “You don’t even know her.”

“I don’t need to,” she says flatly. “I’ve seen enough. You come home late. You forget things. You’re too tired to eat sometimes. All because some pretty girl with glitter in her hair asks you to fold paper and run errands and smile on command.”

“She’s not using me,” you say, voice low now, trying to keep your hands busy with the noodles, but your pulse is skipping. “We’re friends. She values me. I’m not just—help. She made me a production lead.”

Sohyun lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “Wow. Production lead. That sounds very real.”

You grit your teeth. “You don’t know what it’s like there. The club’s fun. I like it. I feel… useful. Like I matter.”

“You do matter,” she snaps. “Here. With me. But you’re so damn caught up in being liked by her that you don’t see what she’s doing.”

You flinch, then stare down at the noodles, hands cold even over the heat of the pan.

“She’s really nice to me,” you mumble. “She listens. She laughs at my jokes. She makes me feel seen. Maybe you just… don’t get along with people like that.”

Her silence is louder than the stovetop now. You don’t dare look up. You keep stirring, even though the sauce is starting to bubble too fast, even though the smell is getting sharper. Sohyun says nothing for a long time.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter.

“She doesn’t see you,” she says. “She sees what she can get from you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You just stand there, heat rising from the stove, from your face, from the sudden shift in the air around you.

“Let's just... finish cooking, okay?” you finally say, and the conversation ends.

The dinner isn’t bad. It’s not amazing either—one of the noodles is suspiciously crunchy and the sauce might be a little too salty—but it’s edible, and you didn’t set off the smoke detector, so it counts as a win. The kind of win where no one cheers but nobody dies. You both eat cross-legged on the couch, bowls balanced in your laps, watching something vague and unmemorable play out on the TV. Neither of you really pays attention. The show is just there to fill the silence you haven’t figured out how to cross again yet.

She’s quiet. Not in the usual way, where she’s half-ignoring you because she’s pretending to be annoyed. This is the kind of quiet where she doesn’t pick at your uneven chopstick technique, or sigh when you slouch too far forward like a sad noodle boy. She just eats. Occasionally glances at the screen. Mostly doesn’t look at you.

It’s your fault. You know that. You didn’t mean to shut her out, but the conversation from earlier is still coiled up tight in your chest like a knotted cord you can’t unkink. You know she meant well. You also know you didn’t want to hear it. And now it’s sitting between you like a third roommate with bad vibes and no rent.

You stab a stray noodle in the bowl and swirl it for no reason. Then, out of nowhere, you blurt it.

“Hey, uh… do you wanna go to the movies this weekend?”

Sohyun blinks. Turns her head slowly. “What?”

You cough and set your bowl down on the coffee table, feigning casual like you haven’t just rerouted the entire tone of the evening. “That movie. The weird indie horror-romance one you wouldn’t shut up about. You said it’s finally playing at that little theater downtown, right?”

She narrows her eyes like she suspects a trap. “That movie?”

“Yeah. That one with the girl who falls in love with a ghost that might’ve murdered her aunt.”

“You said that sounded dumb.”

“I’ve since developed taste.”

Her eyes flick down to your empty bowl, then back to your face, skeptical. “You wanna go see it. With me.”

“Yes.”

“At the theater.”

“Yes.”

“You, willingly, sitting through a movie where people talk in metaphors and cry in bathtubs for two hours.”

“Yes.”

She stares a second longer, then slowly sets her own bowl down.

“…Are you dying?”

You laugh, relieved that the wall between you starts to crack. “No. I just figured it’s been a while, you know? Since we went anywhere together. Just us.”

She looks at you, and this time it’s different. Softer. A little surprised. Her shoulders uncoil, just slightly.

“Yeah,” she says after a beat. “Yeah, I guess it has.”

You shift closer on the couch, knees brushing. She doesn’t pull away.

“I miss that,” you say quietly. “You and me. Hanging out. You making fun of my popcorn choices and stealing half of it anyway.”

“I don’t steal,” she mutters, glancing away. “You just let me take it.”

“Exactly,” you say, and you slide your hand over hers before you can overthink it. Just resting your palm on top of hers, fingers curling a little, not gripping, just—being there.

She flinches slightly at the contact, just a twitch, but she doesn’t pull back. She lets your fingers settle against hers, warm and tentative, and when you look up at her, she’s not smirking. Not scoffing. Her eyes are flicking down where your hands meet like it’s something foreign and strange and maybe a little fragile.

“You’re my best friend,” you say, simple and true. “You matter a lot to me.”

Her lips part slightly. Her brows lift, and for a second you think she might laugh it off or tell you you’re being cheesy or stupid—but she doesn’t. She just exhales, like maybe something heavy has been sitting in her chest too.

“You matter to me too,” she says.

You smile at her, and this time when your thumb brushes her knuckle, she doesn’t tense. She lets it happen. Lets you stay close. The show keeps playing in the background, some scene with a car chase and overly dramatic soundtrack cues, but you don’t hear it. Not really.

She shifts her hand slightly and laces her fingers with yours. Not fully. Not completely confident. But enough.

“Don’t be late to the theater,” she says softly. “Or I will eat all your popcorn.”

“Fair,” you say, and your heart’s beating like you’ve just run a mile uphill, but your smile won’t quit.

Neither will hers, even as she tries to hide it by turning toward the screen again.

And when she finally squeezes your hand, once, gently… you squeeze back.

—

The week grinds on like a slow, dull blade; long days of lectures that won’t end and projects that never feel done, your hands always on something, always organizing, always fixing. The new position in the club sounded cool when Xinyu pitched it, sounded manageable, even kind of important. And it is. But it's also constant. There’s always something that needs adjusting. A deadline that wasn’t clear. A last-minute supply shortage. Someone who forgot to RSVP to a workshop and now wants to be squeezed in. You spend most of your hours between classes running around campus, typing messages with one hand and juggling printouts with the other. It’s not that you hate it. It’s just… a lot.

And you’ve been deliberately keeping it at arm’s length this week. Showing up when you need to. Doing what’s necessary. But not lingering. Not letting yourself fall into the way Xinyu looks at you when you're both the last ones in the room. Not letting yourself chase that high that comes from being the center of her attention. You're just packing your things at the edge of the classroom when the scent hits you before the voice. Vanilla, sharp berry, something flirtatious. You freeze for half a second before you even look up.

“There you are,” Xinyu says, leaning against the frame of the door like it’s a movie scene. Skirt just high enough to register, blouse knotted loosely at the waist, hair done up in a half-messy twist that probably took twenty minutes to make look that accidental. She’s smiling at you like she caught you doing something bad and she’s this close to forgiving you for it.

“Hey,” you say, more cautious than casual.

“Got a minute?” She pushes off the door with one heel, strides into your personal space like she owns it, which (let’s face it) she kind of does when she wants to. “Just wanted to run a couple updates by you for the zine drop next week. Also, did you see my text?”

You blink. “Uh, I think so? About the schedule?”

“No,” she says, stepping even closer, voice lowering just enough to pull your gaze to her mouth. “The one I sent yesterday. About the mixer tonight.”

You shake your head. “I’ve been a little swamped. Haven’t had time to check.”

Her smile flickers, momentarily amused, maybe faintly disappointed. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve been kind of... scarce this week.”

You shift your bag on your shoulder, trying not to notice the way her eyes track the movement. “I’ve just had a lot going on. Assignments, you know. Life.”

“Sure,” she says, tilting her head. “But it’s not like you to dip right after meetings. And I miss my favorite assistant-slash-handyman-slash-pretty boy.”

That catches you off guard. You cough and glance toward the hallway.

She’s teasing, obviously.

Probably.

Right?

“I’m still doing everything I’m supposed to,” you say, trying to stay focused. “I’ve just been trying to keep my head down and not burn out.”

She studies you for a second, like she’s assessing whether that’s the whole truth. “Mhm. So you’re saying you could come to the mixer tonight but you won’t.”

You laugh nervously. “I already have plans.”

That gets her attention. “Plans?” she repeats, lifting an eyebrow. “With who?”

You hesitate. A beat too long.

“…My roommate,” you say. “Sohyun.”

Her mouth lifts at one corner, interested now in a way that’s different; not just playful, but… analytical.

“Sohyun…” she echoes. “That name’s familiar. I think I’ve seen her around. Quiet girl? Moles on the face? Always in a hoodie?”

You nod. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“Didn’t know you two were that close.”

You try to shrug it off, but your grip on your bag strap tightens. “We live together. We hang out sometimes. She’s just—she’s my friend.”

Xinyu steps closer. Close enough you can smell her perfume again, soft and sweet, like fruit ripened in summer heat. Her fingers trail lightly across your forearm.

“Just your friend,” she murmurs.

You nod, throat dry. “Yeah.”

Her eyes drag over your face like she’s reading a secret written across your skin. She doesn’t blink. Her fingers pause, then curl lightly around your wrist.

“That’s good,” she says, voice velvet-wrapped. “Because you already have an owner.”

Your breath catches. “I—what?”

She doesn’t give you time to untangle the meaning. She just leans forward and kisses you.

It’s soft at first, almost testing. Her lips barely brush yours, but the sensation is instantly overwhelming. Sweet gloss. A breath of warm air. Her fingers sliding up, into your hair, pulling you a half-step deeper before you even realize you're leaning in. Everything disappears, noise, time, the fluorescent hallway lights, it’s just her, kissing you like she’s claiming something that already belonged to her.

You don’t move. You can’t move. Your thoughts are scattering like coins in water.

When she finally pulls back, her face is still inches from yours, her breath warm and her smile damn near criminal.

“You’re cute when you look like you’ve been unplugged,” she says, brushing your jaw with the back of her knuckle. “But don’t worry. I don’t bite.”

You swallow, hard. “I don’t…”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t really know what that meant.”

She laughs. “It means I’m making a reservation, baby. You’re mine.”

You look at her, dumbstruck, heart slamming in your ribs.

Then, before you can collect yourself, she adds, “So, since you’re blowing me off for your roommate tonight, how about you make it up to me.”

“…How?”

She leans in again, lips just by your ear now.

“Ask me out. Just you and me. No club stuff. No excuses.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. You should say no. You should stall. But instead—

“…Okay. I will.”

Her smile goes wide and adorable.

“Good boy.”

She kisses your cheek this time, softer, lighter, but somehow more dangerous, and then turns on her heel and disappears down the hall, skirt swinging, a melody of casual destruction.

You’re left standing in the doorway of your classroom, the taste of her still on your lips, your phone buzzing with a new message that you already know is from her.

And somehow, all you can think about now is how the hell you’re going to face Sohyun tonight.

—

You get to the theater with barely a minute to spare, which is honestly a miracle considering your brain's been running on static ever since Xinyu kissed you. You’ve been replaying it like some kind of forbidden cutscene you unlocked by accident. Her perfume is still clinging to your hoodie. Your lips still feel weirdly aware, like your body hasn’t updated the rest of itself on what happened. You texted Sohyun that you were on your way while your fingers were still slightly shaking.

And now she’s standing in front of the ticket kiosk, scrolling on her phone, her expression neutral until she hears your footsteps. She looks up, and her face softens the way it always does when she sees you: shoulders relaxing, lips almost smiling. She’s got her hair down tonight, not tied up like usual, and her eyeliner’s a little sharper than usual, like she put in effort but didn’t want to make it obvious. It kind of punches the air out of your lungs.

“You made it,” she says.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you manage, trying to keep your tone level.

She squints. “You okay? You look like you just ran from a house fire.”

“I’m fine. Just, uh…” You rub the back of your neck, laughing awkwardly. “Got caught up with something right before I left. But I’m good now. Totally good.”

She walks beside you toward the entrance, and the moment you get close, she stops short. Her nose twitches. Her brow furrows slightly.

“Hold up,” she says, sniffing the air near your shoulder. “What is that?”

You freeze. “What’s what?”

“That smell. Are you wearing perfume?”

You nearly trip over your own feet. “What? No. No, no. It’s, uh… probably just my deodorant. I bought a new one. It’s got like, weird… berry something in it. Or… lavender? Maybe both? I don’t know.”

She stares at you like you just said your skin naturally emits essential oils. “You smell like someone else. Like a girl."

You try not to sweat. “Maybe I brushed past someone on the train. Or—maybe someone at the mall sprayed a tester thing. I mean, you know how people get with free samples.”

Sohyun doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press further. Not directly. Just narrows her eyes and says, “Uh-huh,” before moving toward the theater doors again.

You scramble to change the subject, reaching for something, anything. “Hey, by the way… you look really beautiful tonight.”

That gets her attention. She stops walking again. Turns slowly.

“What?”

You blink. “I mean it. You look nice. Really nice. It’s the eyeliner or the hair or maybe both. I dunno. You just do.”

Now her expression isn’t suspicious, exactly. More like… confused. Like you just threw her off balance in a way she wasn’t expecting. She gives you a side glance, narrowing her eyes again.

“Okay, what’s going on with you tonight?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, holding your hands up like you’re being accused of a crime. “I’m allowed to compliment my best friend, right?”

She mutters something like “Not when you’re acting weird about it,” but she walks ahead and scans the tickets, so you follow her into the dark theater, hoping the blackness will hide how flushed you probably are.

You sit next to her, the movie already starting with a low, ambient hum that fills the space between you. But you’re not really there. Not fully.

Your body is sitting beside Sohyun, her knee occasionally brushing yours, the bucket of popcorn between you smelling like synthetic butter and warm salt. But your mind keeps flashing back to the moment in the hallway earlier today—Xinyu leaning in, her lips brushing yours, her voice low and possessive, calling you hers. That look in her eyes like she meant it. Like she wanted you. Not just to help with her club plans, not just to make things run smoothly. You. Specifically you.

You sit still, trying to focus on the film, but the plot flows over you like mist—haunting music, characters whispering in shadowy rooms, a scene with someone walking backwards in slow motion. You’re lost in the echo of what Xinyu said.

You already have an owner.

You don’t know what to make of it. But it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like she was playing. It felt like something real. Like maybe Sohyun was wrong. Maybe Xinyu does care about you. Maybe all the flirtation and teasing wasn’t just a way to get you to fold papers and haul supplies. Maybe she likes you. For you.

But then you glance sideways. Sohyun’s eyes are on the screen, but she’s smiling. Just a little. The kind of smile you only catch if you’re watching her close, when something in the movie hits right, or when she’s just happy to be there beside you, no pressure, no performance. Just… happy.

You feel it then. Not guilt, exactly. Something messier. Like being caught between two currents pulling in opposite directions. Xinyu’s kiss still burns on your lips. But Sohyun’s hand, resting on the armrest beside yours, feels like something familiar. Something safe.

So you just keep sitting there, the film flickering over both of you, your brain too full and too loud to hear much of anything.

But Sohyun leans slightly toward you halfway through the film, and whispers, “Thanks for coming with me.”

You nod, quiet. “Of course.”

She nudges you lightly with her shoulder. “Even if your deodorant smells suspiciously like high-end seduction.”

You laugh under your breath, and it breaks the tension in your chest a little. She doesn’t ask more.

And you’re not sure where this is all going. But for now, you’re here. With her. Sharing popcorn. Sharing silence. Sharing something you still haven’t named.

But despite all this, somehow, tonight is going well.

Or at least you're pretending it is.

—

It starts subtly. A slow gravitational shift. One day you’re just helping Xinyu reorganize the storage shelves in the club room, joking about how half the boxes are labeled with inside jokes only she understands, and the next, it’s just the two of you sitting cross-legged on the carpet, eating overpriced takeout while she flips through proofs and playfully feeds you shrimp tempura with her chopsticks. Time begins to bend differently around her. Hours pass like they’re minutes when she’s smiling at you like that, fingers trailing casually along your thigh while she talks about themes for the next zine, her head tilted, eyes lit like you’re the only one who gets to hear this part of her.

You try not to let it show too much outside the club room. It’s not like you’re trying to hide it, but there’s something about it that feels too new, too bright to be touched by other people’s opinions.

Especially Sohyun’s.

So you don’t say anything about the kisses stolen behind closed doors or the way Xinyu's hand slips into yours when no one’s looking. But you talk about her. A lot. More than usual. Like you’re hoping repetition will turn perception. Like you’re trying to overwrite Sohyun’s skepticism with enough evidence that she’ll finally admit she was wrong.

At first, you don’t notice how often you bring her up. Like during dinner one night, when Sohyun’s plating kimchi stew and you’re scrolling through your phone with a dumb grin.

“She’s seriously so funny,” you say, half-laughing to yourself. “Yesterday she was trying to teach me how to make those little origami frogs and I kept screwing them up, so she made a whole sad frog funeral out of my mess-ups. Like full-on folded a little casket. It was so dumb, but I couldn’t stop laughing.”

Sohyun glances up from the pot, slow, expression unreadable. “Sounds… elaborate.”

“Yeah, but like, in a cute way,” you say, scooping rice into your bowl. “She’s got this energy that makes everything more fun. Even boring stuff. Like she turned budget planning into a game last week. Made me guess prices on glitter and glue sticks like it was a quiz show.”

“She ever let you win?”

You grin. “Only when I look extra pitiful.”

Sohyun doesn’t laugh. She just places your bowl in front of you without comment, her eyes flicking down to the table as she settles into her seat. You don’t catch the way her fingers tense around her chopsticks before she starts eating.

You miss other signs too. Like how she doesn’t look up when you come home late anymore. Or how she doesn’t ask what you were up to. You used to tell her without prompting, but now your nights are wrapped in something private—lipstick on your neck, her breath on your ear, Xinyu pressing you against clubroom cabinets with that smug little grin that makes your thoughts scatter like dice.

You stop watching movies with Sohyun. Not intentionally. It just slips away. The time you spent together starts shrinking, edged out by late-night print meetings, gallery walks with Xinyu that turn into half-drunken conversations on park benches, and slow kisses that taste like watermelon gum and heat. You keep saying you’ll reschedule movie night. You never do.

Sohyun doesn’t press. But she notices.

She notices how you start smiling at your phone more than usual. How your hoodie comes home smelling like something not yours. She notices how you hesitate when she asks how your day went, how you mention Xinyu’s name like it’s a punctuation mark in every other sentence.

“Did she ask you to talk about her this much,” Sohyun mutters one night.

“What?”

She doesn’t repeat herself. Just stares at the screen. Her shoulders stiff.

You shift on the couch. “I just think maybe she’s not how you assumed, that’s all.”

Sohyun’s jaw tightens, her eyes still on the flickering movie neither of you are watching. “Maybe.”

“She’s been… really kind to me,” you add. “She listens. She gets it. I dunno. It’s just nice having someone who really sees you, y’know?”

There’s a pause. A breath. A sound like something small and invisible breaking.

“I thought I did,” she says quietly.

You turn to her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Forget it.”

You don’t push. And that’s the worst part. You used to. But now Xinyu’s kisses are still on your collar, her texts still open on your screen, little cartoon hearts trailing in your thoughts like an afterimage.

You’re floating. Orbiting. And you don’t see the way Sohyun’s been left behind on the ground, staring at your back like she’s watching a spaceship disappear into a sky that never once asked her to come along.

—

One month has passed.

She’s not surprised when you’re late. That’s just how it is now.

The first few times, she was. At least enough to stay up, waiting in the living room with a show paused halfway through and her phone resting face-up on the armrest. But that phase passed. It’s like training a cat to come home by midnight—you can try, but if it keeps slipping out the window, eventually you stop wasting your breath.

Now it’s routine. You say you’ll be home by eight. She hears the door creak at eleven. You always have a reason. Club stuff. Project stuff. Xinyu needing help. Xinyu needing you. And Sohyun tells herself not to care. She tells herself she’s just your roommate. She tells herself that if she keeps her expectations low enough, they won’t disappoint her when they inevitably fall short.

But tonight is different.

You didn’t say you'd be out late. You said you'd be back in time for dinner. Even said you'd help her prep. She made an actual list. Took the rice out early. Washed vegetables like she believed you.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid.

Nine o'clock. She tries to study. Fails.

Ten o'clock. She scrolls social media and refreshes your chat twice, looking for a dot that never shows up.

At eleven, she sends a message:

you good?

At midnight:

where are you

No reply.

She starts imagining things she doesn't want to imagine. Hospital beds. Car crashes. You ditching your phone somewhere and bleeding out behind a dumpster. All of it stupid, dramatic, and totally possible in the late-night silence of a too-quiet apartment. She walks the loop from the kitchen to the living room and back again like pacing will keep her from thinking. At 1 a.m. she gives up and goes to her room, sits in bed with the lights off and your chat open on her phone like it might suddenly ping alive and make her look dumb for worrying.

You don’t reply.

Not even the seen-check mark.

She stares at the glow of the screen, the little timestamp beneath her last message like it’s laughing at her.

At 3:04 a.m, the door clicks.

She hears it, obviously. She’s been awake for hours, lying still in the dark, breathing shallow like that might trick her thoughts into falling asleep. The lock turns slowly, like you’re trying not to make a sound. The door swings open with that telltale rubbery groan (it’s always the left hinge) and then soft footsteps. Your footsteps.

She doesn’t move.

You shuffle into the hallway. Then your door clicks shut, soft. No lights turned on. No message sent. No “hey, sorry I’m late.” Just… slipping in like a kid past curfew. Quiet as guilt.

She stares at her ceiling. Her room smells like night cream and too much unsaid.

Something’s wrong. Not in the usual way.

You didn’t just get caught up. You’re hiding something.

She sits up finally, swings her legs over the side of the bed, but doesn’t turn on the light. She just sits there in the dark, jaw clenched, fists curling in her lap.

It’s Xinyu. Of course it’s Xinyu.

Something about that girl makes Sohyun’s skin crawl. Too perfect. Too polished. Too practiced with the way she laughs like music and touches everyone like they’re already hers. And she could see it happening—could see the way you lit up around her, how your eyes chased Xinyu’s every move like a dog waiting for scraps. At first, Sohyun thought it was a phase. Something shallow. A crush that’d fizzle out like most of yours did.

But then the quiet started. The missed dinners. The unread messages. The new deodorant that didn’t smell like you. The way your eyes would dart when she said Xinyu’s name, like it was a window she could see through.

Now, tonight, the way you came in like a stranger. That was the crack that let everything pour in.

She should be angry. She wants to be angry. But what’s worse is this ache: this quiet, hollow ache in her chest like she’s watching something slip out of her hands she never got to call hers in the first place.

You were hers. Not hers-hers. Not officially. But still. Hers in the way you always came to her first. Hers in the way your laugh sounded different when it was just them. Hers in the way you’d watch her cook with that dumb soft look and try not to say anything because you didn’t want to sound sappy. She misses that.

She misses you.

Now all she has is the memory of your footsteps in the dark and the smell of that other girl on your clothes.

And she’s not sure how much longer she can pretend not to notice.

—

Sohyun wakes up earlier than usual. Not because she wants to. Her eyes just snap open like they’re waiting for an answer to a question she didn’t get to ask. The clock on her nightstand says 6:34, and her room is blue and gray and quiet, with the early light crawling across the floorboards like it’s sneaking in on tiptoe. Her pillow still smells faintly like conditioner and sleep and the night she wasted waiting for you to come home. She kicks the blanket off. Her skin’s cold but her chest’s hotter than it should be. A low, smoldering kind of heat that simmers behind the ribs. Not anger. Not yet. Something more corrosive.

You’re already in the kitchen when she steps out. Acting like everything’s fine. Like nothing happened. Even visibly exhausted, you’ve got that dumb, disarming half-smile on, and your hoodie’s zipped all the way up like you think it makes you look more innocent. Like you think you’re just gonna pour some cereal, mumble something about class starting at eight, and coast through the morning without her noticing the parts of you that don’t match.

"Morning," you say. Your tone is chipper. Fake. She hates it. “I made coffee for you.”

She doesn’t ask anything. She doesn’t snap. She just grabs a mug, fills it with that bitter cheap instant coffee you somehow never notice tastes like burnt pennies, and sits at the table. You start rambling.

“I didn’t get a chance to reply last night. My phone died. I was at a friend’s place. We were just hanging out. Time got away from me, you know how it is.”

She hums. Not in agreement. Just to fill space.

“It wasn’t even that late,” you say. “I mean, okay, yeah, technically it was late, but it’s not like—nothing bad happened or anything. Just lost track.”

She keeps sipping her coffee, expression unreadable. Like the mug is more interesting than your entire explanation.

You wait for her to say something. She doesn’t. You keep going. Nervous filler. You always do that when you’re lying.

“I mean, I didn’t even realize what time it was. It was like, wow, already past two? Crazy. And by then I figured I’d just crash and not wake anyone up.”

She sets the mug down too hard. It clinks against the wood laminate. She looks at you, expression flat. “It’s okay.”

That’s it. Just that. No inflection. Not even a glare. You nod awkwardly and start preparing your cereal.

—

The walk to campus is dead quiet. You both step in sync without thinking, but there’s no music between you. No shared earbuds. No small talk. Just footsteps and a silence that stretches so long it starts to feel like another person walking beside you, tall and heavy and suffocating.

At the entrance gate, you break off first. “See you later, yeah?” you say.

Sohyun just nods. You turn. And she watches you go.

But today’s different.

Today she’s not going to sit back. Today she’s done playing passive-aggressive roommate, done standing still while something she doesn’t want to name slips out of reach. Today she’s going to find out. For real. Whatever it is—whatever this thing is between you and Xinyu—she needs to see it. Even if it breaks her.

She heads toward your building at a brisk pace, hoodie pulled low, headphones in with nothing playing. Just for the look. Just to blend in. She waits across the quad from your classroom entrance, leaning against a column like she’s texting, like she belongs there, like her heart isn’t pounding in her ears so loud she feels it in her teeth.

You come out a minute later, backpack slung lazy on one shoulder, head ducked, scrolling your phone. She steps into motion before you can see her. You don’t look back. You don’t notice. She follows you across the paved paths, past vending machines and sleepy undergrads, keeping enough distance to look like she’s just going the same way. No one glances at her twice.

And then she sees her. Xinyu.

Bright red jacket. Short skirt and cropped top, quite inappropriate for the academic environment. Hair curled just-so, like she stepped out of an ad. Leaning against a bench with one ankle crossed over the other like she’s waiting for her date. You slow. She smiles. Arms open.

“There you are!” she chirps, pulling you in.

It’s not just a hug. Sohyun knows what hugs are. This one’s got linger. This one’s got fingertips sliding up your back like they’re trying to memorize every bone. You look caught off guard, but you don’t move away.

Sohyun slinks closer, behind the sculpture garden wall. She crouches low, right by the rhododendron hedge that stinks faintly of wet bark and cheap fertilizer. Her hands are cold.

"We need to go to the club immediately,” she says.

“I thought the club was closed today,” you reply.

Xinyu laughs, and it’s musical and full of knowing. “Exactly. It’s closed. No one’s gonna be there.”

You hesitate. “But like… isn’t that why we shouldn’t go?”

“Aw,” she coos, dragging her nail down your sleeve, “you’re so cute when you’re trying to be good. Come on, just a little visit. I forgot my notebook and I need to do some sketches. Besides—” she lowers her voice, “I like the place better when it’s empty. More room to spread out. More room to play.”

Sohyun’s stomach flips.

You laugh nervously. “I guess… I mean, if you really need help—”

“I always need help,” she says, and leans close again. “And you’re so good with your hands.”

It’s like someone punched the breath out of Sohyun’s lungs. She watches you scratch your neck, look away, not quite answering. But you’re not pulling away either. You’re not protesting. You’re blushing. She’s got her hooks in and she knows it. Sohyun can see it all from here, every smug flick of Xinyu’s lashes, every calculated little lean and brush.

She swallows hard. Her fingers are clenched so tight her knuckles hurt.

No. She’s not letting this slide.

She bolts before she can hear anything else. Takes the side path, sneakers hitting concrete in bursts, weaving through the back courtyards toward the old art building. The clubroom’s there, tucked in behind the supply annex. Her legs burn by the time she reaches it.

The door’s unlocked. Wide open. And inside, a janitor’s sweeping like this is just another fucking Tuesday.

“Excuse me!” she says, breathless, jogging in. The janitor looks up.

“There’s—someone from the admin office looking for you,” she lies, no hesitation. “Something about a sink backup on the second floor? They said it was urgent.”

He sighs. “Again?” and drops the broom.

As he walks out, Sohyun holds the door open like a good little helper, then slips in behind him and closes it tight.

The silence is huge.

The air’s cooler inside. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The clubroom’s a controlled mess—tables littered with fabric scraps, zine proofs, glue sticks half-melted from overuse. It smells like paper and lavender and too many secrets.

She moves fast, eyes scanning for hiding spots. Under the table? No, too exposed. Behind the supply shelves? Not unless she wants to get spotted immediately. Then—there. In the back corner, half-concealed behind stacked poster rolls and bins of foam letters: a janitor’s closet. She darts over and yanks it open.

Coats. Wire hangers. A mop bucket. Miscellaneous crap. She slides in anyway, curling herself into the shadow between a metal cabinet and a box labeled “event props.” Her heart’s still racing.

She pulls the door mostly shut, leaving just a sliver to breathe through.

And now… she waits.

Every creak of the floor outside makes her flinch. Her phone vibrates. One buzz. It’s a message from you.

Hey, forgot to ask—do we have soy sauce left at home or should I pick some up?

She stares at the screen, thumb hovering. Doesn’t answer. Just locks it again and grips the edge of a crate until her nails dig in.

You’re coming. With her. With Xinyu. To this room. This space.

She doesn’t know what’s about to happen. She just knows she has to see it.

She has to know

A few minutes later, she hears footsteps, accompanied by an irritating giggle that she can already imagine who it belongs to.

You enter the club with Xinyu. The door clicks behind you with a soft, unmistakable snap. The kind that doesn’t come from a casual tug—no, it’s deliberate. You hear the rustle of keys before you even process the sound of the lock sliding into place, and that does something to the air. Traps it. Slows it down. Makes it feel heavier somehow.

Xinyu twirls the lanyard on her finger once, lets it slap lightly against her thigh, then drops the keys into her bag without ceremony. “There,” she says, all sugar and satisfaction. “Now we won’t be interrupted.”

You laugh nervously, glancing at the darkened windows. The blinds are half-drawn, a few strips of light slicing across the tables. “You really didn’t have to lock it.”

“Didn’t I?” she says, tilting her head like she’s daring you to disagree. “What if someone wandered in? What if they got the wrong idea?”

You blink. “I mean—if someone walked in, they’d… kinda get the right idea.”

She giggles, high and soft, stepping in close enough that your backpack bumps the wall behind you. Her perfume’s even stronger in here. Berries and danger. She plants both hands on your chest and leans in, the weight of her grin dragging everything out of orbit.

“You really are cute when you’re flustered.”

You swallow.

“We’ve gotta be quick, though,” she says, letting her palms slide down your hoodie, slow and teasing. She pulls back a bit and throws her bag on the floor, then slowly takes off her jacket. “I told my friend I was going to grab a notebook. Don’t want her wondering why I’m gone long enough to start a new semester.”

She kisses you before you can answer. Fast. Hot. Hungry. Like her mouth’s been waiting all morning and now she’s starved for it. Her lips crash against yours in that wild way only Xinyu seems capable of—reckless and commanding, tongue slipping in like she owns the space. Your brain stutters. Her hands drag lower. One slips under your hoodie, nails brushing skin. The other works on the strap of your backpack, removing one at a time until it falls to the floor with a loud thud in the confined space.

And in the closet, twenty feet away, behind a stack of mismatched poster tubes and event bins, Sohyun goes still.

She doesn’t even remember breathing.

But she hears it all.

That kiss isn’t innocent. That kiss is confirmation. That kiss is a final answer to a question she wasn’t ready to ask—and it lands like a brick in the hollow center of her stomach.

Xinyu breaks from you with a little satisfied sound, her lips glossy, eyes bright. “So…” she purrs, brushing your jaw with the back of her hand, “what’d you think of last night?”

You smile, stupid and a little dazed. “It was… amazing.”

Sohyun’s hands clench.

She doesn’t need details. Her brain fills in the blanks. Too many of them. Her imagination paints things she never wanted to see—your hoodie balled on the floor, Xinyu astride you, laughing into your neck, your voice shaking in ways she’s never heard. The thought turns her breath into knives.

Xinyu hums in satisfaction, then drops her gaze—and her fingers.

They land on the waistband of your jeans.

You tense, glancing at the locked door. “Wait—here?”

“It’ll be fast,” she whispers, eyes already glinting. “You’re already hard.”

She says it like she’s proud of herself. Like you being turned on is a trophy she’s just picked up off the shelf. Her fingers fumble with your button, then unzip skillfully. She sinks down onto her knees, casual as anything.

Sohyun’s heart is in her throat.

She watches from that narrow slit between the door and the wall. She sees your pants drop to your ankles. Sees Xinyu’s hands slide up your thighs. Sees the gleam of her smile when she notices the outline straining through your underwear.

You shift, uncomfortable. “Hey, uh… maybe we shouldn’t keep staying out so late. I got home really late last night. I think Sohyun’s starting to get suspicious.”

Xinyu’s head tilts as she hooks her fingers in your waistband. “So?”

You blink. “I just—don’t want her to worry, that’s all.”

She laughs. Laughs. Like you told her a joke. “She’s not your mother.”

“No, but—she’s my best friend. I don’t want her to think I’m—lying or something.”

That makes Xinyu pause. Just for a second. Then her smile sharpens.

“She doesn’t get a say in this,” she says, and her hands tug your underwear down in one quick, fluid motion.

Sohyun sees everything. And it burns.

Your cock springs free, flushed, twitching with the tension of the moment. You make a small sound in your throat, embarrassed and eager all at once. Xinyu just beams.

“Aww, you really missed me, huh?” she coos.

You try to answer but you can’t form words. Not when her fingers wrap around the base, smooth and practiced, stroking once, twice. Your knees buckle a little.

“She’s not gonna come between us,” she adds softly, voice low now, as she leans in, breath hot against the head. “I don’t care who she is.”

“Don’t say that,” you murmur, but it’s weak. Shaky. “Sohyun’s not just… some random girl.”

Xinyu’s eyes flick up. “Sure,” she says, tone mocking. “She’s your 'best friend'. Whatever.” Then she opens her mouth and takes you in.

You gasp. Sohyun nearly doubles over.

The sound is unmistakable. Wet. Slow. She sees the way Xinyu hollows her cheeks, her jaw working, the obscene slide of her lips over you like she’s savoring every inch. Her hand moves in tandem, twisting just right, guiding every pull and suck. She doesn’t blink. Just stares up at you while she sucks you like she’s devouring you, like she knows she owns you now and she’s showing it.

Your fingers tangle in her hair. Your head tips back.

“S-Shit—” you whisper, trembling. “That’s… fuck…”

Xinyu moans around you, like praise is her favorite meal.

And Sohyun sits in the dark, biting her hand to keep from screaming.

Her lips glide down the length of you slow, savoring, wet heat enveloping inch by inch like she wants to claim it. She doesn’t gag—she adjusts, angle tilting, jaw relaxing, one hand bracing at your thigh while the other strokes the base with a rhythm that makes your knees wobble. Every pass of her tongue along the underside feels like it’s wired directly into your spine, like she’s flipping switches you didn’t know you had.

And she loves it. Every reaction. Every twitch of your hips, the shallow breath you try to hold back, the soft curse you can’t keep from slipping out.

Above her, you brace against the table edge with one hand, the other still threaded in her hair, not pulling, just trying to anchor yourself because she’s looking up at you through lashes dark with mischief, mouth full of your cock like it’s where she was meant to be. Like she planned this moment every time she leaned too close in club meetings or brushed your arm on the walk back from the coffee shop.

From the closet, through that sliver of space, Sohyun sees everything.

The bob of Xinyu’s head, the shine on her chin, the way your hips twitch forward helplessly when she lets her tongue swirl the tip and then slides back down again, steady, smooth, obscene. Sohyun’s fingers are curled into her jeans now, nails biting deep through the denim. Her legs are cramped, but she doesn’t move. She can’t. Every instinct screams to throw the door open and drag you out, but her body’s paralyzed with it—betrayal folded in silence.

You make a sound, soft and hoarse—something between a gasp and a whimper. Xinyu hums, and the vibration along your shaft sends a full-body shiver through you. She pulls off just enough to stroke you with her fist, wrist flicking expertly, thumb swiping the bead of precum from your slit before leaning in again—only this time, lower.

You flinch, surprised, as her lips brush your balls.

Her tongue darts out. A single slow lick, teasing. Then another. Then she shifts lower and takes one in her mouth.

Your breath catches.

“Fuck—Xinyu—”

She giggles, muffled, then pulls off, tongue trailing over your skin like she’s tasting you for notes of sweetness. “Mm,” she says, tilting her face just enough for you to see the smug curve of her smile. “Bet she doesn’t do that.”

There’s a pause.

You hesitate. It’s barely a breath.

“…She doesn’t,” you admit, low, shame threaded through the moan that slips out next as her mouth seals over you again.

Sohyun flinches like she’s been hit.

It’s the confirmation she never wanted—real, raw, echoing in your voice, in your hips tilting forward like you need this, like this is something you never got at home.

Xinyu switches sides, tongue painting lazy circles as her fingers resume their slow pump. “I knew it,” she purrs. “She acts all tough, but she wouldn’t dare get on her knees for you, would she?”

You shake your head, lips parted. Your reply is barely audible, wrecked: “No…”

“Mm,” she hums again, hot breath teasing your spit-slick skin. “Guess that’s my job now, huh?”

You can’t even speak.

She shifts again—one hand stroking, the other cradling under you as her mouth wraps around both balls, tongue massaging them gently, rolling with practiced pressure that makes your thighs tense. You groan, deep in your chest, and she moans with you, reveling in the sound, the twitch she feels under her tongue, the way your body gives itself up to her touch.

Your head falls back.

She’s not just sucking you off. She’s showing off.

For you. For herself. And unknowingly—for the girl hidden in a closet, heart shattering beat by beat.

Sohyun watches your hips rock forward slightly, the way you bite your lip to muffle the next sound. The way your hand trembles on the table. You’re trying so hard not to fall apart, and failing beautifully.

Your hand slides against the tabletop, blindly reaching for something—balance, maybe—but there’s nothing steady in you right now. Not with the way Xinyu's mouth keeps working you like she's drawing a map with her tongue, etching you into memory with every slow, deliberate swirl. She’s focused, almost clinical, except her eyes betray her—hungry, gleaming, dark with satisfaction every time your hips jerk, every time a new sound punches out of your throat and hangs too loud in the still air.

“Fuck—Xinyu,” you breathe, the syllables sticky with pleasure, broken by a stuttering inhale. “That feels so good.”

Her lips pop off your tip with a wet little sound, tongue dragging around it in slow circles, teasing. She smiles as she laps again, feather-light at first, then firmer, lashing under the head like she’s tasting something sweet she refuses to finish too soon.

“Mmm,” she murmurs, kissing it. “I love this cock. So thick… god, you don’t even know what you do to me.”

You twitch under her touch, body caught between surrender and overload. Your thighs are tight, your hands shaky, and she’s not slowing down. She wraps her lips around the tip again, deeper this time, sucking just enough to make your breath catch and your knees knock. One hand strokes the base with a slow rhythm while the other rests flat on your stomach, possessive, like she’s holding you in place. Your moans are barely controlled now, soft, breathy things slipping past your lips no matter how hard you try to stay quiet.

In the closet, Sohyun has both hands clamped over her mouth now, but it’s not enough. Her body is shaking. Her teeth are pressed so deep into her palm she doesn’t notice the sting anymore—not until her tongue tastes iron and she realizes her lip is bleeding too. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, locked on the sight of you crumbling under Xinyu’s mouth, on your hands fisting the edge of the table, the way your face is flushed and twitching and so vulnerable.

Then Xinyu pulls back with a wet gasp and a string of spit connects her lips to you. She wipes it with the back of her hand, smirking.

“Shit,” she says, laughing breathlessly. “You’re soaked. I made a mess.”

She doesn’t apologize. She’s proud of it.

Then her expression shifts. Her hands find your hoodie, tugging. “C’mon. Lie down for me.”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

She tugs harder. “Down. Now.”

And you obey. You let her guide you down onto the storage cushions scattered across the clubroom floor—the ones usually used for sitting during brainstorm sessions and awkward icebreakers. Today, they’re something else. They’re the mattress beneath your back, the soft collapse beneath your spine as Xinyu hovers over you like a second atmosphere. You barely get your balance before she swings a leg over you and straddles your hips, skirt hiked up already, panties visible in that indecent half-off way that says she planned this down to the hour.

She reaches between her thighs, fingers hooking the waistband to the side. No hesitation. No modesty.

“I wasn’t even gonna wear this skirt today,” she says, her grin downright feral. “But then I woke up and thought… damn, I really want to ride him. And this one makes it easy.”

Your mouth is dry. You can’t speak. Can barely breathe. The visual is too much—the way she sits on your waist, head tilted, hair framing her flushed cheeks. She grips you in one hand again, lining you up against the heat of her, rubbing once—twice—and your whole body jumps like you’ve been shocked.

In the closet, Sohyun is crumbling. Quietly. Violently.

She presses her head back against the wall, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Her eyes are glassy now, not blinking. She watches Xinyu lean forward, planting a hand on your chest as her hips shift just slightly, aligning.

And for Sohyun, the moment cracks. She can’t breathe. Her stomach’s twisted into something unrecognizable. Her hand tastes like blood and skin and the sharp edge of a truth she can’t swallow.

She wants to leave. She wants to scream. She wants to rip the door open and yell your name and tear the whole thing down before it happens. But her body won’t move. Her knees are pins and needles, her vision blurry, her throat full of something that feels like grief and fury mashed into pulp.

And you—flat on your back, arms limp at your sides, chest heaving—you’re watching Xinyu like she’s the only thing that exists right now.

The room smells like heat now. Like sweat and arousal and perfume and that undercurrent of something you don’t recognize but Sohyun does. The smell of losing. Of being replaced.

And Xinyu’s voice cuts through the haze one more time, with that damn victorious purr in every syllable.

“You ready for me, baby?”

The moment she sinks down on you is like being swallowed by heat. Her walls clamp tight, velvet-slick and impossibly wet, and she exhales sharp through her teeth like she’s savoring every inch of stretch. Her thighs flex around your hips, body settling flush against yours, cunt wrapped like a vice around your cock. Warm, pulsing, obscene. You feel it in your knees, in the back of your throat, in the way your eyes blur a little just trying to hold on to the sensation. And she leans in, hands pressed to your chest, nails dragging lightly over your hoodie as she grins down at you—smug, flushed, dangerous.

“Feel that?” she whispers, grinding slow just to make sure you do. “That’s how wet I am for you.”

You nod like you’re in a trance, breath hitched, brain short-circuiting. She rocks her hips once, slow and deep, and your head tips back involuntarily, shoulders hitting the cold vinyl of the clubroom floor. The contrast is dizzying—your back chilled, your cock engulfed in heat. She rolls her hips again, faster this time, and you gasp, hips twitching up into her as she smiles that smile like she’s already won. Because she has. She knows exactly what she’s doing to you, the way her pussy clenches around you just when you think you’ve caught your breath.

“Fuck,” you mutter, hands flying up to brace her waist, fingers digging into her skin like it’ll keep you grounded.

“Mmm, yeah,” she purrs, rolling her hips again, faster now. “You love this. You love how tight I am. How I drip for you. You felt it last night, didn’t you?”

She leans closer, breasts pressing to your chest as she whispers hot against your ear. “That little black set I wore? The garter straps? The thigh-highs? All for you. I was soaked before you even touched me. So wet I could’ve made a mess of my sheets just grinding on your thigh. You remember how I moaned when you slid in? Remember how I told you you were deeper than anyone ever managed to get?”

You remember. God, you remember everything. The way her back arched as she bounced on your cock, the way her fingers tangled in her sheets, how she grabbed your wrists and held your hands against her hips like she didn’t want to let you pull out even if you tried. And it was hot—filthy, desperate, everything you’d never imagined yourself doing until she peeled you open and found all your soft spots.

But then you thought about Sohyun.

You didn’t mean to. It just… happened. Mid-thrust, mid-kiss, some flicker of guilt or curiosity or whatever sick alchemy lives in your gut. You’d pictured her. Not in a voyeur kind of way. Just… wondered. Wondered what her expression would be if she walked in. What her mouth would say. What her eyes would do. And worse, you’d wondered what it would be like if it were her riding you instead—her body flushed and stretched around your cock, her breathy little sighs instead of Xinyu’s practiced moans, her thighs trembling from the effort of keeping rhythm. That made your heart trip into your throat.

And now—now you’re thinking it again. You’re balls-deep in Xinyu, she’s rolling her hips like she’s trying to milk every drop out of you, and your fucking mind is betraying you. You’re picturing Sohyun in her ratty sleep shirt, hair undone, lip bitten, thighs spread across your hips like she’s scared of how much she needs it. You imagine her looking down at you, eyes wide and terrified and wanting, her cunt sucking you in like she doesn’t know how to stop. You imagine her voice cracking as she begs you not to stop, not to leave her like this, not when she finally has you.

The heat in your stomach coils tighter, shame blooming just beneath it.

And Xinyu notices.

“Where’d you go, baby?” she asks, cupping your face in both hands, her pace never faltering, slick heat grinding down on you with maddening precision. “You were staring right through me for a second. Thinking about something?”

You swallow thick. Shake your head. “No, I just—fuck. You feel amazing.”

She beams like it’s the truth. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s just buried under everything you’re not saying.

“Yeah?” she breathes, sitting upright again, her hands sliding down to pull at her top. She yanks it up and over her head in one swift motion, discarding it behind her like it doesn’t matter. Beneath it—no bra, just smooth skin, delicate collarbones and two perfect, pert breasts. Small enough to fit your palms. Nipples a flushed pink that draws your eyes like magnets.

“Wanna touch?” she asks, knowing damn well you do.

You nod, helpless, and she grabs your wrists, places your hands on her chest with a soft, teasing drag. The moment your thumbs brush her nipples she exhales, hips stuttering on your cock.

“Fuck, yes,” she moans, arching into your hands. “Squeeze them. Harder.”

You do. Palms cupping the weight of her, fingers kneading just the way she likes—gently at first, then rougher when she rolls her hips harder, when she grinds your cock deep inside her like she’s chasing something. Her thighs flex with every bounce, every motion building pressure in your spine. Her nipples pebble under your touch. She grabs your wrists again, pushes them tighter to her chest, pinning you in place as she rides harder now, breath catching with every impact.

“You’re so deep,” she pants, eyes fluttering closed. “I can feel you everywhere. Stretching me so fucking good, baby. God, I wish you could feel what I’m feeling. I’m soaked. I’m flooding your cock. You like that? You like how fucking needy I get for you?”

You groan, jaw tight, hips twitching up to meet her rhythm. You’ve stopped thinking. You’ve stopped pretending you can think. She’s taking everything from you with every roll of her hips, every clench of her cunt, every filthy word that drips off her tongue like sugar laced with venom.

And yet. The back of your mind still tugs. Still whispers.

What would Sohyun think, if she saw this? If she saw your face like this, your body bucking like you’re begging to be used? If she knew how Xinyu talks to you, fucks you, owns you?

What would she do if she saw you like this—flushed, trembling, helpless under another woman’s cunt?

Would she be jealous?

Would she be angry?

Would she want to be in Xinyu's place?

You can’t answer. You don’t get the chance.

Xinyu's pace shifts, frantic now, like something inside her snapped and all that sweet control she loved dangling over you is burning up fast. Her thighs tighten around your waist, nails digging into your shoulders, her whole body chasing friction like a starved thing. Every grind, every desperate rock of her hips sends jolts through your cock, your thighs, up your spine until you can’t even tell where your body ends and hers begins. Wet heat floods down your shaft, slick sounds filling the little space between you like they’re mocking the frantic, filthy rhythm you’ve fallen into.

She leans in, mouth crushing to yours, open, gasping, biting at your bottom lip like she can’t get close enough. Her breath is ragged, her kiss messy, spit-slick and desperate as her cunt clenches around you with every grind. She breaks the kiss for a second, forehead pressed to yours, breath hitching in short, punched gasps.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—” she pants, rolling her hips harder, faster, dragging you deeper every time she slams down. “You’re gonna make me cum. You feel that? You feel how fucking close I am?”

You nod, choking on your own breath. She’s trembling already, muscles shivering under your hands, pussy squeezing your cock so tight it makes your toes curl.

“Please—don’t stop—” she gasps against your mouth, and you hear the cracks in her usually-smooth voice, raw and honest in a way you barely ever hear.

You grab her hips, holding her still for a second, and start thrusting up into her, not gentle now—grinding her down onto you, meeting every desperate rut of her hips with a brutal snap of your own.

“Oh my God, oh my God, fuck—” she sobs, hands scrabbling for purchase at your shoulders, nails raking down your back through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Right there—right fucking there—!”

You don’t stop. You can’t. Your hips slam up into her again and again, cock punching deep inside her soaked cunt, the friction so blindingly good it’s all you can feel, all you can think about. Her walls flutter around you, squeezing tight, milking you, dragging you right to the edge with her.

Then her whole body locks up—legs clamping tight, back arching, head thrown back as she cums hard around you, mouth open in a silent scream. You feel her pussy clamp and pulse and flood hot around your cock, feel her thighs quivering against your sides as you keep pounding up into her, wringing every last spasm out of her until she collapses against you, boneless, panting.

She kisses you then, messy and open-mouthed, tongue sliding into your mouth like she’s trying to pull the breath out of you, hands fisting in your hair. The kiss is wild, uncontrolled, full of leftover shudders as her body rides the aftershocks. She sucks on your tongue, then bites your bottom lip, hard enough to sting, pulling back with a look that’s pure wrecked satisfaction.

“Fuck—you’re not done yet,” she says, grinning breathless against your mouth.

Before you can even catch your breath, she gets off you, stands up and grabs your wrists, pulls you up with surprising strength, practically dragging you toward the desk nearby, knocking over a half-empty box of markers in her haste. They scatter across the floor, forgotten.

She hops up onto the edge of the desk, legs falling open wide, skirt bunched up around her hips, panties obscenely pulled aside. Her cunt is glistening, flushed, still twitching around nothing, and she leans back on her hands, spreading herself shamelessly for you, watching you with dark, lazy hunger.

“C’mere, baby,” she purrs, crooking a finger.

You step between her legs, hands automatically gripping the backs of her thighs, and she grabs your cock, still slick with her cum, throbbing painfully hard, and lines you up, dragging the flushed head along her soaked folds before nudging you right back in.

You don’t ease in. You shove.

Hard.

Her mouth drops open in a guttural, broken sound as you bottom out in one brutal thrust, your hips slamming flush against her ass, your cock stretching her already-sensitive pussy wide again. Her whole body jolts with it, legs wrapping around your waist tight, holding you there, buried deep.

“Fuck yes—” she gasps, nails digging into the edge of the desk for leverage. “God, you feel so fucking good—”

You grab her hips, fingers digging bruises into soft skin, and start pounding into her, desk creaking loudly under the assault. Every thrust drives a choked little noise from her throat, her small tits bouncing with the force of it, her hair falling wild around her flushed, wrecked face.

“You’re so good, baby,” she babbles between gasps, clinging to the desk as you fuck her raw. “You’re—god, you’re perfect—you’re gonna make me cum again if you keep—ahh—keep fucking me like that!”

You bare your teeth, thrusting harder, faster, hips snapping against her ass with every vicious stroke. The wet sound of you hammering into her fills the room, loud and filthy, the slap of your skin against hers echoing off the walls. Her head tips back, exposing the long line of her throat, and you can’t resist leaning down, biting at her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat on your tongue.

She’s trembling again already, thighs quaking against your hips, every muscle in her body winding tighter, tighter, tighter. Her hands scramble for you, clutching your hoodie, your shoulders, anything she can reach, mouth working helplessly like she wants to say something but can’t get the words out past the way you’re fucking her.

“Don’t stop—fuck—don’t stop, don’t stop—!” she wails, legs locking around you again, trapping you deep as you hammer into her without mercy.

Sohyun, hidden behind that narrow closet crack, can barely breathe. She closes her eyes, squeezes them shut so tight it hurts, but the sounds slip in anyway, wrapping around her like smoke, curling in her lungs until she’s drowning in it.

She hears you fucking Xinyu hard enough to shake the table. She hears the desperate slap of skin, the thick wet noises between her thighs, the broken little sobs and gasps you can’t hold back anymore. Every low moan you spill is another nail in her heart. Every grunt, every hitched breath, every whisper of "Fuck, you’re so tight," slices deeper, and she grips the shelf beside her to keep from making a sound, knuckles bone-white.

And you... you’re so far gone you don’t even notice the world outside the space between your bodies. Xinyu’s pussy is swallowing you, so wet you can hear it every time you thrust back in, obscene and filthy and perfect. She clings to you, arms around your shoulders, nails dragging trails of fire down your back as you rut into her harder, faster, chasing the edge you can feel roaring up your spine.

"Fuck—fuck, I’m close," you pant against her throat, voice wrecked, hips stuttering from the effort of holding back.

Xinyu shudders all around you, grinding her hips, milking you with every twist and clench of her desperate cunt. She grabs your face, kissing you hard, sloppy, messy with need, lips sliding against yours as she gasps:

"Cum for me, baby. Please. I want it—I want you to cum for me."

You groan deep in your chest, every muscle tightening, your hands flying down to her waist, grinding her harder onto your cock, feeling that tight, soaked pussy fluttering in urgent little spasms.

"I want it in my mouth," she whimpers into your ear. "Please. Let me taste you."

That snaps what little control you had. You pull out quick, almost shaking with the effort not to cum right then, and your cock slaps wetly against her folds, gliding in her slickness. You drag the thick, swollen head up her entrance, tease her clit with it, grinding, slapping your tip against her until she shivers and gasps, legs falling wide open, fingers clutching at the edge of the desk like she’s about to fly apart.

Your hand wraps tight around your slick cock, jerking it fast and desperate, smearing her juices all over yourself as you stroke. Xinyu drops immediately to her knees, eager, mouth open, eyes wide and hazy with lust. She grabs the base of your cock with one hand, stroking in rhythm with yours, her other hand cupping your balls, massaging them gently.

She looks up at you with that wicked grin just as she leans forward, wraps her lips around the head, and sucks. Hard. Heat and suction explode through you, and your hips jerk forward helplessly. She moans low in her throat, dragging her tongue along the underside of your cock as she bobs her head, saliva glistening at the corners of her mouth, dribbling down your shaft.

She works you like she’s starving for it, alternating between sucking you deep into her mouth and stroking with her fist, twisting just right. The sight of her—kneeling in front of you, cheeks hollowing, spit and slick glistening all over her chin—drives you wild.

Your balls tighten, your thighs tremble, and you grab her hair, trying to warn her, but she just groans in approval, mouth sliding lower, tongue lashing the sensitive underside of your cock.

"X-Xinyu, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—"

She pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips wrapped tight around the tip, hand still jerking your slick cock, and she nods. Wants it. Wants it bad.

You grip her hair tight as your body locks up and you cum hard, first shot hitting the back of her throat. She doesn’t even flinch. Just hums around you, swallowing every thick, hot spurt, milking you with her mouth and hand as you pulse and shudder against her. Jet after jet, the orgasm tearing through you so violently your knees nearly buckle.

She keeps going until you’re spent, gently sucking the last drops from your twitching cock, then pulls back slowly with a wet pop. She kisses the tip, soft and almost reverent, tongue flicking lazily across it like she’s tasting her victory.

You lean back against the desk, heart hammering, chest heaving, body flushed and trembling.

She stands, fixing her panties between trembling thighs, smoothing down her skirt, picking up the top on the floor. Her cheeks are pink, her lips swollen, her hair wild—and she’s never looked more satisfied.

You fumble to tuck yourself back into your pants, fingers clumsy. Your mind’s fogged with the aftermath. Xinyu steps closer, hands sliding up your chest, resting lightly at your shoulders. Her eyes soften, her mouth tilts into something small and unsure. She looks nervous. That’s rare. She’s always so sure. So in control.

"Hey," she says. “I meant what I said last night, y’know.”

You blink, still trying to catch up. “What?”

She presses her forehead lightly to yours, her hands sliding down to hold your waist, grounding you.

"I’ve never met anyone like you," she says, slow, like she’s scared if she rushes it’ll shatter. “You’re not like the guys I’m used to. All the ones before—they were assholes. Hot, but... just bad news. Guys who wanted me but didn’t actually care about me.”

She leans back, searching your face, biting her lip.

"But you—you’re different. You’re real. You’re sweet. You listen. You treat me like I actually matter."

You swallow hard, heart tripping over itself. You weren’t ready for this. You didn’t expect this.

She smiles, small and nervous, and asks it before you can even think of something to say.

"I want you to be my boyfriend. For real. Like… properly mine. Will you?"

You stare at her—this beautiful, messy, fiery girl who just swallowed your cum like it was candy, who rode you like you were hers before the words ever left her mouth. And something inside you wrenches.

Because you should say yes.

You should want to say yes.

But all you can feel is that gnawing hesitation. That pull. That confusion. That whisper of another name, another face, someone standing just outside this moment, invisible and heavy in the space between your breaths.

Sohyun.

You think about her without meaning to. Think about the way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not paying attention. The way her hand lingers too long when she passes you something. The way she squeezed your hand that night when you invited her to the movies.

You don’t know what you feel. You don’t know what’s real yet. You’re drowning in it.

And it shows.

Xinyu’s face flickers—just for a second. That bright, hopeful light dimming when you hesitate too long.

"I..." You rub the back of your neck, avoiding her eyes. "I just... I need some time to think. Please."

The silence after that is awkward.

She steps back, schooling her face into something neutral, but you can see the crack underneath. The disappointment. The sting. She nods once, slow.

"Okay," she says, and her voice is tight. "Okay. Take your time."

You want to apologize. You want to say something to make it better. But nothing fits. Nothing fixes this.

She grabs her bag from the floor, brushes her hair back, pulls her walls up fast and neat like she’s practiced it a thousand times before.

"See you around," she says, almost breezy, almost real.

And then she’s gone, slipping out the door and leaving you standing there in the wreckage of what you almost had.

You stare at the empty space where she stood, heart pounding, stomach twisting.

You don’t see the faint sliver of movement behind the closet door.

You don’t see the way Sohyun presses her hand over her mouth, trying to keep the sound inside.

Because she heard it all.

And for the first time in weeks, she has hope.

A brutal, aching hope.

Because you didn’t say yes.

You didn’t choose someone else.

Not yet.

And maybe… there’s still a chance you’ll choose her.

—

You drag yourself up the stairs like your body’s filled with sand, the keys slipping in your sweaty palm as you jam them into the lock and stumble inside. The apartment lights are off except for the thin line of glow leaking out from under Sohyun’s bedroom door. You shut the door behind you with a quiet click, kicking your shoes off, backpack sliding down your shoulder and thudding against the floor. Your whole body aches. Not just from exhaustion but from the weight of everything swimming in your head; Xinyu’s kiss still burning on your mouth, her words still echoing under your skin, the guilt, the confusion, the stupid tangled mess you couldn’t figure out if you tried. You sigh, pressing your back to the door for a second, head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut like maybe if you stood still enough, long enough, the world would stop spinning.

You don't notice the shape in the corner until it moves, a small shift of shadow peeling itself away from the wall. Your eyes fly open, heart lurching into your throat. Sohyun’s there—leaning against the wall, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her face half-hidden by her hair, her body tensed up in a way that sets your nerves on edge instantly.

“Jesus—” you blurt, breath hitching from the scare. You try to laugh it off, give her a sheepish little grin even though your pulse is hammering. “You scared the hell outta me. I thought you were asleep.”

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. Her eyes stay locked on yours, too still, too serious. It sends a ripple of unease down your spine.

“We need to talk,” she says, and her tone is wrong, lower, tighter, with a tremble hidden deep under the words that makes your stomach twist.

You straighten a little, stepping forward slowly like she’s a spooked animal you don’t want to startle. “What... what happened?” you ask.

She holds your gaze for a long moment. So long it starts to physically hurt, like she’s looking right through your skin, peeling you open piece by piece. You can see it in her eyes—fear, yes, but something else too. Something desperate, clawing at the edges of her.

“I know,” she finally says. “About you and Xinyu.”

You blink, mouth opening then closing uselessly, your brain scrambling to process it.

“How—” you start, but she cuts you off, shaking her head once, sharp and final.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “It doesn’t matter how I know.”

You’re thrown completely off balance now, stumbling for footing you don’t have. You shift awkwardly, running a hand through your hair, trying to piece together something—anything—to say.

“I was going to tell you,” you mumble finally, and it’s the lamest excuse you’ve ever heard even as it leaves your mouth. “I just... didn’t know how to bring it up.”

Her laugh is short and humorless, a little broken thing that cuts through you sharper than any shout could have. “You didn’t tell me,” she says, voice rising just a little, enough to make your throat close up. “You didn’t. You could have. So why didn’t you?”

You hesitate, weight shifting from foot to foot, wishing desperately for some door, some window, some hole to crawl into and disappear. But there’s no escape. There’s only her, standing there, waiting for your answer like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

“I was scared,” you admit finally, the words thick in your throat. “I didn’t know what you’d think. I knew you’d disapprove. I knew you wouldn’t... approve of me and her.”

Her arms tighten around herself, nails digging into the sleeves of her sweatshirt. Her lips press together, trembling, and she looks down at the floor for a second.

“Why do you care so much what I think?” she asks, and her voice is small and raw, like she’s asking herself more than you.

You swallow hard. “I... I don’t know.”

But you do know. Somewhere deep down, you’ve always known. You’ve just never had the guts to admit it.

She lets the silence drag, heavy and awful between you. Then she looks up, and there’s something shattering in her eyes—it makes you want to cry.

“You’re right,” she says quietly. “I would have disapproved.”

You open your mouth to speak, to apologize again, but she cuts you off with a sharp shake of her head, eyes wet now, shining in the dim light.

“Do you want to know why?” she asks.

You nod, too scared to say anything.

“Because I love you,” she says, and it bursts out of her like a dam breaking, like she’s been holding it back for years and can’t anymore. “I love you, you idiot! I’ve loved you for so fucking long it hurts!”

You just stand there, stunned into uselessness, your heart hammering in your chest, your breath stuck somewhere between a gasp and a cry.

She wipes at her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, blinking furiously against the tears spilling down her cheeks. “I didn’t even realize at first,” she says, “I thought it was just... caring. Being protective. Wanting you to be okay. But it’s not. It’s not just that. I love you. I’m in love with you. And seeing you with her—hearing you moan for her, seeing you smile because of her—”

She breaks off, a choked sob punching out of her chest, and it shatters you.

“It tore me apart,” she whispers. “Because you’re the most special person that’s ever crossed my path. And I was too much of a coward to say anything. I just kept pretending it was fine. That it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter that way.”

You move to step toward her, instinct taking over, but she flinches back half a step, and it feels like a knife between your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I didn’t know, I didn’t—”

“No,” she cuts you off, shaking her head violently, tears flying. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. It’s my fault for bottling it up, for being too scared to tell you, for letting you drift away while I just... watched. I did this to myself.”

You’re breathing too hard, chest aching, head spinning with too many emotions crashing into each other at once—guilt, sorrow, confusion, this desperate, aching affection for the girl standing in front of you with her heart bleeding out at your feet.

“Maybe it’s too late,” she says, crying. “Maybe you’re already hers. Maybe you’ve already moved on.”

She wipes her face again, sniffles, pulls herself together enough to look at you—really look at you.

“But I needed you to know. I needed you to know that someone loved you. That someone loves you. That someone would’ve given anything to make you happy.”

Your feet move before your brain catches up, drawn across the small space separating you like there's a magnetic pull you can't fight anymore. Her face is still wet, tears tracking clean lines through the faint flush on her cheeks, her eyes red-rimmed but locked on you with this terrifying vulnerability you've never seen before. She doesn't flinch this time when you get close, doesn't pull away, just watches you, chest rising and falling too fast, like she’s waiting for the final blow.

You lift your hand, fingers trembling slightly, and gently, so gently, brush the tears from her cheek with your thumb. The skin there is hot, damp. Real. She closes her eyes for just a second at the contact, a shuddering breath escaping her lips.

"Sohyun," you start, and your own throat feels tight, rough, like you’ve swallowed glass. "I'm... I'm so sorry." The words feel stupidly small, inadequate for the chasm that's opened up. "I'm the coward. Not you. Me. All this time... I never said anything because... fuck, because I was terrified. Scared I'd wreck everything. Our friendship, this... us. Everything we have. It felt too important to risk, you know? Too fragile. And I kept telling myself you deserved someone... better. Someone less screwed up than me. Someone confident, someone who had their shit together, not..." You gesture vaguely at yourself, at the mess you feel like you are, the mess you've made. "Not me." You see her lips part, ready to argue, maybe ready to forgive, maybe ready to yell again, but the words are tumbling out of you now, unstoppable, a confession mirroring hers, ripping free after being locked down for so long. "Don't," you whisper, cutting her off before she can speak. "Just... let me say this."

You take a shaky breath, meeting her wide, tear-bright eyes again. "It was always you, Sohyun. Always. Even when I didn't understand it, even when I tried to ignore it. You're the one I love." The words feel huge, terrifying, but also lighter than air once spoken. "Everything. I love everything. That little smirk you get when you win an argument? Love it. The way you wear those baggy sweatshirts every day but still manage to look... incredible? Love that too. How you always know when I'm having a shit day without me saying anything? How you just show up, make me tea, sit there in silence with me until it passes? How safe you make me feel, even when you're pretending to be annoyed?" Your own eyes are getting blurry now. "I love watching you sleep," you admit and, fuck, it's like breaking a chain, a secret you’ve guarded jealously. "Because you look so calm. Peaceful. And I can just... look. At your moles." A faint blush creeps up her neck, her gaze dropping for a second before snapping back to yours, confused, waiting. "You have four on your face, you know? Like a tiny constellation. There's one here," you reach out again, finger hovering below her eyes, not quite touching, "and here, by your nose... one on your cheek... they're the most charming damn things in the world. Seriously."

Her breath hitches, a soft little gasp. She looks utterly lost now, derailed from her pain by the specific, intimate detail. "My... moles?" she echoes, bewildered. You nod, a watery smile finally touching your lips.

"Yeah. My favorite, though? The one right here." Your gaze drops to her mouth, to the tiny, perfect dark mole on the curve of her lower lip. It's always drawn your eye, a little punctuation mark on skin that looks impossibly cute. "That one..." you murmur. "God, that one's made me wonder... so many times... what it would feel like to kiss you. What you'd taste like..."

You trail off, lost for a second in the thought, in the proximity, in the sudden, intense awareness of her mouth just inches from yours. You were going to say more, try to explain the tangle of fear and longing and the stupid, paralyzing certainty that you weren't good enough, but you don't get the chance.

Because Sohyun surges forward like something inside her finally snaps. One second she's trembling, broken open, the next she's pure force, her mouth crashing onto yours with bruising intensity. It's not gentle. It's not tentative. It's a raw, desperate claiming. Her lips are surprisingly soft beneath the force, tasting faintly of salt from her tears and something uniquely her, something warm and real that short-circuits your brain. Her hands fist in the front of your hoodie, yanking you closer, stumbling you backward. Your heel catches on the edge of the cheap living room rug, the world tilting sideways in a sudden, disorienting lurch. You gasp against her mouth, a startled sound swallowed by her kiss, and then you're falling, tumbling backward onto the floor with a muffled thud that knocks the wind out of you.

She lands right on top of you, straddling your hips, the impact solid and grounding even as your head spins. She doesn't miss a beat. Her mouth is still fused to yours, kissing you harder now, deeper, possessive. It's messy and frantic, teeth clashing slightly, tongues tangling with an urgency that borders on violence. Kisses that aren’t asking, they’re taking. Stealing the breath from your lungs, stealing the thoughts from your head, demanding a response you're suddenly, desperately eager to give. Her weight pressing you down, the heat of her body seeping through your clothes, the undeniable proof of her need right there against your stomach—it’s overwhelming. And then, finally, finally, your own arms come up, wrapping around her back, pulling her impossibly closer, and you kiss her back with all the pent-up fear and longing and stupid, crippling love you've kept locked away for years.

You meet her force with your own, tilting your head, deepening the kiss, letting the raw honesty of it burn away everything else. There’s no room for Xinyu, no room for doubt, no room for anything but this—Sohyun, her mouth on yours, her body pinning you down, the undeniable, explosive reality of now. The world outside the apartment fades to nothing, the only sound the ragged gasps for breath between frantic, open-mouthed kisses, the rustle of clothes, the frantic thudding of two hearts beating wildly against each other in the dim, quiet room. This isn't just a kiss; it's a collision, a confession answered, a point of no return you hadn't realized you were racing towards until you crashed right into it, tangled up with her on the floor like this is exactly where you were always supposed to end up.

After seconds that seem like hours, Sohyun finally breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough for air, her chest heaving against yours, eyes blown wide and dark, still glazed with disbelief and something fiercely possessive. Her hands frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones like she’s trying to memorize you. "I love you," she whispers, the words thick, raw, tumbling out again like they can't be contained. Her forehead presses against yours. "God, I love you." She kisses you again, shorter this time, desperate, sealing the words. Pulls back. "I love you." Another kiss, harder. "So much." Each declaration feels like another layer stripped away, leaving her completely bare, completely yours in this moment. The fierce intensity shifts, softening just a fraction as the reality sinks in—you're here, you're kissing her back, you feel it too.

Your heart feels like it's going to beat right out of your chest. Hearing her say it, over and over, sinks hooks into places you didn't know were still empty. You shift beneath her, hands sliding up her back, fingers tracing the knobs of her spine through the worn fabric of her sweatshirt. "Sohyun," you breathe against her lips, needing to show her, needing her to feel it. You pull back just enough to look at her, really look, and then you start mapping her face with your mouth.

Soft, adoring kisses trail along her sharp jawline, up to the curve of her cheekbone where the skin is so soft it makes you ache. You kiss the corner of her eye, tasting the lingering salt of her tears, then move lower, pressing kisses against the pulse point throbbing wildly in her neck. She melts under the attention, a soft sigh escaping her, her body going pliant against yours, head tipping back to give you better access. Her hands slide from your face down to your shoulders, gripping tight, anchoring herself as you worship her skin. Every soft press of your lips feels like rewriting history, erasing the doubt and the distance, claiming this closeness that’s always simmered just beneath the surface.

"Hey," she murmurs, her breath catching when your lips find that sensitive spot just below her ear. She nudges you gently, reluctantly pulling away just enough to meet your eyes again. There's a new urgency there, a need that burns hotter than the confession. "My room," she says, her tone suddenly low, almost husky. "Let's go to my room. Now." She pushes herself up, scrambling off you with clumsy grace, and hauls you to your feet like you weigh nothing. You don't argue, don't hesitate. You follow her lead, stumbling towards her bedroom door, hands finding each other again, lips crashing together in the hallway, clumsy and desperate and necessary. You trip over the threshold, laughing breathlessly against her mouth as she practically drags you inside, kicking the door shut behind you with her heel.

The moment the door clicks, she's tearing at your clothes. Your hoodie comes off first, yanked over your head with frantic energy, tossed carelessly onto the floor. Her eyes rake over your bare chest for a beat, hungry, before she crashes back into you, kissing you with renewed fervor. Her hands are everywhere, exploring the lines of your shoulders, the dip of your collarbones, fingers tracing patterns that make your skin prickle. While her mouth works yours, her own hands go to the waistband of her shorts—those stupidly comfortable grey jersey shorts she always wears around the apartment. She hooks her thumbs in, shoves them down her legs in one hurried motion, kicking them free. She's left in just her oversized sweatshirt and a pair of simple, pale blue cotton panties that hug the curve of her hips. You groan against her lips, the sight hitting you harder than you expected. Her thighs look so strong, so soft.

You deepen the kiss, angling her back against the wall, one hand sliding down her spine, curving possessively over the swell of her ass through the thin cotton of her panties. You squeeze gently, experimentally, and she gasps into your mouth, hips instinctively bucking against yours. "Fuck," she breathes against your lips, her hands fisting in your t-shirt now. "Yes. Need you. So much."

Her admission is raw, desperate, stripping away the last vestiges of her usual guardedness. It fuels you, ignites something fierce inside you. You break the kiss long enough to grab the hem of her sweatshirt, pulling it up and over her head just as she did yours. It snags for a second on her messy bun, and you both fumble with it, laughing brokenly before it finally comes free. And underneath… nothing. No bra. Just Sohyun. Her breasts are fuller than you’d imagined, heavier than Xinyu’s, round and pale with darker, pinkish-brown nipples already pebbled tight from the cool air or maybe just the sheer intensity of the moment. They're beautiful. Perfect. Yours.

She looks down at herself for a second, a flicker of self-consciousness crossing her face before defiant heat replaces it. Your eyes meet hers, a silent question asked and answered. You scoop her up—she's surprisingly light—and carry her the few steps to her bed, tumbling down onto the soft duvet with her. The landing is messy, tangled limbs and breathless laughter, before you settle, half-propped over her, the reality of her bare skin under your hands making your head swim. You kiss her again, slower this time, softer, trying to pour all the unsaid years of affection into it. Her hands come up to cup your face, fingers tracing your jawline, her eyes searching yours.

Then your focus shifts. Your gaze drops to her chest, to the soft rise and fall of her breathing. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the valley between her breasts, then lower your head further. One hand gently cups the soft weight of her left breast, thumb stroking the peak, feeling it harden instantly under your touch. At the same time, your mouth closes over her right nipple.

Sohyun arches off the bed with a sharp, choked cry, fingers digging into your shoulders. The sound is pure, unfiltered pleasure, and it sends a shockwave straight to your groin. You suck gently at first, teasing, swirling your tongue around the sensitive peak before drawing it deeper into the heat of your mouth.

She moans again, a long, low sound vibrating up from her chest. "Oh god... yes... fuck, that feels..." You lave the nipple, licking slow circles around the darker areola, mapping the texture with your tongue, before nibbling gently with your teeth. She whimpers, hips twitching restlessly on the mattress. "So good... oh, fuck, yes, right there... I always... always imagined..." Her sentence dissolves into another shuddering moan as you switch sides, giving the other breast the same devoted attention, sucking and licking and teasing until she's writhing beneath you. "You're perfect," you murmur against her wet skin between ministrations. "So fucking beautiful, Sohyun. Always."

Her eyes are glassy, pupils dilated, lips parted and slick. She looks completely undone, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache with tenderness and a fierce, protective desire. You trail kisses lower, down the soft curve of her stomach, your lips brushing the faint indentation of her navel. Your hand follows, palm smoothing over the warm skin, feeling the tremors running through her. Your journey stops at the waistband of her panties. Simple blue cotton, dampening noticeably at the center. The sight, the proof of her arousal, makes your own cock strain painfully against your jeans. You press a soft kiss to the damp fabric right over her mound, inhaling her scent—musky, female, intoxicating. She gasps, thighs clenching instinctively. You nudge her legs apart gently with your head, trailing feather-light kisses along the inside of her thigh, right near the edge of the fabric. The skin there is incredibly soft, sensitive. She shivers violently, a choked sound escaping her. "Please..." she whispers, unsure what she's even asking for, just knowing she needs more.

You kiss the wet patch on her panties again, letting your tongue flick out just enough to taste the dampness through the cotton. She cries out, a sharp, high sound, hips lifting slightly off the bed. You look up at her, see the flush creeping down her neck, the desperate wanting in her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, you hook your thumbs into the sides of her panties and slide them down. Over the curve of her hips, down her strong, thick thighs, catching slightly at her knees before you pull them free and toss them aside. She lies bare beneath you now, exposed, vulnerable, beautiful. Her pussy is slick, glistening, her folds plump and flushed, dark curls slightly damp. You lean down, pressing a reverent kiss to her mound, right above her clit. She lets out a strangled sob, hands flying down to fist in her own duvet. She looks wrecked, overwhelmed, needy. "Will you...?" she starts, her breath hitching. "Can I...? Please, just... sit on your face? Let me... I need you to eat me. Please." You lean closer, lips brushing her slick folds as you answer:

"Baby, that's all I fucking want.”

You don't even hesitate. You scramble backwards on the bed, shuffling until you're lying flat, head propped slightly against her pillows—pillows that smell like her shampoo and sleep. Your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs, anticipation coiling tight and low in your belly. This. This it's something you've barely let yourself fantasize about, a scenario tucked away in the darkest, neediest corners of your mind—Sohyun, taking control, overwhelming you. Being completely at her mercy. The thought alone makes your cock throb against the zipper of your jeans, a painful, demanding pressure.

You look up as she moves, crawling towards you on the bed, her expression a mixture of raw hunger and something almost like nervous determination. She straddles your chest first, knees settling on either side of your ribs, leaning down to capture your mouth in another deep, searching kiss. Her bare breasts press against your chest, warm and heavy, the peaks hard against the fabric.

"You really want this?" she whispers against your lips, pulling back just enough to search your eyes. Her own gaze is intense, burning with a need that mirrors yours.

"Fuck, yes, Sohyun," you breathe, hands coming up to grip her waist, fingers digging slightly into the soft skin there. "More than anything. Please."

A slow, predatory smile spreads across her face, chasing away the last remnants of uncertainty. This is happening. She shifts, maneuvering herself with surprising grace, turning until she's straddling your head, her bare ass hovering right above your face. The sight is dizzying—the soft curve of her cheeks, the dark curls nestled between her thighs, the glisten of her wetness catching the dim light filtering in from the hallway. It's everything. You reach up, hands sliding up her strong thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive inner skin. She shivers, letting out a soft gasp.

"God, yes... touch me," she pleads, her hips twitching.

You guide her down slowly, agonizingly slowly, until her slick folds brush against your lips. The scent hits you full force—musky, feminine, intoxicatingly Sohyun. It’s the smell of pure arousal, sharp and sweet, and it makes your head swim. This is your dream, isn't it? To be right here, underneath her, ready to worship, ready to be completely consumed by her pleasure. The idea of being dominated, smothered by the wet heat of her pussy, of her coming undone completely at your mercy while simultaneously holding all the power… It sends a jolt of pure, filthy need straight through you.

"Ready for you," you murmur against her skin, tilting your head slightly to get a better angle.

She lets out a shaky breath and lowers herself fully, settling onto your mouth with a soft sigh. The pressure is immediate, the heat shocking. Her wet folds engulf your lips, your nose, pressing intimately against your face. It’s almost too much: the closeness, the scent, the slick reality of her cunt right there. You take your first real taste, tongue darting out tentatively, exploring the plump outer lips, tracing the slick crease.

Sohyun gasps sharply, her whole body tensing. "Fuck... yes..."

Emboldened, you dive in properly. Your tongue pushes past her outer lips, finding the slick, sensitive inner folds, licking slowly, deliberately. You map her shape, tasting the unique flavor of her arousal—salty, sweet, utterly addictive. You find her clit, that hard little nub hidden beneath its hood, and swirl your tongue around it gently at first.

"Oh my god," she whimpers, fingers tangling violently in your hair, gripping tight but not pulling you away. "Right there... don't stop..."

You obey instantly, focusing your attention, sucking the sensitive bud into your mouth, worrying it gently with your lips and tongue. Her reaction is immediate, explosive. Her hips buck against your face, grinding down instinctively, seeking more pressure, more friction.

"Fuck, yes! Like that! Suck it harder!" she cries out, her earlier shyness completely incinerated by raw need. "God, you taste so fucking good... eat me like you mean it!"

You groan into her cunt, spurred on by her dirty talk, by the sheer intensity radiating off her. You suck harder, drawing more of her into your mouth, tongue working relentlessly on her clit while your lips provide constant pressure against her swollen folds. Her slickness coats your tongue, your lips, your chin, slicking the skin, making every movement smoother, hotter. She’s so wet, dripping onto your face, the taste of her flooding your senses. You love it. You fucking crave it. The feeling of being covered in her, drowned in her essence.

"That's it, baby," she pants, her hips starting to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm against your mouth. "Fuck, you're so good at this... Did you practice on someone else? Don't fucking answer that," she gasps out, contradicting herself immediately, lost in the sensation. "Just keep doing that. Lick me. Suck my clit like it's the only thing you care about."

"It is," you manage to mumble against her, tongue never faltering. "Only thing... right now... is you. Making you feel good, Sohyun."

Her hips stutter, a broken little sob escaping her lips. "Fuck... you saying my name like that... while you're... down there... God..."

She starts to ride you then, taking control just like she asked, just like you fantasized. Her movements are slow at first, tentative, testing the pressure, learning how to grind against your mouth for maximum effect. Her thighs tighten around your head, trapping you, holding you exactly where she wants you. The feeling of suffocation is mild at first, just the intimate pressure, the heat, the wetness sealing against your skin. But as her pace quickens, as she gets lost in the building pleasure, she presses down harder, her cunt engulfing your nose and mouth more fully. Your breathing gets shallower, restricted, but you don't panic. This is part of it. This surrender. Giving her everything, even your breath, if that's what it takes to push her over the edge.

"Oh god... oh fuck," she moans, the sounds deeper now, throatier. "It's building... fuck, don't stop... keep sucking... harder!"

You oblige, mouth working frantically now, sucking and licking with desperate abandon, chasing her orgasm alongside her. Her pussy clenches around your tongue, milking it, the muscles fluttering uncontrollably. She’s grinding faster now, rocking her hips with frantic energy, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The pressure increases. Her cunt presses down hard, sealing over your mouth, your nose, the wet heat almost overwhelming. You can barely draw breath, getting only small, desperate sips of air mixed with the heavy scent of her arousal. But the lack of oxygen just fuels the fire, heightens the sensation, pushes you closer to a different kind of edge. You feel utterly possessed by her, consumed.

"Almost there... almost... FUCK!" she screams, her body locking up.

Her hips slam down hard onto your face, grinding relentlessly, muffling your own groan of effort and ecstasy. Her inner walls spasm violently around your tongue, flooding your mouth with a thick, hot gush of her climax. The taste is intense, salty-sweet, addictive, unique. You swallow instinctively, greedily, taking all of it, wanting every last drop. She collapses forward, boneless, her full weight pressing your face into the mattress, her slick cunt still pulsing against your mouth as the aftershocks ripple through her. You're completely enveloped, blinded, breathless beneath her, tasting her release, utterly dominated.

She stays there for long moments, just panting, trembling. You lie still beneath her, heart hammering, face sticky and wet, utterly spent from the intensity of giving her that pleasure. Finally, slowly, she pushes herself up, bracing her hands on the mattress on either side of your head. Her hair is wild, sticking to her flushed cheeks, her lips swollen and red, her eyes dazed and unfocused but gleaming with a deep, sated satisfaction. She looks down at you, at your slick-covered face, and a slow, knowing smirk touches her lips.

"Wow," she breathes. "You... you really did it."

You manage a weak grin, licking your lips, tasting her. "Told you," you rasp. "Anything for you."

She leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then finally your mouth, her kiss still tasting faintly of herself. It's intimate, proprietary. A claiming.

"Good," she murmurs against your lips. "Because we're not done yet. Not even close." Her eyes darken again, that possessive fire rekindling. "My turn to taste you.”

Sohyun pushes herself up fully, kneeling between your legs on the mattress. Her eyes, still hazy from her orgasm but sharp with renewed intent, roam over your face, lingering on your kiss-swollen lips and the faint marks she left on your neck. A possessive satisfaction flickers there. She reaches down, her hands landing on the button of your jeans. Her knuckles brush against the hard ridge straining behind the denim, and she lets out a low, appreciative hum.

"My turn," she murmurs, her gaze locking with yours. "Been wanting to do this for way too long. Way, way too long."

Her fingers work the button free with surprising dexterity, then move to the zipper, pulling it down with a slow, deliberate rasp that echoes loudly in the quiet room. She doesn't just yank your jeans off. She takes her time, hooking her fingers into the waistband, easing the stiff denim down over your hips, her touch feather-light against your skin. You lift your hips instinctively to help her. Your jeans slide down your legs, pooling around your ankles. You're left in just your boxers—boxers that are doing absolutely nothing to hide the thick, hard length straining beneath the fabric.

Sohyun pauses, her eyes fixed on the prominent bulge. She reaches out, tracing the rigid shape through the thin cotton with one curious finger. You twitch involuntarily, a low groan rumbling in your chest.

"Fuck," she breathes, a note of genuine awe creeping in. "I knew... I mean, I saw... before..." She glances up at you quickly, a faint blush rising on her cheeks as she remembers that moment in the club room closet, the stolen, frantic glimpse. "But seeing it like... this... Jesus."

Her gaze drops back down, captivated. She hooks her thumbs into the elastic waistband of your boxers and slowly, reverently, peels them down. Down past your hip bones, down your thighs, revealing you completely. Your cock springs free, thick and heavy, slick already with beads of pre-cum glistening under the dim light. It's undeniably large, thick-shafted, maybe even surprisingly so given your usually reserved, almost nerdy demeanor. It pulses slightly with your heartbeat, utterly exposed under her intense scrutiny.

Sohyun just stares for a long moment, her mouth slightly parted. Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. This isn't like the frantic, hidden view she got before. This is up close, personal, undeniable. The sheer size and thickness of you, fully hard and demanding attention, seems to momentarily short-circuit her brain. She reaches out again, hand hovering just above you, like she's afraid to touch, afraid it might disappear.

"It's... perfect," she whispers. "God, it's so... much. And it's really... mine? Right now?"

"Yes," you manage, your throat tight. "All yours, Sohyun. Please. Touch me."

That breaks the spell. Her hesitation vanishes, replaced by a focused intensity that makes your stomach clench. She leans down, her hair falling forward, tickling your stomach as she lowers her face towards your cock. She doesn't grab it right away. Instead, she inhales deeply, breathing in your scent, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. Then, she presses a soft, tentative kiss right to the swollen, pulsing head. It’s a kiss of reverence, almost worshipful. She kisses it again, lingering, her lips incredibly soft against the sensitive skin. Then she trails kisses down the thick shaft, her warm breath ghosting over you, making you shiver uncontrollably. Her tongue darts out, tasting the slick bead of pre-cum at the tip, humming her approval deep in her throat.

"Mmm," she murmurs against your skin. "Taste good... smell good... God, you feel so hard."

She cups your balls gently in one hand, her touch surprisingly confident, weighing them, stroking the sensitive skin underneath with her thumb. You groan, hips lifting slightly off the mattress, needing more. Her other hand finally closes around the base of your shaft, her fingers wrapping snugly around the thick circumference. Her grip is firm, warm, possessive. She strokes you once, slowly, from base to head, watching your reaction with hungry eyes.

"You like that?" she asks. "Like me touching you? Holding your big, thick cock?"

"Fuck, yes," you gasp out, already close to losing it just from her touch, her words. "Please, Sohyun..."

"Shhh," she soothes, leaning down again. "Let me take care of you. Let me worship this perfect cock. You deserve it."

She starts by licking. Long, slow, wet laps all the way up the shaft, starting from the base where her fingers are wrapped tight, swirling around the thick ridge of the head, paying special attention to the sensitive slit at the very tip. Her tongue is relentless, mapping every vein, every inch, savoring the texture, the taste. She licks your balls too, darting her tongue out to trace the seam, making you gasp and buck beneath her. She seems fascinated, utterly absorbed in the act of adoration, like she's discovering a hidden treasure she can't get enough of. She alternates between licking and kissing, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the throbbing veins, occasionally taking just the very head between her lips, sucking gently, experimentally.

"So pretty," she mumbles against you, her breath hot. "So fucking hard for me. You feel so good in my hand... so heavy..."

She gathers your balls more firmly, lifting them slightly as she lowers her mouth over the head of your cock again. This time, she means business. Her lips seal tight, creating a wet suction that steals your breath. She starts to suck, slowly at first, adjusting her jaw, learning the shape and feel of you in her mouth. Her cheeks hollow slightly with the effort, her eyes fixed on yours, watching your reaction, feeding off the strangled noises clawing their way up your throat. She moans around you, a deep, guttural sound of pure pleasure—hers and yours.

"Mmmmph... fuck... so thick," she manages around you, pulling back slightly before sliding down again, taking you deeper this time.

Her pace picks up, her head starting to bob more rhythmically. She uses her hand in tandem, stroking the lower half of your shaft while her mouth works the upper half, creating an unbearable friction, a slick heat that threatens to make you explode. Her tongue works magic inside her mouth, swirling around the head, flicking against the frenulum, driving you absolutely insane. Saliva spills from the corners of her mouth, mixing with your pre-cum, coating your cock in a thick, slippery sheen. She doesn't seem to care about the mess; she seems to revel in it, smearing the wetness down your shaft with her hand, slicking up your balls until they shine.

"Drooling all over you," she gasps, pulling off for a second to look at her handiwork, eyes glazed with lust. "God, look how wet I'm making you... covering your pretty cock in my spit... you like that, baby? Like being my messy boy?"

"Yes," you choke out, nodding frantically, hands fisting in the duvet beside you. "Fuck, Sohyun, please... don't stop..."

"Never," she promises, diving back down, sucking you deeper than before, her throat muscles working as she takes as much of you as she can.

She alternates speeds, sometimes sucking slow and deep, milking you, other times bobbing her head frantically, her hair whipping against your thighs, her lips and tongue working you over with relentless abandon. She cradles your balls constantly, rubbing, squeezing gently, rolling them between her fingers, ensuring no part of you is neglected. The sounds are incredibly hot—the wet sucking noises, her low moans, your own choked gasps and pleas. She's not just giving you a blowjob; she's pouring all her love, all her pent-up longing, all her newly unleashed desire into worshiping you, pleasuring you, claiming you.

"You feel so good in my mouth," she pants, slicking her lips. "Best cock I've ever tasted... fuck, I wanna swallow you whole..."

She picks up the pace again, sensing you getting closer, her hand pumping furiously at the base while her mouth works magic on the head. Your hips are bucking off the bed now, completely involuntary, chasing the friction, begging for release. Your balls are drawn up tight, the pressure building unbearably.

"Sohyun... Sohyun, I'm gonna..." you gasp, vision starting to blur at the edges.

She hums, a deep vibration against your shaft, and pulls back just slightly, letting her lips drag slowly, wetly, all the way up to the tip. She kisses the head one last time, her tongue darting out to catch a final bead of slickness. She looks up at you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, a satisfied smirk playing on her spit-slick lips. Your cock is practically vibrating in her hand, flushed, aching, coated in her saliva, impossibly hard, utterly ready.

"Good," she breathes, her gaze flicking down at your cock, then back to your eyes. "Keep it just like that for me. Hard and ready. Because now... now I need you inside me.”

Sohyun levers herself up, straddling your hips now instead of your face. Her knees press into the mattress on either side of you, boxing you in. Her gaze is locked on your cock, still hard and glistening, twitching slightly in anticipation. She reaches down, wrapping her fingers around the thick shaft again, her touch possessive, almost proprietary now. She strokes you slowly, deliberately, watching the way your hips lift instinctively off the bed, chasing her touch. A dark, satisfied smile curves her lips. She looks powerful like this, kneeling over you, naked from the waist down, her hair a wild halo around her flushed face, her breasts full and bare, nipples still tight and dark from your attention. The dynamic has shifted entirely. She's in control, and she knows it. And fuck, you love it.

"God, Sohyun," you gasp out, the words shaky. "I've... I've thought about this. So many times."

Her eyes flick up to meet yours, questioning, curious.

"About you," you clarify, needing her to understand. "About you being like this. On top of me. Taking charge. Riding me... dominating me..." The confession feels scandalous, ripped from the deepest, most submissive part of you, but seeing her like this, strong, determined, radiating need, makes it impossible to hold back.

A slow, understanding heat dawns in her eyes, chasing away any lingering shyness. She leans down slightly, bracing one hand on your chest, her thumb brushing your nipple through your t-shirt, making you jolt.

"Yeah?" she murmurs. "Funny. Me too."

Your breath catches. "You... you have?"

She nods, her smile turning wicked. "Oh, yeah. More times than I can count. Thinking about this..." She squeezes your cock gently, making you groan. "...this perfect, thick cock sliding inside me. Stretching me out. Filling me up." She leans closer, her lips brushing your ear. "I might have... borrowed one of your pillows a few times. When you were out late. Pretended it was you I was riding." Her confession is a hot whisper against your skin. "Imagined you were balls-deep inside me while I rode it until I came."

The image—Sohyun, alone in her room, desperate for you, grinding on your pillow—is almost too much. It makes your cock pulse painfully hard in her grip.

"Fuck, Sohyun," you choke out. "Tell me... tell me what you want."

"You," she says simply, fiercely. She lets go of you for a second, putting the panties aside. She guides the thick, wet head of your cock to her entrance, her own slickness making the contact incredibly slippery, incredibly hot. She looks down, watching intently as she aligns herself. "I want you. Inside me. Now."

With excruciating slowness, she begins to lower herself onto you. You feel the head of your cock nudge against her tight entrance, feel her slick folds parting, stretching. She gasps sharply, her eyes squeezing shut for a second as the thick ridge pushes past her outer lips, beginning to invade her.

"Oh my god... fuck..." she breathes, her hands gripping your shoulders tight enough to leave marks. "You're so... big..."

She sinks lower, inch by agonizing inch, taking you deeper. Her pussy feels incredible; impossibly tight, hot and slick and welcoming. The feeling of a body claiming something it’s desperately wanted for far too long. You groan deep in your chest, hands coming up to grip her hips, steadying her, steadying yourself. You can feel every internal ripple, every clench of her muscles as she takes you all the way down, settling onto your cock until you're buried to the hilt inside her.

She sits there for a long moment, just breathing hard, letting her body adjust to the thick invasion, letting you feel the sheer, glorious fullness of being completely sheathed inside her. Her head is tipped back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her throat, her expression a mixture of intense pleasure and almost unbearable sensation.

"Fuck," she sighs out, a long, shuddering sound. "Just... feeling you stretching me out... God, it's..."

"Amazing?" you supply.

She nods mutely, eyes still closed, biting her lower lip. Then, slowly, she begins to move. Just a small lift of her hips, dragging your cock almost out before sinking back down again with agonizing slowness. The friction is electric, making your toes curl.

"Like that?" she whispers, eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

"Yes," you gasp. "Fuck, yes. More."

She starts to ride you properly then, finding a rhythm. Slow and deep at first, her hips rolling deliberately, learning your shape inside her, learning how to angle herself to hit just the right spots. Her hands rest on your chest, fingers splayed, feeling your heartbeat hammer against her palms. With every downward slide, her tight channel grips you, massages you, threatens your control. With every upward pull, the sensation of dragging your thick head along her sensitive walls makes you groan aloud. Her breasts sway gently with the motion.

"Mmmm... god, you feel so good," she murmurs, her hips picking up the pace slightly. "So fucking thick inside me... filling me up completely..."

She rides you with a growing confidence, her movements becoming bolder, faster. She shifts her weight, grinding down harder, experimenting with angles, a low moan escaping her lips every time she hits a particularly good spot. Sweat begins to bead on her forehead, plastering strands of dark hair to her temples. Her cheeks are flushed a deep pink, her lips parted as she pants for breath. She looks wild, primal, completely lost in the act of taking you, claiming you.

"Fuck, Sohyun, you feel incredible," you gasp out, hands tightening on her hips, tilting her slightly to drive yourself even deeper. "So tight... so wet..."

"Yeah?" she pants, a triumphant grin flashing across her face. "Like this? You like how I ride you?" She increases the pace again, hips pumping faster now, slamming down onto your cock with deliberate force. Her breasts bounce more vigorously, the sight mesmerizing. "You like watching my tits bounce while I fuck your cock?"

"Yes! Fuck, yes!" you cry out, completely overwhelmed by the sight, the sound, the feeling of her riding you with such abandon.

She leans forward, bracing her hands on your shoulders, riding you harder, faster, moving into a frantic, desperate rhythm. The bed starts to shake beneath you, the only sounds the wet slap of her pussy gripping your cock, her ragged pants, your answering groans. This is frenzy. Pure, raw, unadulterated need pouring out of her as she fucks you, possessively, relentlessly. Her eyes are locked on yours, fierce and unwavering, like she's daring you to look away, daring you to think of anyone else.

"Am I...?" she gasps out between frantic thrusts, her stare pinning you down. "Am I better? Better than her?"

There’s no coyness, no game-playing like Xinyu. Just raw insecurity wrapped in fierce possessiveness. She needs to know. Needs the validation. Needs to erase the ghost of the other girl.

You meet her intense gaze without flinching, hands gripping her waist tight, pulling her down harder onto your next upward thrust.

"Yes," you say, the word ripped from your throat, raw with conviction. "Fuck, yes, Sohyun. So much better. No comparison. It's always been you. Only you."

The confirmation—that she’s better, that it’s only her—fuels Sohyun like high-octane gasoline. The frantic energy shifts, solidifying into something harder, more deliberate, more dominant. She rides you with a vengeance now, hips slamming down onto your cock, grinding her clit against your pubic bone with every brutal downward thrust. Her pace is relentless, punishing, her body slick with sweat, moving like she’s trying to fuck you right through the mattress. The wet, slapping sounds fill the room, obscene and rhythmic.

"Fuck yes," she pants, head thrown back again, eyes half-lidded with ecstasy. "That's what I needed to hear. Needed you to say it." She leans forward, bracing her hands on your shoulders again, her stare burning into you. "Now give me more. Don't just lie there like a fucking doll. Touch me. Own me."

Her demand sparks through you, overriding the pleasant haze of submission. Your hands fly up to her breasts, cupping the heavy, sweat-slicked weight. They feel incredible, full and responsive. You squeeze them firmly, kneading the soft flesh, thumbs finding her nipples, still hard, aching pebbles, and rolling them roughly between your fingers.

"Ah! Fuck—yes!" Sohyun cries out, her hips stuttering in their rhythm for a beat before slamming down even harder. "Like that! Squeeze them harder! Play with my nipples while I ride your cock! Make them sore! Fuck, yes!"

You obey instantly, pinching and tweaking her nipples, pulling gently, rewarded by her sharp gasps and the way her pussy clenches impossibly tighter around your shaft. She grinds down onto you, moaning your name, lost in the dual sensations. She rides you like she owns you, like she’s branding you with every slam of her hips, every tight clench of her cunt.

Then, her eyes snap fully open, locking onto yours with a terrifying, desperate intensity. The frantic pace slows just slightly, becoming more deliberate, each thrust deeper, more meaningful.

"I need you to come," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Now. Inside me."

You falter for a second, your hands stilling on her breasts. "Sohyun... wait, are you serious? We didn't... I don't have..."

"I don't fucking care!" she cuts you off, her voice raw, almost frantic. She grips your shoulders tighter, leaning down until her face is inches from yours, her breath hot and ragged against your lips. "I don't care about condoms. I don't care about anything! I need it! I need you to fill me up. Mark me. Make me yours, understand? Breed me. Right now. Cum deep inside my pussy."

Your brain whites out for a second. Breed her. The words, the raw need behind them, the sheer possessive desperation—it hits you like a physical blow, igniting a primal heat deep in your gut you didn't know existed. The idea of planting your seed deep inside her, claiming her womb…

"Fuck, Sohyun," you choke out, overwhelmed.

"Yes!" she urges, her eyes blazing. "Every day. I want you filling me up like this every single day. This pussy?" She grinds down hard, milking a groan from you. "It's yours. Only yours. No one else ever gets to touch it. No one else gets to fuck it. No one else gets to breed it. Only you. Promise me!"

"I promise," you gasp, the words ripped from you without thought, only instinct. "Only you, Sohyun. Always."

"Good," she pants, a wild, triumphant grin spreading across her face. She throws her head back again and starts riding you with renewed, almost violent frenzy. "Fuck yes! Breed your girl! Fill my womb up with your cum! Make me swell up with it! I want your baby! Fuck, put your baby inside me now!"

Every filthy word, every desperate demand, every slam of her wet cunt onto your aching cock drives you closer and closer to the edge. The friction is unbearable, her walls clenching and milking you, her words painting pictures in your head that are setting your nerves on fire. You can feel your own climax rushing towards you now, unstoppable, a tidal wave building behind your balls.

"I'm gonna... oh god, Sohyun, I'm so close!" you cry out, hips bucking up wildly beneath her.

"Me too! Fuck, yes, me too!" she screams back. "Cum with me! Cum inside me! Breed me! Breed me now!"

She rides you faster, harder, a desperate, frantic pounding as you both chase the peak. Her moans turn into high-pitched keening sounds, her body trembling violently. You feel the tell-tale clenching deep inside her, the spasms starting just as your own orgasm rips through you.

"FUCK! SOHYUN!" you roar, your body locking up as you explode deep inside her.

Hot, thick ropes of your cum pump into her womb, filling her, coating her insides just like she demanded. You feel her pussy clench violently around your cock, milking every last drop out of you, her own orgasm crashing over her in wave after wave. She continues to ride you even as you both come, slamming down onto your still-pulsing cock, drawing out the very last shuddering spurts, her own cries echoing yours in the small room. The intensity is blinding, shattering. Your eyes roll back in your head, vision whitening out completely as the pleasure finally crests and breaks, leaving you utterly spent, trembling, muscles twitching.

Sohyun collapses forward onto your chest, boneless, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps against your sweat-slick skin. Her weight is heavy, comforting, grounding. You can feel the frantic thudding of her heart against yours, feel the faint, lingering pulses deep inside her where you just emptied yourself. You wrap your arms around her trembling body, holding her tight, burying your face in her damp hair, inhaling her scent. Neither of you speaks for a long time, just clinging to each other in the aftermath, adrift in the wreckage of shared pleasure, bound together by the intensity of what just happened.

The silence stretches, filled only by the sound of two bodies recovering, hearts gradually slowing from their frantic race. Finally, she lifts her head slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. Her expression is soft, unguarded, the fierce possessiveness momentarily banked by sated exhaustion and something that looks overwhelmingly like love.

"I love you," she whispers, the words quiet but solid, no desperation this time, just simple, profound truth.

Your chest aches with the force of your own feelings, a wave of tenderness washing over you, so potent it almost hurts. You lift a hand, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead, your thumb tracing the curve of her eyebrow.

"I love you too, Sohyun," you murmur, the words feeling more real, more right than anything you've ever said. "So fucking much."

A slow, beautiful smile spreads across her face, reaching her eyes, making them shine. She leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It’s different from the frantic, claiming kisses before—this one is slow, sweet, full of affection and the dizzying relief of finally being here, together, like this. You kiss her back gently, pouring all your affection into it, letting the kiss deepen naturally, tongues tangling lazily, exploring rediscovered territory. You stay like that for a long while, just kissing, holding each other, limbs tangled, the sticky evidence of your climax cooling between her legs and inside her. The world outside her bedroom ceases to exist; there's only the warmth of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the steady beat of her heart against yours.

But even as you drift in the peaceful afterglow, your body betrays you. Deep inside her, nestled snugly in her tight, creamy pussy, your cock gives an involuntary throb. It’s still undeniably hard, thick and heavy within her, nowhere near satisfied despite the intensity of your release. Sohyun stills, her eyes widening slightly as she feels the distinct pulse deep inside her cunt. She shifts her hips experimentally, just a tiny grind, and gasps softly as your cock throbs again in response, pressing against her sensitive inner walls. She pulls back slightly, looking down between your bodies, then up at your face with bewildered amusement.

"Seriously?" she asks, one eyebrow arching. "How the hell are you still hard? I thought I killed you."

You let out a shaky laugh, tightening your arms around her waist. "Guess not." You shift your hips slightly, letting her feel the solid length still buried inside her. "It's you, Sohyun. You drive me fucking crazy. Always have."

A pleased, almost smug flush creeps up her neck. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, grinning. "Seeing you like this... hearing you... knowing you want me this bad..." You shake your head. "It does things to me."

Her smile turns predatory again, that dominant spark reigniting in her eyes. "Good." She leans down, whispering against your ear, "Because I'm not done with you yet." But before she can reclaim control entirely, a surge of boldness rises in you.

"Neither am I," you murmur, and with a surge of strength you didn't know you possessed, you roll her over.

She lets out a surprised yelp as you maneuver her beneath you, ending up positioned between her legs in the classic missionary pose. The sudden shift in dynamic makes her blink, but she doesn't fight it. Instead, a curious, excited glint enters her eyes. You brace your hands on either side of her head, leaning down to capture her mouth in another deep kiss, taking charge this time, setting the pace. Your cock slides almost fully out during the roll before you sink back into her with one smooth, deep thrust.

"Fuck!" she cries out, back arching off the bed as you fill her again. "Oh my god, that feels..."

Her pussy is impossibly sensitive now, slick and creamy with the mixture of her arousal and your own cooling cum. Every slight movement sends shivers through her, her inner walls fluttering and clenching around you instinctively. The friction is insane, almost unbearable, slicker and yet somehow tighter than before. You pull back slowly, deliberately, dragging your thick shaft along her hypersensitive walls, then thrust back in deep, hitting that spot low in her belly that makes her gasp and her toes curl.

"Still feel good?" you ask.

"Y-yes! Fuck, yes!" she pants, gripping your biceps hard. "So good... it's almost too much... so sensitive now..."

"Good," you growl, starting to fuck her with a steady, driving rhythm. "I want it to be too much. I want to make you fall apart."

You fuck her hard, hips slamming against hers, driving deep with every thrust. Her legs instinctively wrap around your waist, pulling you even deeper, locking you in place. She meets your rhythm, hips lifting off the bed to take every inch, her head thrashing side to side on the pillows, dark hair fanning out. Her moans are louder now, higher pitched, broken sounds torn from her throat with every impact.

"Fuck! Harder! Please, harder!" she begs, completely lost to the sensation. "Right there! Oh god, oh god, yes!"

You obey, increasing the force, pounding into her relentlessly. The sound of your bodies colliding, the wet, sloppy sounds of your cock sliding in and out of her creamy cunt, fills the room. Her breasts jiggle wildly with the force of your thrusts, the sight driving you wilder. You lean down, capturing one nipple in your mouth again, sucking hard while you continue to hammer into her.

"Ah! Fuck! Yes, please—suck them! Bite them!" she cries out deliriously.

You lave the nipple, then bite down gently, just enough to make her cry out again, her pussy clenching violently around your cock. You switch sides, giving the other nipple the same rough treatment while your hips maintain their punishing rhythm. She's trembling all over now, completely overwhelmed, on the ragged edge of another climax.

"I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum again!" she gasps, eyes rolling back slightly. "Fuck, I can't stop it!"

"Don't stop it," you command. "Come for me again, Sohyun. Let go."

You focus your thrusts, angling slightly, grinding against her G-spot relentlessly, pushing her over the edge. Her body tenses like a drawn bowstring, muscles locking up, a high, keening whine building in her throat.

"Oh FUCK! I'm—!"

Her climax hits her like a lightning strike. Her whole body convulses, legs locking tight around your waist, back arching so high off the bed only her shoulders and heels are touching. A torrent of clear, slick fluid suddenly erupts from her, soaking the front of your body, spraying onto the sheets beneath her. She's squirting, a hot, copious gush that just keeps coming as her orgasm tears through her, wave after powerful wave. The sight, the feeling of her body spasming around you, the hot spray coating your skin, the sheer, unbridled intensity of her release—it shatters your own control completely.

"FUCK! SOHYUN!" you roar, unable to hold back any longer.

You feel your own orgasm roaring up your spine, too intense, too soon after the last one, but unstoppable. You pull out at the last second, cock slapping wetly against her drenched belly, still spasming from her squirt. You brace your hands, aiming carefully, and explode all over her chest. Thick ropes of your cum spray across her collarbones, coating her full breasts, dripping down between them. Shot after shot erupts from you, hot and heavy, until you're completely drained, collapsing forward slightly, bracing your weight on your elbows, chest heaving, heart pounding like it wants to escape your ribs.

You stay like that for a moment, catching your breath, looking down at the beautiful, glorious mess you've made of her. Sohyun lies beneath you, utterly wrecked, limbs trembling, face flushed, eyes glazed and unfocused. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, coated in your thick, white seed. The sheets beneath her are soaked from her squirt. She looks debauched, thoroughly fucked, completely claimed. And she's never looked more beautiful. You lean down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"You," you whisper, "are the most beautiful girl in the world, Sohyun. Absolutely fucking perfect."

She manages a weak, trembling smile, lifting a shaky hand to cup your cheek. Her eyes finally focus on yours, filled with so much love, so much raw emotion, it steals your breath all over again. She doesn't say anything, doesn't need to. The connection between you is palpable, electric, forged in confessions and tears and sweat and cum and squirt, solidifying into something undeniable, something unbreakable, right there in the messy aftermath on her tangled sheets.

A long, shared sigh escapes both of you almost in unison. You lie down next to her, Sohyun rests her head back on your chest, her breathing still slightly ragged, her fingers tracing idle patterns over your cum-splattered chest. You stare up at the ceiling, your own mind racing, trying to process the whirlwind of confessions, the raw intensity, the spilled fluids currently cooling on both of you and the sheets. It feels surreal, like a dream you're afraid you'll wake up from.

"Holy shit," Sohyun whispers after a long silence, her tone full of dazed wonder. "That... actually happened."

You let out a shaky laugh, tightening your arms around her. "Yeah. I... I can hardly believe it either."

She shifts slightly, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at you, her expression serious now, practical thoughts cutting through the haze of pleasure.

"Hey," she starts, biting her lip slightly. "I'm... uh... gonna need to get a morning-after pill. Just... you know..." She gestures vaguely towards her lower body, where your seed still rests deep inside her. "We kinda... really overdid it on the whole... breeding thing."

A flush creeps up your neck, embarrassment mixing with the lingering thrill of her earlier demands. You nod quickly.

"Yeah," you agree, clearing your throat. "Yeah, we definitely did. Sorry, I should have... pulled out the first time too, I just... lost it."

She shakes her head, reaching out to cup your cheek gently. "Don't apologize. I told you to. I wanted you to." A small, almost shy smile touches her lips. "It was... really good. All of it."

Relief washes over you, potent and warm. "Yeah?" You meet her gaze, searching her eyes. "I thought so too. More than good. It was... everything."

She smiles fully then, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. The easy affection, the simple intimacy after the storm, feels grounding. You kiss her back, pouring all your confused, overwhelming feelings into it. After a moment, she pulls back again, her expression turning thoughtful, hesitant.

"So..." she starts, tracing the line of your jaw with a fingertip. "What... what happens now? With us?"

You shift awkwardly beneath her, suddenly very aware of your nakedness, your vulnerability. This is it. The moment you’ve simultaneously dreaded and longed for.

"Well," you begin, swallowing hard, forcing yourself to meet her searching gaze. "I was kinda hoping... um..." You fumble for the words, feeling ridiculously shy after everything you just did together. "Do you... maybe... want to be my girlfriend?"

Her breath catches, her eyes widening slightly before breaking into the most brilliant, radiant smile you’ve ever seen on her face. It lights her up from the inside out.

"Yes!" she breathes, relief flooding her features. "God, yes! Of course, I do, you idiot!"

She crashes down onto you again, capturing your mouth in a fierce, joyful kiss that tastes like hope and relief and the start of something new. You kiss her back with equal fervor, laughing against her lips, pure happiness bubbling up inside you. When she finally pulls back, breathless and beaming, her expression clouds slightly again.

"Okay, good," she says, settling back against your chest, but her fingers fidget slightly. "But... what about... Xinyu?"

You swallow hard, the name like a stone dropping into the pit of your stomach. Guilt immediately floods you, chasing away some of the euphoria. You owe Xinyu honesty, even if it’s going to hurt.

"Right," you sigh. "Yeah. I... I need to talk to her. Be straight with her." You hesitate, forcing yourself to be completely honest with Sohyun now, no more secrets. "She, uh... she actually asked me out today. Like, properly. Asked me to be her boyfriend."

"Oh," she says, her tone carefully neutral. "Really? Wow, I'm surprised… What did you say?"

"I didn't accept," you say quickly, meeting her gaze earnestly. "I told her I needed time to think. I was... confused. Uncertain." You reach up, cupping her cheek, needing her to believe you. "And now I know why, Sohyun. It was never about being confused between you two. It was about me being too scared to admit what I really wanted. Who I really loved." Your thumb strokes her cheekbone. "It's you. It's always been you."

Her eyes soften, glistening slightly, and she leans into your touch, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Okay," she whispers. "Just... be careful, okay? When you talk to her."

"I will," you promise.

—

The fluorescent lights of the campus bathroom hum overhead, casting a sterile glare on the tiled walls. Sohyun leans over one of the sinks, splashing cool water onto her face, trying to wash away the lingering exhaustion and the slightly dazed feeling that’s followed her all day. Everything feels different now. Knowing you feel the same way, knowing you're hers, officially... it’s like the world has tilted on its axis. She pats her face dry with a rough paper towel, catching her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes still look a little red-rimmed, her hair is messier than usual, but there’s a softness around her mouth, a lightness in her gaze that wasn't there before. She almost smiles.

The main door swings open, letting in the muffled sounds of the hallway, and Sohyun glances up automatically. Xinyu walks in, head down, scrolling intently on her phone, her usual bright energy noticeably absent. She looks... agitated. She heads towards the mirrors further down, seemingly not noticing Sohyun at first. But then she looks up, her eyes scanning the room, and freezes mid-step as her gaze lands on Sohyun. The recognition dawns instantly.

"YOU!" Xinyu finally spits out. She drops her phone onto the counter with a clatter and points a trembling finger directly at Sohyun.

A couple of other girls who were fixing their makeup quickly gather their things, exchanging wide-eyed glances before scurrying out, leaving the heavy tension simmering between just the two of them. The door clicks shut behind them, amplifying the sudden silence.

Xinyu takes a step closer, her face pale beneath her usually perfect makeup, her eyes blazing with hurt and anger. "It was you, wasn't it? You're the reason he dumped me!"

Sohyun straightens up slowly, leaning back against the cool tile, crossing her arms defensively. Her heart pounds, but she keeps her expression carefully neutral, refusing to rise to the bait immediately.

"Dumped you?" Sohyun asks, raising an eyebrow slightly. "What breakup are you talking about? As far as I know, you and he never actually had anything official to break up from."

Xinyu recoils as if slapped, offense flashing across her features. "Excuse me? We were having something! We were figuring it out, discovering each other! It was real! He kissed me, he fucked me, he was going to be mine! Until you!" she jabs her finger towards Sohyun again, voice trembling with suppressed tears. "You got in his head! You ruined it!"

A cold wave washes over Sohyun. Hearing Xinyu talk about you fucking her, even knowing it happened, still feels like a physical blow. But she pushes the hurt down, replacing it with a steely resolve.

"He was always mine," Sohyun says.

Xinyu lets out a choked, incredulous laugh. "Always yours? That's bullshit! You've known him for years, lived with him, watched him date other people, watched me flirt with him, and you never did a damn thing! You never had the guts! And now, now that I finally decided to go for it, now that I did what you were always too scared to do, now you decide to swoop in and get in the way?"

The accusation hits home, sharp and true. Sohyun flinches slightly, the guilt churning inside her. Xinyu isn't wrong about her cowardice, about her inaction for years.

"You're right," Sohyun admits quietly, dropping her gaze for a second before forcing herself to meet Xinyu's furious stare again. "You're absolutely right. That was my mistake. My biggest fucking mistake, letting fear stop me for so long." Her jaw tightens, her own fierce possessiveness surging forward. "But I finally acted. Because I wasn't going to lose him. Not to you. Not to anyone. I would never let myself lose him."

The raw conviction in Sohyun’s declaration seems to finally break something in Xinyu. Her furious facade crumbles, shoulders slumping, tears finally spilling over and tracking messy lines down her cheeks. She wipes at them angrily with the back of her hand.

"So what now?" Xinyu asks. "Are you going to make him quit the club? Tell him he can't hang out with me anymore?" The question sounds desperate, surprisingly vulnerable. "He... he still wants to be friends. And he's really important for the zine production... We need him."

Sohyun watches her cry, a flicker of unexpected pity stirring beneath her own lingering anger and possessiveness. She remembers your hesitation earlier, your insistence that Xinyu wasn't just using you. Maybe you were right. Maybe Xinyu did have genuine feelings, however tangled up they were.

"Look," Sohyun says, sighing, her tone softening slightly. "I'm not his mother. I don't tell him what to do." She shrugs, trying for nonchalance. "And I know he actually likes that stupid crafts club, for some reason."

"It's not stupid!" Xinyu snaps automatically through her tears.

"Whatever," Sohyun dismisses with a small wave of her hand. "My point is, if he wants to keep going, that's his choice. It's fine with me." She levels a steady gaze at Xinyu. "As long as you understand the boundaries. As long as you don't try anything. At all."

Xinyu sniffs, wiping her eyes again, nodding quickly. "I won't," she promises, her voice small. "I get it. I won't."

An awkward silence hangs between them. Sohyun feels a pang of something akin to regret, not for claiming you, but for the collateral damage.

"I am sorry," Sohyun says quietly, genuinely. "Sorry you got... deluded, I guess. Caught up in the middle of all this."

Xinyu offers a watery, humorless smile, shaking her head. "It's okay. My fault, really." She lets out a shaky breath. "Rule number one: don't fall for the guy who has a female best friend with obvious unresolved history with him. Never ends well, does it?" She attempts a laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob. She grabs a paper towel, dabbing at her eyes, trying to pull herself together. The confrontation seems over, leaving behind only the wreckage and the uneasy truce born from shared heartbreak over the same boy.

—

Walking into the "Hands On" club room later that day feels different. There's a knot of uncertainty low in your stomach, a leftover echo of the drama, the confrontation you know happened between Sohyun and Xinyu, and your own awkward conversation looming. You push the door open tentatively. The usual creative chaos greets you—fabric scraps littering tables, the faint smell of glue and paint, half-finished projects everywhere. Several members look up as you enter, their chatter dying down for a beat as they take you in. You can practically feel them sense the lingering tension, the potential for more trouble. A silent ripple of awareness goes through the room.

Xinyu, who was overseeing someone wrestling with a sewing machine, immediately straightens up, clapping her hands together with forced brightness.

"Alright people, less gawking, more gluing!" she calls out, her usual commanding tone back in place, though maybe a little strained around the edges. "Those zine covers aren't going to embellish themselves!"

The members quickly avert their gazes, busying themselves with their tasks, pretending they weren't just bracing for round two. You take a deep breath and approach Xinyu, stopping a few feet away, hands shoved awkwardly in your pockets.

"Hey," you manage, the word coming out quieter, shyer than you intended.

She turns, offering you a small, tight smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Hi," she replies, equally subdued.

You shift your weight, glancing around the room before forcing yourself to meet her gaze. "Look, have you thought about what I said earlier? I just... I came to see... Am I still, like... welcome here? In the club?"

"Yes, of course," she says quickly. "Obviously. You're still production lead, aren't you?"

“Yeah. Thank you. I really enjoy being part of this club. Hmm, by the way, Sohyun told me you two talked today."

Xinyu nods, fiddling with a stray thread on her perfectly coordinated velvet jacket. "Yeah. We ran into each other." A flicker of her old cattiness surfaces as she gives a small, dismissive sniff. "Still don't really get what you see in her, honestly. She's just so... plain. Basic."

"Hey," you cut in gently but firmly. "Don't start, okay?"

Xinyu immediately holds up her hands in mock surrender, though a genuine look of apology flashes in her eyes. "Sorry! Sorry. Force of habit. Old rivalries die hard, I guess." She offers a more genuine, albeit still slightly strained, smile. "Seriously though. We're glad to still have you. I'm glad. You actually get stuff done around here."

You manage a small smile back. "So... it's not going to be weird? Between us? After everything?"

She laughs, a short, sharp sound, but it holds genuine amusement this time. "Oh, it'll probably be weird for a bit," she admits honestly. "But we'll manage. I'll just have to make you work twice as hard on club duties to make up for breaking my heart."

You laugh, the sound easing more of the tension. "Okay, that's fair."

She leans against the table beside her, her posture relaxing slightly. "Look," she says, her tone turning serious again. "I meant what I said, you know. That I liked you." She avoids your gaze for a second, staring down at her perfectly manicured nails. "Okay, fine, maybe at first I was kind of just taking advantage of how nice you are to get help with lifting boxes and shit," she confesses with a wry twist of her lips. "But somewhere along the line... I actually started to fall for the sweet, reliable guy underneath all the errand-running. You're... genuinely good. Different." She sighs dramatically. "Turns out I have a weakness for dependable soft boys who blush easily."

"Xinyu..." you start, feeling a pang of guilt again. "I'm really sorry I couldn't... feel the same way."

She waves a dismissive hand, finally meeting your eyes again, her expression resigned but composed. "Eh, it's okay. Don't sweat it." She shrugs, trying for nonchalance. "Honestly? I should've known it wasn't totally there the second you hesitated when I asked you to be my boyfriend. Nobody hesitates with me." She strikes a pose, hand on her hip, chin tilted defiantly. "I mean, hello? I'm perfect."

You can't help but laugh genuinely this time. "You're right," you agree easily. "You are pretty amazing, Xinyu."

"Damn right I am," she says, grinning, the familiar confidence flowing back into her. "Clearly you just have questionable taste." She winks. "But hey, your loss. I still want to be friends though, if you're cool with that? Awkwardness aside?"

"Yeah," you say warmly. "I'd really like that." You hold out your hand uncertainly.

She looks at it for a second, then takes it, her grip firm and decisive. A handshake. A truce. A new beginning.

"Good," she says, releasing your hand and immediately pivoting back to business mode, clapping her hands together again. "Okay, Production Lead! Less standing around looking relieved, more figuring out how we're going to afford that iridescent cardstock for the spring showcase invites..."

You listen intently as she dives into project details, pulling you back into the familiar rhythm of club tasks. And just like that, things start to feel... normal again. Different, yes. Tinged with the memory of drama and hurt feelings, but manageable. Xinyu, you realize, is great. Complicated, sharp-edged, maybe even a little ruthless sometimes, but also vibrant and passionate and, in her own way, surprisingly understanding. You're genuinely glad you can still have her in your life, even if it's just as friends wrestling over glitter glue and budget spreadsheets.

—

Later that same day, you push the apartment door open, balancing two large grocery bags against your hip. You check the clock on your phone; only 6:30 PM. You’re not late. In fact, you’re early. A small, ridiculously pleased smile spreads across your face. Adulting: achieved.

Before you can even call out, Sohyun appears from her room. She’s wearing comfy lounge pants and one of your old band t-shirts that’s way too big on her, hair pulled back loosely, face free of makeup. She stops when she sees you, sees the bags, sees the time. A slow, soft smile lights up her face—the real kind, the one that reaches her eyes and makes your heart do a stupid little flip. She walks towards you, and without a word, stands on her tiptoes and presses a sweet, welcoming kiss to your lips.

"Hey," she murmurs against your mouth. "You're home early."

"Made sure of it," you reply, kissing her back gently before setting the groceries down on the counter. "Got everything on the list. Even the fancy mushrooms."

"Ooh, fancy mushrooms," she teases, peering into the bags. "Feeling ambitious tonight?"

"Tonight," you declare, pulling out flour, yeast, cheese, and various toppings, "we are making pizza. From scratch. Together."

Sohyun raises an skeptical eyebrow, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, but the fondness in her eyes gives her away. "Oh really? We are making pizza? Or I am making pizza while you try not to set the oven on fire or mistake salt for sugar again?"

You laugh, feigning offense. "Hey! I've improved. Slightly. Maybe." You grin at her. "Okay, fine. You'll be teaching me. But we're doing it together."

And so you do. You measure flour (incorrectly at first, earning a playful swat from Sohyun), knead dough (getting more on your shirt than in the bowl), chop vegetables (under her extremely close and critical supervision), and grate cheese. She patiently guides you, corrects your technique with gentle touches and exasperated sighs that don't quite hide her amusement.

There's teasing, there's flour dusted on noses, there's comfortable silence punctuated by easy chatter. It’s chaotic and messy and absolutely perfect. Gone is the sharp-edged tension that used to simmer beneath the surface, replaced by an open affection, a shared warmth that fills the small kitchen. As you slide the misshapen but lovingly topped pizzas into the oven, Sohyun wraps her arms around your waist from behind, resting her cheek against your back. You lean back into her embrace, covering her hands with yours.

"This is nice," she murmurs.

"Yeah," you agree, turning your head slightly to kiss the top of hers. "Yeah, it really is."

You eat on the couch later, cross-legged, sharing slices of slightly burnt but delicious pizza, watching some dumb movie you'll both forget by morning. Her head rests on your shoulder, your arm draped comfortably around her, fingers idly playing with a loose strand of her hair. It feels easy. Right. Like all the broken pieces, the misunderstandings, the years of unspoken feelings, have finally clicked into place, settling into this quiet, comfortable harmony. No more secrets, no more fear, no more wondering. Just this. Just you and her, finally, simply, being together. It’s not a dramatic fireworks finale, but a soft, warm glow settling over everything, promising quiet mornings and shared dinners and the simple, profound comfort of knowing you’re finally home.

[zstartrixxx]

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 '𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐔, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍'.

ʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ᵛᵃᵐᵖꜝʷᶦᶠᵉ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: If being loved by a vampire means carrying eternity within you, what you have with Remmick is incarnate: his poison lives in your flesh, you are blood of his blood, a creature of his making. And because you are a part of him—a fragment that broke free and passed into you, sometimes even a sliver of his ancient soul trapped inside that dead body—everything you feel, he feels, and vice versa. Fleeing the imminent extinction of these lands, you and Remmick seek refuge in each other once more, bound together. Eternally, for he would never let you sever this tie—unless he were dead. Past and future memories knot inside you. Here, now—all blood and teeth—you fuse with your maker, your sacrament, your eternal groom. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: this particular piece was a deeply interesting and special writing experience for me: not only did i get to explore the hivemind concept, but i also played more freely with language and the essence of remmick as a character. so let me make one thing clear: it’s never my intention to distort the film’s canonical portrayal, but rather—through poetic license combined with the possibilities of fanfiction’s universe, PLUS the way i’ve absorbed and interpreted the character—my version of remmick (at least in my fics) might not be as literal as the original script. that said: here we have this scenario with a wife, which i initially imagine takes place before the film’s events, but the specifics of when, how, and where she was transformed are entirely up to your interpretation (before his arrival in the us in 1911? somewhere between the early or late middle ages? the modern era? europe, asia, or africa... let your imagination run wild ;) i’ve also paraphrased/incorporated certain very specific lines and moments from the film. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +16 CONTENT. i think there's a lot of angst here and reader melancholy, so keep that in mind. use of some words in gaelic, i had to resort to good old google, if there is something wrong please tell me. remmik here it's (super) protective, almost toxic; hivemind concept explored, lots of internal dialogue, some gore (explicit description of blood and bruises), vampirism (blood consummation), and a slight sexual innuendo thrown in. 𝐖𝐂: 6k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

"turn to me, and love me like you lacerate; just hold me down like i don’t need air." (air, shedfromthebody)

Your skin burned like Hell itself, which was kind of funny to think about: back when you were human, you loved spending your days under the hot sun, lying on the grass in the late afternoon and gazing up at the cloudless sky, where strange shapes would form just for you. You wasted away the days at the lake, naked, floating between water and sunlight, between cold and heat, simply existing.

Now, all you could feel was the searing pain ripping through your skin, sizzling in your ears like meat in a frying pan. Weak, you tried to run, but your legs wouldn’t obey, and your feet tangled with every step across the dry land, scattered with dead corn leaves. The rustle of the leaves irritated you, but what truly drove you mad were the screams echoing from behind, drowning out any coherent thought, merging with the heavy air that entered your lungs that no longer breathed. And that felt like a death sentence: not only the sun was paralyzing you, but also the distorted sounds that confused you, like a wounded animal, utterly disoriented.

You stopped in the middle of the cornfield, glancing around, trying to stay grounded, trying to reconnect the thread of thought between the two of you, searching through the suffocating haze for Remmick’s voice, calling him with panic and urgency, desperate for him to come save you. You looked at your shoulders: raw, scorched, smelling the acrid scent of burnt flesh rising from your own body. You shut your eyes, trying to find him, your voice lethargic: “Remmick… Remmick.”

Your vision began to darken, your body no longer felt like your own—it felt like it was floating, detaching, as if your soul—or what was left of it—was slipping out of you. Just like you’d felt a piece of yourself dying the last time you glimpsed sunlight through your human eyes, maybe ceasing to exist in that land would feel the same. All you had to do was slowly close your eyes, embrace the darkness once again, surrender to the searing fire that would extinguish you—and that would be it. You opened your eyes slowly, staring at the mighty sun before you: scorching, like your mother’s hugs, your grandmother’s kisses. Like Remmick’s grip when you were still human. Your entire body burned, tiny flames piercing through you, tears of blood trickling from your eyes. How long had it been since you felt even remotely human? All you had to do was give in, speak the one name that echoed in your mind, etched into your blood.

Remmick.

In poison and blood, within you. He was you and you were him. Remmick.

‘—Remmick, if you can hear me one last time, know that I—’

“Got you!” his voice came, rough and wounded, behind you. Firm hands grabbed you by the waist, your body partially covered by another, pressed against Remmick’s rigid frame. He whispered against your ear: “You’re safe, mo chroí (mu khree / my heart). Come with me.” He pulled you even tighter against his scorched body, shielding you like a protective shell, guiding you with quick steps into the heart of the cornfield. In the distance, the furious screams of some villagers echoed behind you. But despite the world turning into hell around you and everything seeming like the end, you felt safe in his arms.

Remmick looked back, staggering, using his sharp senses to search for any possible escape for the two of you. His left eye was swollen from the punch he took, combined with the sun’s deadly effect, and even with limited vision, he managed to find a way out from the horde chasing you.

You couldn’t stay upright. The sun’s weakness made it feel like your bones were nothing but dust beneath your scorched flesh. Tears of blood stung your eyes and soul, or whatever was trapped inside that immortal body, sharing a collective mind with Remmick and so many others before you. It longed desperately to escape this life and finally rest. But Remmick wouldn’t let that happen—oh no, let the pagan gods or the Christian God himself punish him with the harshest tortures if he did. You could feel that wrathful pain mixed with ancient rage flowing from him, harshly projected in flames and poisonous blood from him to you, as he nearly threw himself on top of you like a (scorched) leather jacket just to protect you. Madness. The voices grew longer, more indistinct, the hateful chorus fading, as Remmick, with his one good eye, searched for shelter.

Then, as if by magic, fate, or just the luck of some devil who still wanted to see you both wander through God's vast lands, there it was—a house beyond the edge of the cornfield. The perfect shelter. ‘Living food, darkness... —Remmick, don’t get your hopes up.—’ you thought back, replying to your creator’s voice with a sarcasm that didn’t quite match the moment. As always, he laughed—loudly, though the laugh came with dry, desperate gasps. He laughed. Even all fucked up, more than you, sizzling in pain and crying in despair to stay alive, he still found humor in his own misery.

“You’re getting real cheeky, huh, my little thing?”

“You’re the one who taught me to be like this, Remmy,” you managed to say, despite the bitter taste of blood rising in your throat—extremely unpleasant when it was your own blood boiling inside you. Remmick glanced over his shoulder, noticing for now that you were safe. He looked forward again, at what seemed like a mirage of a desolate wooden shack, dark, with the door and windows shut. It looked uninhabited to you. ‘—Love, don’t be so hopeless. Of course, there’ll be someone in there to be dinner. Or rather, lunch, given the time.—’ his voice cut through again, tugging you sideways, his hot and battered hand grabbing your forearm, where deep layers of your dermis were starting to show, making you let out a faint whimper. Remmick gave you an almost hurt look, immediately releasing his grip.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine. What’s a squeeze compared to almost melting under the sun, right?”

“You’re something else...” he muttered in disbelief, though his voice was laced with distress and anguish—a soft hint of the pain he was enduring. —If he died, you’d go with him by extension, in the worst possible way.— That was what was running through his disturbed mind, making you wonder whether you’d ever have a happy ending under those conditions. Remmick quickened his pace, and you followed beside him, feeling like the path to the house was more of a road to Hell than a material refuge. You were starting to believe it was a mirage and the Devil was waiting on the other side to welcome you both into his lap. ‘—Pathetic, darling. Pathetic.—’ ‘—Just like you, sweetheart.—’

Remmick ignored your retort, dragging himself up the steps, changing his expression as he began to shout for help. A wounded animal, fatally injured, a hoarse rasp clawing out of his throat, begging for help, pounding on the door with force. The sun’s haze was poisoning him—and therefore you—draining what little strength was left, forcing your bodies to absorb the foul smell of rotting flesh; even if your lungs didn’t breathe, they still had the cursed privilege of smelling. And even as supernatural beings, defying all human logic, you were still condemned to be inside those fragile bodies, exhaling the scent of flesh, blood, bone, thick saliva, venom, and a unique perfume your walking corpses carried. Not decay, but something more… floral? And that specific scent, like night-blooming jasmine in a graveyard or a dried rose in your garden, grew stronger as the mortal flesh imprisoning your immortal soul deteriorated.

Remmick kept pounding on the door and maybe—just maybe—with a little more effort, he’d become the first vampire to break the universal law by forcing his way in without being invited. He looked at you, distressed, his expression one of real pain. You pulled away from him, walking to a window layered in thick dust, wiping it with your palm. The cold, gritty surface scratched your sensitive skin even more. You peered inside and confirmed: ‘—There’s no one. It’s empty.—’ Remmick looked at you, almost dumbfounded, hearing your inner voice. He turned to the door, where simply twisting the doorknob opened it. The air inside was cold and stagnant, dust and mold, old wood and moth-eaten fabric, with an unwelcoming scent—but still, it carried that unmistakable smell of an uninhabited place. No human warmth or familiar energy.

Remmick was so relieved he dropped to his knees, like a devout soul who, tired of resisting sin, finally accepts divine punishment in good faith—arms open, body surrendering as he let himself fall into the house. You stood beside him, watching with a mixture of mercy for the poor wretch who was suffering, and with that sharp pain—hating, in a way, to share with him the memory and the collective sense of it all, because his pain was also yours.

Remmick crawled inside. You followed him, on your feet—weak, but standing. You looked one last time outside, toward the distance beyond the cornfield, where, by some divine mercy, those who had hunted you seemed to have gone. Just above, the burning afternoon sun pulsed like a condemning god, seated upon his sky-blue throne, mercilessly casting down his punishments upon you, poor wicked creatures.

You shut the door with a long groan, echoing the moan of the vampire now lying delicately at your feet—a strange sound between a whimper and the whine of a frightened dog. His hands were stretched above his head, face pressed to the floor, writhing from side to side, somewhere between fragile and furious at being forced into such a wretched state.

Through your mind, you could feel him tearing:

‘—These monsters will pay. As soon as the sun sets, I’ll hunt them one by one, haunt them in their homes, show them my wrath and my cruelty. Blood, blood… blood.—’

Your mind was now lapsing into a time far older than you, to a moment when Remmick’s humanity had been broken by the vampire’s curse—when the strangers came and took his land, his name, his faith. His prayers were converted, and all he saw before him were silver crosses and plaster Jesuses while he was taught the Lord’s Prayer. All of it disturbed you deeply. He clung so tightly to his roots that it made you feel everything: the fire of the scorched land, the spilled blood, the faithful ones he later killed one by one, the lands devastated by plague and by gold.

You closed your eyes, trying to impose your memories over his—to interrupt the bond that was bigger than either of you. You tried to think of blooming gardens bathed in sunlight, lazy afternoons of picnics and reading under trees, nights of endless dancing and joy.

Remmick stopped thrashing. His shoulders stilled, and his whimpers faded as he was slowly filled with his own memories, gradually regaining his strength and sobriety. He propped himself up on his arms—once feeble and lethargic, with bones eroded and flesh still scorched by burns—then raised himself and looked at you, a crooked smile forming on his lips:

“You’re always taking care of me, a aingeal.” (ah ang-yal | my angel).

“I was just trying to make you stop with those nightmares disguised as memories. I’m aching all over.” Your voice was somewhat harsh, despite your weakness, as you leaned your body against the wall, between the door and the window, where dust managed to dimly filter the sunlight. You were safe from the condemnation of the light.

Remmick rested his head. A look of sadness, lit by the darkness in his pupils, stirred something in your heart that no longer beat.

“I can’t let go of who I once was… even after all these years, there are pains that scar between our flesh and our soul, binding us to them forever…”

“I know. I know—” you smiled, somewhere between honesty and levity, trying to stay upright, feeling your body pulse and bleed, crying for healing. Remmick was in considerably better shape than you, even in his sorry state—his cotton shirt filthy with mud and dust, torn and bloodied from burned flesh; his pants tattered, shoes worn through, one bruised eye set into cadaverous skin with a polished hunger. He was enduring. The dark gifts made him far stronger than you. “—I’m just not in the best condition to relive those pains with you, not when mine are a little too real right now.”

Remmick nodded, drinking in your words, staring at you with glowing, coppery-red eyes—dim yet luminous—finally seeing your pain. His face twisted with worry and a flicker of anger as he staggered closer:

“Mo ghrá geal” (muh grah gyahl | my bright love), “they really hurt you, didn’t they…”

Then, Remmick recalled the grim scene when one of the townsfolk had found your hiding place—a house just as old and decrepit as the one you now sheltered in. The two of you were lying there together, side by side, entwined like tragic lovers, waiting for death—and maybe that had been part of the attraction, for just a few more seconds in that eternal rest, and you would have had a truly tragic end. Remmick remembered the moment the light from a blocked-out window was smashed through and the burn that followed. He opened his eyes instantly. You were still locked in your unshakable sleep when they grabbed you by the arms. He had fought men wielding torches and harvest tools. Then you saw it through his eyes: your body being pulled away—a blur. And you felt his fear and desolation as he fought off the frantic villagers to try and save you.

Then the man’s voice rang out again, clear and strong, a wounded hand touching your face with surprising gentleness:

“We almost didn’t make it out of there… If it had been closer to sunset, not a single one of those bastards would’ve made it—”

“Remmick.” His name traced your lips and tongue, thorny like the man himself. “They’re not to blame for acting the way they do—just like we, flawed murderous animals, once acted. They too have the right to want to destroy us. Wasn’t it you who taught me that human truth? That’s how we lived before we perished. That’s how we’ll go on existing, as long as we do.”

“Existing.” He clicked his tongue, and a sudden shadow passed through his eyes. For a second, his mind grew too clouded for you to read, to hear—but the visceral rage boiling in his venomous blood, oh, that you felt, bitter as it burned your dry throat. Dryness began to crack your lips. It weakened your warm body even more and made you feel the dark delusions start to crawl through the corners of your mind; that’s what happened when you weren’t fed—no matter how exceptional your self-control was, and even if you could resist without the human liquor for days, when you were in that state of true death, your body nearly collapsed.

Remmick dragged his pitiful, suffering gaze across your face. Around your minds, words in ancient Gaelic spun like ancestral chants—he was thinking about something beyond you.

His hand slid up to your face, grabbing your hair from behind, gripping it as he gently pulled it back, exposing the soft, burned, but still velvety skin of your neck. The cradle of your sacred blood—from where he had once drawn your human warmth into himself and given you, in return, the venom that turned you into him. And even though your heart no longer beat as before, when he first heard it, and your blood wasn’t warm enough to quench his thirst anymore, it was the vampire’s opium.

Remmick always thought of that comparison when he grazed his fangs lightly against your skin before penetrating it to anesthetize himself in your ecstasy:

‘—Your blood was sweet and warm when your heart throbbed between your ribs. But now, with my lymph and the poison of my being, it tastes better—bittersweet, undead. Our blood.—’

It made you moan and whimper.

Your hands pressed against his chest, palms open, trying to push him away from you:

“Remmy, are you sure about this?” you looked at him uncertainly, trying to find in him the assurance for the act.

Remmick didn’t answer you with words—not the kind spoken aloud:

“As weak as we are, there’s no one here, my love. Either we drink from each other, or we die like strays in this godforsaken place. Feed on my blood before you cease to exist…”

It wasn’t a request anymore by the time he was already pulling you closer to expose your neck, pressing his rough lips and sharp teeth against you, piercing the skin like needles.

Remmick held onto this belief that he didn’t need to ask much of you, because as you were one mind, everything he wanted was what you desired too.

Your eyes closed as you felt your flesh torn by his fangs—hard against your skin, like a stiff piece of leather being pierced by a sharp knife—until it reached where the blood, crawling weakly through your body, began to emerge in thick sobs, filling his mouth with your syrupy, bloody liquor. You were consumed by the burning and the sensation of ecstasy the act gave you, your body floating in the hands of the man who groaned with primal pleasure at being nourished by your life source.

Remmick also held the belief that since you carried his seed—that divine-profane gift of eternal life within your blood—through the consummation of acts and the laws of an ancient soul, you were part of a whole that pulsed with life. His life, yours, and those who would come after you both, all connected through that cursed and blood-stained lineage.

You squirmed restlessly in his hands. His claws were already out, tangled in your hair, scratching your waist as he held you as close as possible, bound to his pleading kiss.

Remmick whispered to you in thought:

“Mine, mine, mo mhianta (muh vee-an-tah / my desire), my life, my blood…”

—like a prayer, a rosary he recited bead by bead, his body burning as he inevitably felt his venom enter you. 

“Remmick—” your voice was pure wine of death, your nose the iron scent of flesh, your mind a stupor of souls that preceded you, strange voices you had learned empirically, faintly recalling the vampire Remmick who crushed you between teeth and acid; “—I think that’s enough, my love.”

Remmick let out an exasperated groan that vibrated against your mark, sucked a final portion of blood vigorously, licked the flesh slowly, then rose, revealing his face intact and free of wounds, his chin smeared with your crimson iron honey, eyes shimmering like copper pearls between iron and bloodlust. He smiled at you—there was heavy panting from paused lungs, a fresh breath, an almost spiritual renewal of his being.

“You are so delicious, blood of my blood, that it’s impossible not to want to drain your last blessed drop.”

He laughed—cursed and amused—raising his wrist to his own lips, biting it as if biting a pomegranate that exploded between his teeth, flesh and juice dripping at the corners of his mouth already stained with your blood; he extended his open wrist to you like bread to the dying, an offering to his god, waiting with generous eyes burning in the insane passion of his soul for yours.

His mouth salivated with the yearning to take it for himself, to drink from that wine that intoxicated you once and every time you drank it—in nights of lust where you feasted on the delights of the flesh, it intoxicated you.

There were sparks in your chest that burned from Remmick’s venom in your body, making you remember when he took you for himself, forever; Remmick appeared like a chorus behind you, chasing you through the darkness of forests and ancient buildings, ruins of nights wandering without meaning, inviting you to let him enter you repeatedly, giving him what he wanted, feeding the beast with your youthful joy, the beating heart—that which he had lost centuries ago, perhaps millennia. Life.

And once, proving that his love for blood and pain was greater than all lust or pleasure given to you, he offered you his ultimate love: he penetrated you with teeth and curses, buried memories imposed on you, suffocating you, watching you die before him, rot like a flower once beautiful and vibrant, now dry and hardened. Watching you rise with bright eyes and his bestial thirst, laughing and dancing with him, celebrating your new self. Or was it a piece of him, while you were trapped between so many layers of the one who created you?

And yet there you were, looking at him with veneration and anguish, taking his wrist with your misshapen fingers, claws that extended in excessive knots, placing your mouth against the torn hole that poured that offering of his flesh.

Oh, Remmick had your flavor too.

Sweet death he exhaled, primal sex and poisoned wine.

Feeding you slowly, bringing through that damned mortal sap your salvation.

You felt yourself revive, whining softly against his wrist, looking with complicity as Remmick watched you with the pleasure of pleasures on his face: parted lips, arched brows, eyes sparkling with desire and ardor. You smiled back, returning that passion, a hiss escaping from his mouth, pleasure bending between the memories shared through blood. His mouth detached from the bite’s embrace, a dull snap of flesh pulling away, the vampire’s blood dripping in sticky, thick drops like a whip on the wooden floor, a small pool of that iron blood separating you both.

He tilted his head back, satisfied, with a jubilation of pearl-ruby teeth, saying full of himself:

“Now we’re better!” He laughed between his teeth, while you felt his blood slide through you, healing the stigmata on your skin, slowly and pleasurably renewing you—him crawling between your bones and flesh, burrowing deeper into you as he pierced you with those eyes.

Remmick drew closer, your hands returned to normal, fingers caressing your now-soft skin, leaning down to kiss your lips with the sweetness of his honey staining them crimson, whispering through your mind:

‘—All we need now is rest, and once night falls, we can celebrate this moment together.—’

Eternal promises. As always, typical of him.

You welcomed him with open lips, tongue caressing his, you and he merging—blood and saliva, venom and the growls from the depths of your thirsty throats, your hands tangling into each other, desperate grips of bodies that loved each other through finite eternity.

…

In your dreams — or in that cathartic state of complete darkness of rest — all you had in your mind were the outlines of dreams of humans who had wandered through the eternities beside Remmick. You were a peasant in Irish lands, an English priest with golden teeth, a mathematician in Arabia, a physician from Prussian soil, a single mother prostituting herself in the streets of Whitechapel; everything and everyone. You were a pagan elder turned faithful parish priest. A hopeful young woman turned the vilest of executioners. Everything and everyone — and him.

Him.

Emerging in red, blue, purple, and black, from the shadows, blood dripping from his chin, stealing souls and stories like a devoted collector, a historian digging through pages and pages for what might fill his own gaps. Remmick pulled you by the hand like a savior — or a beast. That blurred in the shadows and forms, as he brought you into the light.

The light of consciousness, of being awake, of knowing night had finally fallen and you could once again wander among humans.

You opened your eyes with a sharp blink, seeing through a timid penumbra lit by a single candle — who knows where the hell Remmick had found it — exhaling, while he gently caressed your face, the tip of his finger tapping lightly against your nose, a serenity on his face that, under the warm golden light, almost seemed human. You smiled, rubbed your eyes, and let out a vocal exhale — a human habit you’d kept not to feel so detached from your nature — wetted your lips, surprised by the nudity of the man sitting at your side on that old bed, hard mattress, rickety frame that had served perfectly for your rest.

At the window, beyond the drawn curtain, a few wooden planks nailed to keep sunlight out were now opened, allowing the pale-silver glow of a Full Moon to shine on you. Between the bluish-gray mingling with the candle’s yellow-red, his slender and muscular body — shaped by the years when he was just a man of the land, using his bare strength — stood naturally before you.

His face, smiling at you tenderly, was damp, drops of water clinging to his nose, ears, and chin. A scent of dried flowers and soap wafted from his pale skin. His voice was soft:

“Come with me, a aingeal,” (ah ang-yal | my angel), “let’s take a bath to wash off this infernal day.”

Laughter spilled from both your mouths — irony mixed with ease — as his hand gently pulled you up, guiding you barefoot across the wooden floor, echoing down a narrow hallway toward what must have been the bathroom. Remmick nodded toward the wooden bathtub. Beside it, atop a chair, several candles were stuck upright with their own melted wax, casting a flickering light beside the moonlight that poured silver through the window.

“I cleaned it a bit before using, fetched some water from the well, and luckily found some flowers and a dried-up bar of soap lying around. Seems like the people who lived here left in a hurry — there’s still canned food and clothes in some closets. Let me help you!”

He placed the candle on the chair and undressed you, slipping off your dress and tossing it aside, smiling at your nudity, placing his hands at your waist as if admiring a statue sculpted by his own hands — a creation of his creation.

“Sit down. I’ll bathe you...” he said in a velvet tone, guiding your body into the cold water, which wrapped around your skin as he began to rub it with water, fragrant flower petals, and diluted soap.

And there you sat, still, watching him care for you — though you knew well what he was thinking.

‘—The hunt, the revenge against those who inflicted pain on us and—’

“Remmy…”

Your hand found his, pulling him from the depths of his thoughts, gripping the hand that tended to you, “...stop, at least for now. Just think of something else.”

“What else could I possibly think about?”

“In other things, I don’t know, think about music, about dance, about me...”

“I don’t need to think about those things because they’re already in me, darling. It’s almost a pleonasm, as that old professor we ate once said, remember?”

“The one we ate? What an absurd thing to say!”

“Sweetheart, seriously?” Remmick tilted his head to the side, a mischievous little smile playing on his lips. He stopped rubbing the dried blood off his neck to look at you with cynicism. “You, of all people, who loves sinking your teeth into those juicy necks that show up for us!? You, blood of my blood, my own creation, poison of my poison who...” he paused, narrowing his eyes, his voice coming out in a thin whisper, “loves sinking those pretty little teeth of yours into the most unusual places!?”

A daring finger touched your lips, slipping between them, lightly scraping your canine with its nail. You stared at him calmly, studying him in that unashamed nakedness, amused by you. Rolling your eyes, you pushed his hand away from your mouth.

“Pathetic. That’s what you are sometimes.”

“I love you too, my darlin’.” He chuckled through his teeth, returning to wiping the bloodstain from his skin, focusing on the act. Even in that silence made of voices loudly spoken, your minds were speaking through images, memories flowing back and forth in a stream of consciousness, undulating like the water that surrounded your body, tracing that eternal conversation you both had. Deep down you knew he wanted to go out hunting, to get drunk on fresh human blood, and then return to this shelter, take you in his arms and possess you in the most animalistic way possible. But on your end, you still felt his venom lingering through your body, the blood that had served as both nourishment and healing still casting a haze over your senses. Ancient blood from someone who had lived so long it carried stigmas. Strong, dense, defiled, concentrated.

Remmick finished scrubbing you, stood up from your side, and left the room, staying outside for a few minutes, leaving you immersed in the water and the moonlight. Thinking. For a moment, your mind seemed to detach from his, floating through the corridors of your own being—you saw yourself among humans, walking barefoot, feeling that burning thirst in your throat, the bile of anger tormenting you even as your melancholy made you ethereal; sucking foreign blood, capturing life stories for yourself. Remmick reached out a hand to you—a claw—with the ghastly smile of all the dead, always whispering to you: “Mo mhianta” (muh vee-an-tah / my desire), in your mother tongue. Remmick… Remmick. The one who created you and now was you too, part of your desires, part of your life, part of your soul. Would you ever be able to break away from that guiding thread? From the one who offered you both death and life? Would you be able to disconnect and be just… you?

Remmick emerged from the darkness of the house, carrying a bundle of clothes in his hands, wearing a pair of soft-fabric pants, his torso still bare. He smiled with those secrets he could hide from you between his lips:

“No, I believe that if one day you no longer belong to me, I’ll probably be dead.”

“Reading my thoughts again?”

The question was practically rhetorical, laced with a certain bitterness you couldn’t hold back. Standing before you, the vampire handed you the clothes.

“I am them. Even when you try to escape through the corners of your thoughts, I’m there.” Remmick smiled, sharp teeth glinting, a suggestion shining in his eyes like a beast ready to kill.

“Come on, love, the night is a child crying to be fed.”

“Smartass,” you hissed through your teeth, rolling your eyes. When you rose from the bathtub, your eyes suddenly caught sight of two figures approaching in the distance. Remmick didn’t even need to be warned—he was already spying from the corner of the window, his thoughts starting to hiss like a rabid wolf growling, thirsty for blood and slaughter. He turned his face toward you, a sharp smile while his eyes tiled the blood of the defeated. His tongue was a blade between needle-sharp teeth:

“We shall have a special feast, my love!”

…

The house was dark.

Its scent was of dust and stagnant wood, dry and moldy. In the background, you could catch the smell of melted wax. No noise. When that couple stepped into the house, shotguns in hand, eyes wide with fear, all they wanted was to play heroes for the little town—hunt the monsters that had been parasitizing the area and receive applause for their brave deeds. Fueled by fear and pride, they wanted to hold in their hands the heads of those two who had earlier been hunted and, for some reason, had disappeared; and there they were, in that shack abandoned for weeks—maybe months—eyeing each other with unease.

The woman said, glancing around the first room, a lantern serving as a flashlight:

“I don’t think it was a good idea to come here at night…”

“Nonsense, woman—we’ll catch those monsters before they go messing around with anyone else,” the man shrugged, walking toward the hallway, the woman right behind him—until she heard a little noise beside her, at the open door.

The man kept walking, oblivious to his wife, heading toward the back of the house, finding a side room with its door ajar—he pushed it open the rest of the way with the barrel of the shotgun, the wooden door creaking slowly, revealing a bed.

And a woman lying on it, back turned. Naked.

A shiver ran down his spine, his breath grew heavy, heart pounding against his ribs, and beyond all that, a wicked voice called him to approach her—that nest of lust and desire. Ignoring his partner, he let curiosity and depravity take over. He lowered his weapon, step by step, now close to the woman’s body, his hand trembling as it reached toward her, while the other held the lantern swaying noisily at his side, its yellow light flickering across the sleeping body.

“Have mercy on me!”

A high-pitched scream came from deeper in the house. The man startled and turned, dropping the lantern to the floor, where it shattered and sparked into flames. He raised his weapon again, spinning around—only to find a man behind him.

Eyes glowing with an inhuman red glint.

A macabre grin stained with blood painted his chin, his neck, his bare chest.

A rustle behind him made his knees weaken with fear; a cold gust of air fed the fire now licking at the wooden floor. He looked over his shoulder and saw you awake—eyes just as luminous as the monster in front of him, thick saliva dripping from your chin.

As he tried to scream, a hand clamped over his mouth—metallic blood flooded his tongue.

A tear welled up in his eye.

The vampire’s voice in front of him rasped out, bestial and raw:

“Shhhh… Shhhh… Don’t cry now. Didn’t your mother teach you it’s wrong to mess with someone else’s woman?”

And he laughed—demonic—gripping the man’s throat, nearly choking him, as you remained behind, salivating for the living blood pulsing through his arteries. Remmick looked at you from the side, tilting his head, his voice undulating between the three of you like a serpent shaking its venom:

“Darling, your wife was delicious! I hope you taste just as good for my wife!”

The man screamed with all the air in his lungs, while Remmick offered him up like an animal for ritual slaughter—offering him to you. And you took him from behind, draining him with the ease of mortality—no pity, no hesitation.

Remmick watched you with affection and admiration, something growing inside him with the euphoric pleasure of a successful hunt. When you finished draining the man, his corpse now at your feet, he held out his hand to you.

You took it, letting him lead you out of that room to the front of the house, where the open door allowed the silvery light to touch your naked body, your face covered in scarlet—just like his. Remmick cupped your face in his hands, looking at you with his soul reflected in your eyes:

“My girl, how do you feel?”

“Perfect. Just a little… overwhelmed. I think it’s the thrill of the hunt.”

“Good—” he murmured, leaning in to capture your lips in a wet, filthy kiss—saliva and blood, soft tongue brushing pearly teeth. When he pulled away, a string of bloody spit still connected your mouths.

“—'Cause now, you’ll let me take care of you, darlin’. The way you deserve.”

You felt him penetrate you through the soul, his hands pulling you close into the kiss of the dead upon your lips, speaking to you through your minds:

‘—Let me take care of you, darling, let me take care of you, let me show you how good I can be for you…—’

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: maybe it deviated a little from the initial concept of the request (idk), but this one was by far one of the fanfics with Remmy that i enjoyed writing the most, it's side-by-side with my fanfic involving priests, religion, Christian guilt, vampirism, remmick and other little things…

[heich0e]

rintarou's sheets are scratchy.

they're new, and haven't yet gone through the wash enough times to properly soften. they haven't been slept on enough times to be fully broken in. you know he bought them because you always used to tease him about his old sheets: faded with some holes in them—a mismatched fitted sheet and top sheet in two different shades of blue, unbefitting of a grown man making grown man money.

so, he got new ones.

these new sheets are green, in the exact shade you like so much—the one you always point out when the two of you are walking in the park near your office on your lunch break. he sent you a picture of the package when he got them home, fishing for praise you refused to give him for doing the bare minimum. they're nice sheets, though. expensive, organic cotton with a high thread count.

but right now, they're scratchy.

and they're irritating you as you lay tangled up in them, the top sheet wrapped around your waist like a belt and twisted around one of your bare legs. you must have been tossing and turning a lot in your sleep, because when you properly rouse from your slumber to take inventory of your surroundings, the first thing you notice is that you're practically knotted into the stiff, new cotton.

you extract yourself from the blankets, stumbling a little towards the door in a fog, and make your way from rintarou's bedroom in the direction of the kitchen.

"oh," rintarou perks up once you appear around the corner, his eyes bright when they spot you. "you're up."

you shuffle around the kitchen counter towards him, your head heavy and pounding, your mouth dry. you feel nauseated, and without thinking, you slump against him with your forehead pressing into the valley between his shoulder blades. you're confused. you're hungover. but he's warm, and smells like laundry detergent. suddenly you feel a little less queasy.

"what's going on?" you grumble into his back. you peel yourself away from him, blinking slowly, and sweep your gaze around the room to get a better sense of things.

suna holds up a frying pan and a whisk. "i'm cooking!"

you blink again. "okay?"

it's not what you meant when you asked him your first question, but rintarou simply smiles. he has an almost puppy-like personality when he gets like this—you can almost picture ears atop his head and a tail wagging happily as he stares down at you.

"how'd i get here last night?"

rintarou freezes, but only for a moment. he quickly turns his back to you again to continue on whatever misguided culinary adventure he'd been attempting before you woke up. "you were pretty drunk."

"my seniors kept egging me on," you complain, rubbing your forehead as the hazy memory surfaces from the night before. it was a company dinner you couldn't get out of, and it had quickly spiralled out of hand. "i don't even remember leaving."

rintarou laughs a little. but he still won't look at you.

"suna."

he doesn't turn, whisking something you can't identify but that you're almost certain should not be whisked in a bowl in front of him on the counter.

"suna." you repeat yourself again.

suddenly, a wave of nausea overtakes you.

no.

no.

you pat yourself down in search of your phone, but the attempt is useless. you're dressed in one of rintarou's t-shirts and boxers, neither of which come equipped with any pockets, and your phone is nowhere to be found. you whip your head around in search of it, but don't spot it anywhere in the immediate vicinity.

"hey—" rintarou finally looks at you when he senses your alarm, and his tone mirrors your own panic. "don't—!"

you swipe his cellphone off the counter in front of him, using the passcode you'd managed to weasel out of him a few months ago to unlock the device and navigate to his call log. you take off running as you tap your way through the various screens on his phone, but he's quickly in pursuit of you—leaving whatever he'd had on the stove to burn like he world's saddest funeral pyre.

"stop, stop!" rintarou is faster than you are, and has longer legs, but even by the time he catches you, you've already found what you're looking for in his call history. he snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you down onto his sofa with him in the living room, and the two of you land in a tangle of limbs against the cushions, your breathing laboured.

"i didn't make this call, did i?" you ask meekly, pointing at a brief call in the late hours of the night prior that sits at the top of his call history. it's from your number, but you're confident you hadn't been the one to dial.

rintarou pouts a little bit, avoiding your eyes. after a moment he shakes his head. you groan, rolling over on the sofa underneath him and hiding your face in your hands.

"i wasn't even there long, i promise," rintarou says, his voice impossibly close because of the way the two of you are sprawled across the sofa. his breath is warm against the column of your throat when he speaks.

you refuse to look at him.

"i didn't even say anything embarassing."

you still don't budge.

"i made sure to thank your coworkers for calling me to come get you and everything."

your hangover has been overtaken by your own mortification, a horrible heat creeping up your face to accompany the taste of bile in your throat. you've been so, so careful not to let your relationship and your career overlap thus far. so cautious about introducing rintarou into parts of your life that would make it even harder to face if or when the time came that he wasn't around anymore.

"are you embarrassed of me?"

his question makes your chest ache. the way he says it twists the knife.

you lift your face from your hands and peek at him over your shoulder. he's so close that your noses almost brush.

"no." you mean it.

the anxiety in rintarou's gaze eases. he presses closer.

"you sure?"

you narrow your eyes at him. "depends. were you wearing that awful yellow track suit?"

rintarou laughs, all breath, and then dips down to kiss you softly. you want to complain that you haven't even brushed your teeth yet, or that you kind of feel like you might be sick, or that whatever he was trying to cook is on the brink of burning down the building. but you don't. you just let him rest on top of you. you let yourself enjoy it.

when he finally pulls away, rintarou has a somewhat sly smile on his face.

"what, rin?" you ask him gently.

"just wondering if now that i've met your coworkers you're going to let me come visit you at lunch, or if you're still gonna make me hide in the park."

"i like the park," you pout.

because the park is green, the colour you like so much. like rintarou's scratchy bedsheets. and his eyes.

"okay, okay," he laughs, pressing his forehead against yours. "i like the park, too."

[narrativeobsession]

"the dogs don't bother me when they eat." Because they're dogs. Baxter knows there's no logical reason as to why, specifically, human eating sounds would bother him and not dog eating sounds, but he's never examined it much under a metaphorical microscope. Maybe because of how unlikely it was for the dogs to be secretly plotting against him.

"oh, except bones. i think it's the scraping? of the teeth." Baxter actually shudders at the thought. "but i can just leave the room if they have bones! that's not a big deal. they're dogs, it's fine."

Even if the scraping was irritating, it wasn't rage inducing.

Baxter approaches the table slowly, each step a careful thing. A bit like a nervous prey animal trying to decide if something is going to strike them down. He sits. Then promptly realizes he doesn't have anything to eat and stands back up to prepare himself a bagel. Once it's in the toaster he pulls out butter and cream cheese, then hovers near the toaster while he waits for it to pop up.

"well, no whistling. i hate whistling. and humming. if you're going to make music make... the music. sing or something, don't just. no whistling or humming. i hate that. i also hope you don't bite your nails because you'll have to break that habit."

"Yes. That is what I want." Will would know either way; people bled emotions until Will drowned in them and it was a constant effort to fortify his barriers to keep them as away and out as possible. While simple deduction could figure out whatever was kicking around in his head, their time together would just be easier if he'd say it.

Easier said than done.

"I can move the dogs bowls if their chewing is going to be too grating on you too." The table should be a place where someone can eat and relax in peace. The dogs wouldn't care much where they ate so much as they were getting food. "If we're going to be sharing a roof it doesn't have to be an uncomfortable one. I'd rather you get pissed off and tell me about it when it hits than sitting on it."

Will conveys all this without looking at Baxter, keeping his eyes focused on the paper for the latest news. Observing was what he did. Even actively trying not to, it couldn't be turned off.

[quarterlifekitty]

Out of the frying pan, into the flames

cw: dark themes, kidnapping, conditioning, implied sex slavery

Lately I’ve been thinking about Price finding you during a covert op. Deep in the interior rooms of a compound once belonging to a man deemed an enemy by whoever is currently signing the 141’s paychecks.

Killing the hawk, only to find the chick in its nest. Something left behind that will die if abandoned.

You’ve been conditioned well, curtesy of the man who laid on the pavement outside with one of Price’s bullets between his eyes. Perfectly well behaved, hadn’t made a single sound even when he’d burst into the room.

There’s a collar on your neck. A loose fitting dress. A small, but cozy enough room, though it has no windows and locks from the outside.

In the records of the man’s office, evidence suggests that you’ve been in the game a long time. Enough to have disappeared as far as anyone who might’ve known you is concerned.

And Price was just thinking— there’s an elegant solution to all of this. He’s a quietly selfish man. He tries to suffocate that painful, roiling tempest inside that tells him he’s owed something. That he’s sacrificed too much for one lifetime and gotten too little in return.

Pawning you off onto some government officials, trying to find a place for you to be awkwardly shoved into society— that wouldn’t be good for you, John tells himself.

It would be better for everyone if he did what he always did. If he took care of things.

He lets you hold his hand while his other delicately rends the microchip from under the skin at the base of your skull with a knife. Removes the chafing nylon collar. He has something much nicer in mind for you.

John’s always thought that if he were home more, he’d have a damned good garden. That’s just how he is— nurturing. Bringing things to their best.

You know how to be good. You know how to be seen and not heard. You know how to suck cock so well it could bring a man to tears. And for lesser men, that might’ve been enough. But to Price, you’re still a block of unchiseled marble. There is a beautiful thing in you, and he will free it.

You haven’t heard a lick of praise in years. Why be praised for what you should be doing? For serving your purpose? You tense in a way that’s— quite frankly— adorable the first time he calls you a good girl. He’ll soften you to it in time.

He tells you how much it hurt to see you the way he found you…. Being wasted. Pearls before swine. No such thing as bad dogs, only bad owners. When you smile, the pit inside him grows. Deeper, hungrier.

He needs to be your sun, moon, and stars. To have a beautiful creature that would wither and die without his touch. A doll needs someone to dress it.

Your new collar is fine, beautiful leather. Embossed with a winding filigree, art noveau motifs. The little metal tag has his name. He likes the bell on it— so he can hear it grow louder so quickly whenever he comes through the door.

Your wide eyes when he comes home with a gift… they kill him every time. How you keen when he starts to fuss over you. How you’re hanging on his every word. How he hears the bell following him as he takes care of every little mundane task around the country home.

In a perverse irony, it calms him when he has to go away. Knowing that if he was killed, if he never came home— your life would end too. You’d be shattered beyond repair. He had fixed you once, and no one would ever be able to go over his work. The threads of your fate had become tangled to his in a way that couldn’t be undone. You shed no tears for the man before him. But there would be no man after him.

You’re damned lucky he happens to be good at his job.

[senjutsunade]

Tsunade’s gaze lingered on the distant past for a moment too long, her mind unwittingly unearthing memories she had buried with surgical precision.

Her team—together, unbroken. The sharp laughter of her comrades still rang clear in her mind, blending with the imagined echoes of clinking cups and the subtle warmth of a stolen moment in the midst of chaos.

They had never bothered to knock; Jiraiya had always insisted they were family, Orochimaru had muttered something dry about social conventions being overrated, and Tsunade…well, she had always followed, secretly enjoying the chaos.

She could almost hear the soft creak of the sliding door as they shuffled in, uninvited as always. Sakumo would look up from his work, that ever-gentle smile on his face, and say, "Ah, Tsunade-hime, Orochimaru, Jiraiya…I was just thinking I made too much food."

What food? There had never been enough. And yet, somehow, it always felt like plenty. Sakumo’s hospitality was such that even the smallest meal felt like a feast.

She could almost smell the warm, rich aroma of miso soup bubbling in a clay pot and the faint, charred scent of yakitori grilling in the corner. There had never been enough food for a crowd, but Sakumo always found a way to make it stretch. Plates of rice were padded with pickled vegetables, a meager serving of sashimi was split into impossibly thin slices, and there was always a shared bottle of sake that seemed bottomless.

In the corner of the room, a small, sullen Kakashi glowered at them each time this happened, his tiny face always pinched in irritation. He’d always hated their unannounced arrivals, seeing them as intrusions into his precious, limited time with his father.

It was such a simple moment, filled with laughter and warmth, stolen from a life otherwise defined by war and loss. The kind of happiness shinobi weren’t meant to have. Perhaps that was why the memory hurt so much now.

It was the laughter she remembered most, the rare and genuine kind that could only exist in stolen moments like these. But perhaps that was why the price of such happiness had always been too steep? Maybe shinobi were undeserving of such happiness?

After all, nothing in a shinobi’s life came without cost. And the debt for those fleeting moments of peace had come due.

Tsunade shuddered, a small motion that barely reached her hands, but her chest tightened painfully. The thought stabbed through her like a kunai—perhaps shinobi weren't meant to have such joy. Her heart pushed the memories back, away, into the deep compartments where they belonged.

The scents, the sounds, the laughter—they felt close enough to touch, and yet they were gone, just as Sakumo was gone, just as that era of their lives had been ripped away. Tsunade pressed a hand to her chest, breathing deeply to force the ache back into its place.

The image of young Kakashi, perched on that chair, glaring at them with all the righteous fury of a boy defending his father’s honor, remained in her mind longer than she expected. How far they had all come—and how much they had lost.

Kakashi was right. She was busy.

Busy. Stay busy. The mantra circled her thoughts, her hands automatically brushing a half-empty bottle aside. Busy was manageable. Busy didn’t hurt. Busy let her forget. For now.

"Aa… later then," she murmured, her tone clipped but not unkind. She tilted her head toward Kakashi, forcing her focus onto the present. "You know the way?"

Her words were casual, but they drew an amused smile to her lips. Of course he does. Memories shifted again, this time tinged with warmth rather than loss. She could picture a much smaller Kakashi trailing after Minato, his head barely reaching her hip, his tiny scowl full of unwarranted disdain for her existence. She used to tease him just to see him puff up with indignation. What a brat.

The memory tugged at the corner of her lips even now, softening them into an amused smirk. How far they had come.

Her gaze shifted upward, meeting his now. She had to tilt her chin to look him in the eye—up to meet his gaze, where once he had barely reached her knees. How in Kami’s name had that scrawny brat grown so tall? Stupid genetics. She almost wanted to demand an explanation from Minato’s ghost, though she imagined the sparkling idiot would just laugh at her.

And yet, as much as time had pulled them forward, it had also dragged them back, leaving cracks in their shared realities. Too many losses had shaped them into strange new versions of themselves, each carving out a space in a world that had taken so much. The memories, the pain—they had created ghosts they carried alongside them, silent specters who whispered reminders of what they’d endured.

Her voice snapped through the haze of reflection like a kunai cutting through the air, sharp and deliberate. "Don’t you fucking dare be late."

@konohagakurekakashi

Continued from here

Kakashi nodded, though whether it was to clear his jumbled thoughts, indicate that he had heard her statement, or show his ascent to an impromptu shopping spree; he could not be sure. Perhaps it was all of the above and then some, the Jōnin suddenly feeling infinitely more impuissant than he did when he first hooked a leg over the sill of her window.

Like most capable shinobi, the Ansatsu compartmentalizarion training kicked in the moment the wistful feelings thought to linger a beat too long. All sentiments were sealed up and stashed in a corner of his mental scape, only to be opened at a time when he wasn't slumped infront of his superior. Maybe never. It wouldn't do to obsess over times long past, long buried- He should really know better.

Less distracted, he managed to drag his gaze away from the pool of sunlight to take in the many stacks of reports, mission scrolls and clan based supplications towering around the Godaime in haphazard mounds. Each stack (all official and all important looking), swaying in tandem with the Kage's movements.

Simply put, there was a lot of paper. The Leaf still dealing with the effects of yet another breach in village security.

"Aa...well...You seem occupied, Tsunade-sama...".

Gray hues altered from a scroll depicting various states of decaying chakra coils to blink at the blonde hunched behind her desk.

"I could always get the ingredients and meet you at the compound...later?"

@senjutsunade

[thepinkpanther83]

The Stray (Part 2)

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

The Stray – Morning After

The sound of Wayne’s boots retreating down the porch steps faded into the hush of early morning. A thin thread of autumn light filtered through the kitchen curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. The smell of coffee lingered, comforting and faintly bitter.

You stood barefoot on the tile, Eddie’s borrowed flannel swallowing your frame. It smelled like him: campfire, motor oil, and something sharp and clean that made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite name.

Eddie was across the kitchen, hunched over the stove with his hair tied back in a low, messy bun. He wore a pair of threadbare sweats and a vintage Metallica tee with a hole near the collar. His concentration was fixed on the frying pan in front of him on the stove.

"Are you actually cooking?" you asked, your voice still rough with sleep but lighter than it had been in days.

He looked up, startled, but pleasantly so. "I cook more than you’d think. Wayne taught me. Told me a man should know how to feed himself in case no one else will."

You gave a soft smile. "Smart man."

"Yeah," Eddie agreed, cracking an egg into the pan one-handed. He smirked at you over his shoulder. "Also thinks I’m a human raccoon who can survive off Pop-Tarts and rage alone, so… the jury’s still out."

You chuckled, and for the first time since yesterday, it wasn’t hollow.

Eddie turned the burner down and moved to pour you a cup of coffee. He held it out without a word. Your fingers brushed his when you took it, and neither of you pulled away for a second too long.

"Thanks," you murmured, curling your hands around the warmth of the mug.

Eddie leaned against the counter beside you, sipping his own coffee. The silence stretched between you, but not awkward, not tense, just soft. Like the whole trailer park was still waking up, and you were sharing the moment in quiet agreement.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asked eventually, his voice low.

You shook your head slowly. "Not yet."

"Okay." He didn’t press. Just nodded like that was good enough. Like you were good enough, just as you were.

After a few sips of coffee, you nudged him gently with your elbow. "You didn’t have to let me stay, y’know."

"Didn’t even think about it," he said honestly. "Saw you there, lookin’ like the whole damn world sat on your chest. Couldn’t just walk away."

You looked down at your mug, cheeks warm. “Well… thanks for being a soft place to land.”

Eddie smiled then, soft and a little crooked. “Guess we’re both strays, huh?”

"Wayne’s gonna need a bigger house," you teased.

That made Eddie laugh, like really laugh, and the sound of it made something shift in your chest. Something old and scared, that hadn’t believed anyone would care enough to make you breakfast or let you cry on their couch.

Eddie noticed the shift too, the quiet glimmer of something in your eyes. He ducked his head, bashful all of a sudden. "Weird thing for me to say, but... I’m kinda glad you’re here."

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. "Even if I eat all your cereal and hog your blankets?"

He grinned. "Especially then. It means you're staying long enough to get comfortable."

Your heart stuttered at that. Not because it was a declaration, but because it wasn’t. It was something quieter. Kinder. The way someone looks at a scared animal and holds out a hand, palm up.

And for the first time in a long while, you thought maybe you could reach back.

Don't know who to tag, who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be tagged (or untagged!)

@justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm

[initialsaint]

Hear me out: Duncan's got more homemaker skills than Courtney.

Courtney's parents were always focused on her academic life and career. They got her private tutoring any time she slipped, had her in all advanced classes, and they made sure she never did an extracurricular she couldn't put on a resumé. But they never taught her any regular life skills.

It's not like she's clueless, though. A lot of stuff is common sense. She's too much of a neat freak to have a messy dorm or apartment, and she can do her own laundry, but she can't cook. She ruined her new frying pan the day she bought it trying to make eggs. She doesn't know what to do when her bookshelf collapses the first week of college, and resorts to stacking her books next to her desk. She burns a hole in one of her most professional looking blouses with the iron when she doesn't realise fabric can melt.

So when her favourite jumper begins to unravel, the pale purple one with tiny flowers on the cuffs, she very nearly cries about it. It's just a jumper, but Courtney is nothing if not particular. She knows there's no replacing it.

When she mentions it to Duncan, frustrated and not thinking much of it, he raises an eyebrow and asks why she doesn't fix it, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. The thought hadn't even crossed her mind.

"How would you even begin to fix it? There must be half a foot of wool coming off already, and the hole's in this super awkward place by the elbow."

"So you didn't try?"

Courtney goes a little red in the face at that.

She doesn't expect Duncan to come over the next day with a banged up biscuit tin and ask to take a look at the jumper himself. He inspects the damage, careful not to tug at any of the loose loops of knitting, and looks up at Courtney.

"This is the "huge hole", you mentioned?"

She might have exaggerated a little, but she's emotional about this, damn it. Duncan sighs, and grabs the biscuit tin. He cracks it open to reveal a sewing kit, packed full of loose fabric and needles and threads of every colour.

"This won't take long. Put the coffee pot on."

Courtney bites her tongue about manners and does as she's told, pouring them each a cup while she watches Duncan work.

It shouldn't surprise her that he has this stuff. Most of his clothes look D.I.Y'd somehow, with little tears and patches tacked on. But the scene before her is just so uncharacteristically domestic. He tries mending the hole normally at first, but the yarn keeps fraying when he tries, and he huffs before rummaging through the sewing kit.

When Courtney sets his cup down in front of him, Duncan is sewing what looks like a loose scrap of fabric over the hole.

"I had some blank patches left over and this thing is being a bitch, so it'll have to do."

After some time, he hands the jumper over for Courtney to see. There's an oblong white patch neatly stitched onto the left sleeve, covering the hole, and the elbow entirely. If she didn't know better (and if the other sleeve wasn't blank) Courtney would almost think that the jumper came that way- the evenness of the stitches is shocking.

Courtney blinks. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"My mom. I used to fuck up everything I wore within a week, and she always fixed it. She showed me how to do it myself when I was ten." Duncan takes a sip of his coffee. "You're welcome, by the way."

Courtney rubs the back of her neck sheepishly. "Right, thank you. Really."

"You really didn't think to do it yourself?" Courtney opens her mouth, and it's like Duncan can sense the indignant response before she gets a word out. "I'm not judging, I just figured little miss C.I.T would know how to do this stuff."

She huffs. "Not all of us were burning holes in our shirts before 8th grade."

"It was barbed wire, thank you very much. And it's still a good skill to have."

"My parents were just focused on teaching me other things, and it's not like I ever needed to know before now."

"Uh-huh." Duncan looks at her, thinking.

"I could always teach you anyway?"

"You'd teach me to sew?"

Duncan looks down at his cup. "Well, not just that, but yeah. I just don't wanna be the one to fix all your shit."

Courtney crosses her arms. "It was one hole in one jumper, Duncan."

"And the bookshelf?"

She flushes. "I just haven't got around to it!"

"Sure you haven't."

Courtney thinks, rubbing the soft wool of her jumper between her fingers. She gets a small hole in one jumper, and suddenly it's like she's hyperaware of how little she knows. Sure, not everyone can sew, but it's not just that. She doesn't want to admit to Duncan how many times she's eaten out this semester after burning her dinner, or how many times she's called Bridgette in a panic over her dishwasher making weird noises.

"...I guess it couldn't hurt. To get a second opinion."

Duncan smiles. "Whatever you say, Princess."

[thcdoomed]

What fragile things some strong people are. An exterior of stone, but the insides crack and crumble, falling to shambles while anyone looking on is none the wiser. A facade, a lie. Be it by omission or not, the put-together leader she presented was a lie all-along. Beneath everything was a scared girl who was left alone in a world that would eat even the strongest men alive. Left to brave the world's coldness with little but a prayer and vengeance eating away at her heart. Maybe a lesser person would have given up by now, maybe she should have. But just beyond the warmth of the bath before her and the kindly purple-clad wizard who kept her company in this dark hour were the friends she had come to make. Friends who, in many ways, were family. Were all she had. Patches in the deep cracks inside her.

But grief will always eat at her, it is something only time will heal, and time is not something that is on their side these days.

She's grateful, though, for all of them. For their support and their belief in her, even if they had no idea that her heart bled and wept and seized in her chest when she laid her head to rest when there was nothing else to distract her from her thoughts. She's grateful for Gale's exceptional kindness right now, when he had every right to spurn her for nearly attacking him.

She laughs, but there is no joy in it, it's too quick, too curt for that. "Demasc took that from me too. I no longer breathe unless I force it. It's proven incredibly beneficial in my archery, and little else." Her eyes squeeze shut, trying not to think about how inhuman she feels. But he's right, she gets in, feeling the warmth of the water lap at soiled skin. It's almost a shock at first, but she quickly adjusts. "When life stops throwing everything on us at once, I'll rest."

Her mind is still reeling though, visions of death and loss still dancing in her head. They were more vivid than usual and she feels herself sinking in the water to push them out. Even now, even with the truth out there, she works to force the grieving back. She can't allow herself to drown in the emotions and she can't drown in this water, but she can submerge herself so thoroughly that she doesn't want nor need to come back up for air right away. Perhaps it is the guilt of surviving clawing at her insides. The thought that she should have died with the rest of them. Why her? Why did she live with this burden? But she's still here, and no matter the hurt, she doesn't want to die. She wants to survive.

She wants to gut the bastard that did this.

Hearing the soft muffle of his voice from above the water, she pulls her head back up, blood rinsing from her flesh as she reemerged. "I was the fortunate one. He pulled me out of my shell. I would have been content to be a forest hermit, only socializing when I guided people through the woods and mountain pass. Love was the furthest thing from my mind. But he hired me to lead his group of adventurers to safety in the Spiderhaunt, and there was something about him, his charm, his smile," she pauses, her voice caught between grief and fondness, "his stupid, stupid jokes. You all would have loved him. A scoundrel with a good heart." It was something he would say of himself. Claiming to be a troublemaker when he always chose to do good deeds.

If she's not careful, she'll break down right here in this bath of delightful scented oils.

"I don't think he knows I survived. That's the worst part, I was a means to get to Caius. He thought he had killed me in front of him. I was nothing to him. But he won't find me, I will find him, and I will raise my own army against him and I will take from him everything he took from me and then some." There is a dark determination in her voice, a tone that sounds so foreign on her kind tongue. "An ally waits for me in the city to help. Once we defeat the Absolute, I will seek my revenge. Demasc Volkar will die by my hand." Or the quest for revenge would destroy her in the process. Regardless, she had to try. If only she knew that Alden, someone she thought was a friend, had sold their location out to the master vampire. "I couldn't ask you to help when that time comes, we've all been through so much as is, but if you wished to help, I wouldn't turn you down." Gale is a powerful ally to have and an even more powerful friend.

"Lavender is one of my favorites, actually. And rose. They are simple scents but they remind me of home. Of my mother, actually. She grew lavender in the yard, it made the whole house smell pleasant." She laughs again, this time genuinely. "You can turn around Gale, I'm in the bath, no worries."

Gale knows it intimately, the appeal in losing yourself in endless work. He's leafed some novels and tomes, has given fierce chase to words and theories, and as the night lumbered on in its lonesome hours, had burnt through both oil and candlewax. In his tower, he'd become the sole, grave portrait of a ravenous obsession. It had balmed him meagerly, anchoring his mental in the comfort of books, but imagine if he hadn't. Imagine if he'd thought. Imagine had he sat there in the shadows and the dark, his folly in his bones and his guilt on his conscience, every memory hollering. And every doubt in him loud. Madness, he'd wager. A treacherous insanity. Their party's now gathered by a half-cobbled hearth, and he'd have shattered apart like that window to a chapel. Temple glass, he humors. Or cathedral panes. 

Madness, they were spared.

But grief, they were not.

And as Gale gathers his belongings back into his bag, at least his, he knows, he wasn't made to ignore.

"Then by some stroke of luck, you'll be happy to know you're only expected to breathe. We can work up to laurel resting on another foul evening. For now, it would hardly kill you to do away with the semantics. That said, enough with the stalling," he urges. "And get on in."

Even here, the steam off the water clings along his neck. Gale works, hearing the rustling of clothes and the tell-tale ripple of her scalding dip. He clatters on about, back pointedly turned as all manner perfumes start waltzing in the air. However, even as he bumbles, vials click-clacking and stoppers popped in, it's yet the aching of her voice that lingers in his mind...and darkly, somberly, her still-veiled past.

Truthfully, he'd be one hell of a liar to even try at disinterest. Call it the scholar in him, but he boasts an unstoppable, unstemmable, and restless curiosity. Yet, far more than that by both seas and oceans is his unwithering fondness for this tight-lipped soul. It was not at all foreseen, this boldening camaraderie in a new-found friend. But, well, Gale himself is a lover, a man with both warmth and an unstoppable heart, and to hear her story would let him act as her pillar -- her bastion in the fury and tumultuous rain. He can see them still, the flash-crack-bang of that horrendous night. Gods, he had felt like her. There was viscera in his gums. But worse than that, he discerns, were the feelings that surfaced as the adrenaline waned. Hells, that heart-wrenching ache and that filleting regret...

The face of her sire. He recalls that, too.

Nightmarish, Gale thinks. Too haunting and soulless. He startles, tying up his pouch as Dronia's voice stirs like the canopies high up above. Blinking, he hadn't even realized he had held his breath. Oh. "I see," he begins, timbre so unbearably soft. "For what it's worth, I could hardly name a man more fortunate to have held your affections. Even with a thousand years, there'd have never been enough time to enjoy it by your side. Every second spent would have been another second desired." ...still, Gale well knows, he should have had more of it. More and more by several decades! Decades aplenty and tens of springs. Breathing, Gale gathers his words, lingering by the bramble where the rest of their companions are chattering in view. He knows his loves, had kissed and yearned and lost as she had. They'd hardly the same story, her grief a misfortune where he'd been a fool, but to know so keenly that your lover's escaped you... A wedding, she'd said. They could have been wed. Gale frowns, that spawn's red eyes again stark in his memory. He thinks of rubies, garnets, and disastrous greed "Well, you're not exactly a charity as far as I'm concerned. He won't take from you again, and I won't stand here and allow you to suffer a thief. For as much as you've lost, I'd hope you know you aren't fumbling alone. Should he ever find you again, we'll make painfully clear." It's a daunting prospect, surely, to risk the life of her companions to Alden again--but then, what of it, he'd ask? He's not a man to just bolt. They've all their journeys, every one of them dangerous, and for better or for worse, she's Gale to the most disastrous of ends. Huffing, Gale summons a mage hand and nudges forward.

"It is lavender," he tuts, the spectral thing holding his pouch for her. "Though should you have a hankering for something else, feel free to peruse. Admittedly, I'm finding myself tempted to get in there myself. Waste anymore time, and I'll beat you to it. Otherwise, I'm sure shoving you in with thunderwave would do you wonders."

[drabblesandimagines]

Omg happy early birthday!! 🎈🎂 I hope your birthday week is phenomenal and you are able to spend it with all your loved ones! ❤️🩵🩷 Thank you for providing such wonderful writing with such good portrayals of many characters. You are without a doubt one of my favorite writers 🫶🏻💫

As for the ask, I'm thinking about a laid back breakfast in bed with Leon. Up to you though.

Again happy early birthday 🥳🎉

Thank you so much, sweet anon! And, eee, that's so sweet of you! I'm truly honoured that anyone my stuff, but to read that I'm one of your favourite writers is so mind-blowing!

Hope you enjoy x

Breakfast In Bed Leon Kennedy x female reader, fluff

You wake up, alone, to an annoying, repetitive and shrill beep, but it’s not your alarm clock…

You sit bolt upright with in realisation.

It's the smoke alarm.

You wrestle the covers that have become entwined between your legs as you slept and stumble out of bed in a panic, nearly face-planting into the door. You throw the door open to a whiff of acrid smoke, and hear Leon curse from the kitchen in between the beeps.

By the time you get to the kitchen, you find your boyfriend frantically whipping a tea towel back and forth at the smoke alarm, the windows now thrown wide open, and a smoldering frying pan of something in the sink.

The beeping finally ceases and Leon gives it one last whack of the tea towel as he sighs in relief. He runs a hand through his hair, places the other on his hip and turns - his eyes widen when he sees you stood there. You tilt your head inquisitively.

“What…!”

Before you can finish your question, Leon has stepped forward and thrown you over his shoulder. “Uh-uh, nope. The birthday girl gets breakfast in bed.”

“Leon!” You protest, unable to hold back a giggle as he strides back towards the bedroom and carefully drops you onto the mattress in a practiced motion.

“Mm-mm, it’s tradition.”  

“Is it tradition to burn down the apartment too?”

He rolls his eyes as he leans over you, caging you between his forearms. “Dunno what you’re talking about, sweetheart. Smoke alarm was due its monthly check.”

“Interesting timing.”

“Well, what greater gift on your birthday than to be safe in the knowledge that all the alarms are in working order? Now…” he tugs the blanket back up over your torso, unable to resist pressing a kiss to your lips – soft and slow, perfect for that time of the morning. Just as you were about to raise your hand to thread your fingers through his hair, he pulled back with a smirk.

“Now, I just need a little time to finish breakfast off, so if you could please just stay tucked up until I can bring you it in bed?”

You nod – you’d never been able to refuse him when he kissed you just so and especially then combined with those puppy dog blue-eyes.

“Good.” He smiles, giving you a kiss to the forehead before he retreats.

You dutifully wait in bed, scrolling through your phone, ignoring the fact that no further noise comes from the kitchen, but the apartment door definitely opens and closes 20 minutes later…

It isn’t much longer after that when Leon steps into the bedroom, a tray in hand. He places it carefully on your lap - a stack of chocolate chip pancakes, a glass of orange juice and a mug of coffee.

“Leon, this is so sweet." You beam, picking up a fork, ready to dig in.

They look suspiciously like your favourite order from the cafe down the street.

He has a sheepish smile on his face as he climbs into bed besides you, kissing your temple.

“Happy birthday, baby.”

--

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

*Photo credit.

[crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf]

Thank @feral-ferrule for reminding me of this little aside. Now ya'll gotta deal with it.

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Dosing the Batch Boys: (Glitterstim)

In Disgrace (ch3) Crosshair and Tah'nyem are dosed with Glitterstim, a psychoactive variant of spice made by the spiders that live in the caves of Kessel. It lets you read minds...This results in their minds slamming together in new an confusing ways, which is fun for their chapter but it even occurs to them that it might be even funner in bed, let's explore that a little.

Though glitterstim is canon it's underutilized and definitely not utilized the way that I do, so this is very HC based. We're also going to assume that the drug doesn't affect the health of the boys in anyway. (Echo, sweetie I worry about you other wise.)

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Hunter-

I think what would get Hunter off the most about being in your brain is the complete confirmation that all of your praise is genuine. All the boys might be surprised at just how attracted clonethirst girlies are to them but Hunter is particularly susceptible to the flattery of it. Ego boosted, the next aspect he would utilize is the direct feedback for how pleasurable his actions were. You'd probably not get to actively participate as much because he would get wrapped up in feeling what heights he could drive you to.

Wrecker-*let me in meme goes here*

What is going on in there? I can only imagine Wrecker's brain being a kind of messy place, sparks flying back and forth, complex equations drawn in crayon... What would be hot about it is just how overwhelmed with his emotions you would get. With practice he might be able to hold back but without it your brain is getting flooded. Joy, exuberance, and of course the sexual pleasure on a feedback loop. Actually, don't do this with Wrecker, you two are gonna fry.

Echo-

You'd have to ease Echo into this, he'd feel a little self conscious that you might feel any discomfort his implants and prosthetics might cause him, and you would, but having that open map would guide you to new ways to comfort him and make him feel good. He'd also find himself enjoying a type of relief basking in your mind. Like Hunter, he'd be enamored with feeling what he does to you and would try to heighten your experience more than focusing on himself.

Crosshair-

Cross isn't a selfish lover, but unlike Hunter and Echo he's very of the mindset that pleasure is a two way street. He'd more than likely take advantage of the connection by doing things that are mutually beneficial and might yield crazy results via feedback a la 69ing. More closed off and focused, Crosshair would have more control over holding your mind on task, easily keeping you away from parts of him he wouldn't want you to see.

Tech-

Where do I start?

Absolute dog shit at staying on task, once you let this little gremlin loose in your brain he'll start to rip you apart like an engine. Good luck keeping him out of your deepest darkest secrets, your half forgotten ruminations, dreams, and whatever other threads he gets his hands on. Not like it'd be much better, but you can also step into the whirring whirlwind resting in his brain pan. A single calculated thought releases so much mental energy you're floored immediately. There's not even sex yet, and since you'd be a helpless kitten of an rc car hooked up to the power of a jet engine you might as well let him run wild kriffing you within full efficiency.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Not that it moves the plot much besides being way too comfortable with each other too quickly, there are lasting effects of the Glitterstim on CrossXTahny.

She never gets a clean slate with the rest of the Batch Boys since she was exposed quite strongly to Crosshair's opinions of them. His opinions of them directly after Kamino. Yeah.

Also more of a fun fact, in case of alternative dimension shenanigans, Tahny would always be able to pick her Crosshair out of a line up. Even if it's between other Crosshair's that had Glitterstim experiences with other Tah'nyems.

Kids got little tan lines in the shape of each other burned into their brains.

[spid3r-trans]

so I have an au idea:

punkflower tangled au

a/n: had to work out some details w this one sorry it took longer! i really couldn’t get my head wrapped around like a fantasy setting for this so it’s kind of different. i hope it’s ok!

~

Miles is different from the others. He knows that. He’s an anomaly— that’s what he’s been told for as long as he can remember. He knows that he has to stay here, in this place, because if he doesn’t the entire thread of the universe could start to unravel.

People would die. So he stays put.

Hobie is different from the others. He’s more stubborn, more curious, and far less likely to follow orders. So when he hears a rumor about a boy in a tower, well, it’s only second nature to want to find out the truth for himself.

The gravity-defying, sleek structure that sits in the center of Nueva York is a mystery to most onlookers. Rumors of twisting elevators, endless hallways, and secret rooms pass in hushed whispers between lips — and Hobie knows they’re all true.

He’s sneaking through those very halls now, sticking to the shadows, keeping his head down. Being here is supposed to be a privilege, an honor, a tribute to his abilities. It’s all bullshit. He just needs to prove it.

In the outside world, talks about what they really do at the facility are common. Speculations, accusations, doubts — Hobie often spearheads such conversations himself. There’s something undeniably suspicious about conducting and preserving the events of the entire multiverse based on the theories of one man.

Hobie was never meant to overhear the high-spirited A.I. talking to the leader of the operation. He was never meant to hack into the security archives and pinpoint the exact location they spoke of— and he most certainly was never supposed to make his way there. Still, the heavy echo of his boots reverberates as he makes his way down the empty hall.

Deep within the confines of the building that houses the society, Hobie comes to a vast, empty room. Automatic lights click on when he enters, making him squint at the sight before him. A strange metallic structure juts abruptly from the floor, rising high into the air and doming at the top.

It’s a tower.

Of all the outlandish rumors he heard, Hobie had hoped this one was a myth.

—

Fuck. His head hurts. Hobie slowly regains consciousness, starting to move his hand to feel what must be a massive lump forming on his forehead — only to realize that he can’t. He’s tied to a chair and his web-shooters are gone.

Panic doesn’t have a chance to set in before his spider sense — which has decided to work now — goes off, and a figure emerges from the shadows.

A boy, apprehensive and wielding a frying pan glowers at Hobie from across the room.

“Who are you?” He asks, “And how did you find me?”

—

Miles needed convincing. It’s not easy to leave a place when you’re told the entire multiverse could collapse and it would be your fault— but Miles wants to go.

Hobie is convincing. He tells Miles in his silly accent about what’s really out there. About the experiences Miles can still have— he wants Miles to come with him.

Sneaking out of the facility is no easy task. Hobie almost wonders if it was worth it, if he did the right thing — but when they stumble into one of the few spots left in Nueva York where nature thrives, Miles smiles.

And in that brief moment, Hobie knows.

Send an army, let the entire multiverse collapse — he’ll be by Miles’ side.

[losojos-decupido]

fogado is known to be a planner, but not even he could expect the weather that attacks the seas this day.

he is a navigator-for-hire, making his coin by serving others. there are many in this world that can follow a map, but fogado is an adventurer; he has sailed these seas himself and knows them fondly, so it is he who claims the most buyers. he's a man in demand! it only makes sense.

this journey was meant to be simple. a merchant ship, small but sturdy, required his direction, and fogado was all too happy to help once the coins were in his hand. however, as the journey progressed, angrier and angrier clouds began following their movements. fogado pushed, fogado pulled---but no matter where the ship steered, the clouds were fast behind them.

eventually the rain and wind started, and violently they did; the sails blew holes and ripped, and the roiling waves smashed at the cargo with gluttony. there was nowhere to escape but the sea, where some merchants dove recklessly. they did not come back. fogado tried everything---his arms ached from how he pulled the sails, his shoulders screamed from how he wrest the wheel's control from the ocean below.

and yet, it still was not enough.

he comes to, later, when the seas are calmer and he has barely a leg to stand on. the ship has been shredded and he lies on its remains---some planks of wood, a shard of cloth, and some soggy rations in a small box.

...and there's a woman.

the woman is odd. how is there a woman here? this is the only shipwreck for miles that he can see, and there had only been men on his boat. she looks at him with curiosity, which makes fogado curious in turn. had she seen the wreckage? what brings her to him?

" hmm, " fogado hums in response to this woman, keenly aware of how she now runs her fingers up his arm. " but can you say i'm alone right now? when i've got such pretty company? "

the storm has left him dazed, but fogado did not become a great navigator by allowing confusion to cloud his mind. he knows something is not right about this situation, but he suppresses any looks that might give up the chase. " you're a beautiful woman, if that's okay to say, but... how'd you get all the way out here? you're not a hallucination, are you? "

♫ 𝄈 come swim, come sing, come be.

( siren au )

[godandmonsters1996]

“Death makes breakfast?” Agatha called out, a teasing lilt in her voice as she pushed herself up on her elbows, a playful grin spreading across her face. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Rio turned, a smudge of flour adorning her cheek, and the faintest hint of embarrassment flickered in her eyes, a spark of warmth that was both unexpected and endearing. “Shut up,” she retorted, her tone half-heartedly defensive, but the corners of her lips twitched as she tried to suppress a smile. “It’s not as easy as it looks.”

Agatha chuckled, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and relishing the soft, warm embrace of the sheets against her skin. “I can see that. You’ve managed to create a culinary battlefield,” she remarked, gesturing to the evidence of Rio’s struggle—the overturned bowls and scattered ingredients that painted a whimsical portrait of the morning’s endeavors.

“I’m trying to make something special,” Rio replied, a hint of pride threading through her voice, even as she surveyed the mess. “You deserve it.”

As Agatha got to her feet, the soft thud of her bare feet against the cool floor sent a shiver of delight through her. She approached Rio, who was attempting to whisk a mixture in a bowl while glancing furtively at the frying pan, where eggs sizzled dangerously close to the edge. With a mock-seriousness, Agatha stepped closer, her hands resting on the counter as she leaned in.

“Are those supposed to be scrambled eggs or a new form of abstract art?” Agatha teased, her eyes dancing with mirth. “Because I can’t tell.”

Rio shot her a playful glare, a feigned irritation that only added to the charm of the moment. “Very funny,” she retorted, but the slight flush on her cheeks betrayed her amusement. “You try making breakfast while managing the energies of life and death!”

“Maybe just let me handle the eggs next time,” Agatha suggested, laughing as she reached out to gently redirect Rio’s attention, moving the pan away from the edge before it could spill over completely. “Let’s not ruin breakfast before it even starts.”

Rio smirked, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she caught Agatha’s gaze, the warmth between them crackling with an energy that felt electric, as if the very air thrummed with the magic of their connection. “You think you can do better?”

“Absolutely,” Agatha challenged, the playful banter lifting her spirit. “Just let me work my magic.” She stretched her hand out, feeling the pulse of her magic gather at the tips of her fingers, eager to be unleashed.

“No,” Rio interjected, her fingers curling around Agatha’s wrist, the gentle pressure grounding yet exhilarating. “No magic breakfast. I want to see you sweat for it.”

Yes this fic has some fluff.. But don't be fooled its mostly smut -

[hummingbird24220]

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Three: Of Drinks, Ghosts, and Old Warnings

The tavern was tucked near the edge of the island’s cliffside—weathered wood, sea-stained windows, and the smell of salt and spiced rum hanging thick in the air. You were seated near the back, legs kicked up on an empty chair, laughter still bubbling in your chest as your old mentor—known to most as Gorio, known to you as “Old Man” or “Captain Cranky”—regaled the crew with embellished tales of your past.

“…And then she headbutted the guy. Not punched—headbutted—because she’d broken both hands already.”

“That was one time!” you huffed, face warm with wine and embarrassment.

Zoro sipped his drink, smirking. “Explains a lot.”

Sanji leaned closer, eyes practically shining. “So she’s always been like this.”

Gorio grunted. “Loud. Stubborn. Built like a damn warship. Yep.”

Chopper was sitting cross-legged on a stool, wide-eyed. “You trained them all by yourself?!”

Gorio raised a brow. “They trained themselves, mostly. I just hit ‘em with a stick every time they got cocky.”

Robin chuckled, clearly enjoying the dynamic. Usopp leaned forward, eating it up. Nami sipped from her cup, relaxed—until Gorio side-eyed your glowing arm.

You didn’t notice it at first—how his posture subtly changed, how his fingers stopped drumming the side of his tankard.

But Zoro noticed. Sanji, too.

“…You’ve got something on your arm,” Gorio said, voice lower now. Not curious. Wary.

You stiffened slightly.

“It’s… a mark,” you admitted. “Magic. From some sort of trial. Three of them. Two down. One to go.”

You watched the reaction ripple over his face—grit, caution, and something rare from him: fear.

He reached across the table, grabbing your wrist with a strength that hadn’t dulled with age. The golden markings lit faintly at his touch, responding with a soft hum.

“Shit,” he muttered. “It’s real.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” you whispered.

He let go like the light burned him, then rubbed a hand down his face.

“I’ve seen this before. Not the exact shape—but something damn close. Years ago. Grand Line’s heart. A cursed temple. Killed half a crew before the trial even started.”

The crew fell silent.

“You don’t go looking for this kind of power, kid,” he said, quieter now. “You survive it, if you’re lucky.”

Sanji’s hand closed over yours under the table.

Zoro leaned forward, voice calm but sharp. “What was the third trial?”

Gorio looked him in the eye. “I don’t know. No one ever made it that far.”

Your breath caught. The table felt colder suddenly.

“But—” Gorio looked at you, eyes hard but honest, “—if anyone’s gonna get through it, it’s probably the idiot who picked a fight with a Sea King with a frying pan and won.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh.

Sanji squeezed your hand. Zoro rested a firm palm on your back.

Robin’s eyes lingered on your arm, her mind already spinning. Nami looked rattled but covered it with another sip of wine. Luffy? Luffy grinned wide. “You’re gonna beat it. Easy.”

You smiled at them all, heart full and nervous and braced.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll beat it. We’ll beat it.”

—------------

The walk back to the Sunny with Gorio was surprisingly quiet.

He didn’t talk much—not like earlier in the tavern. He just walked beside you, steps slow but solid, his presence steady like a stone worn down by the sea. You both listened to the waves, the breeze, the distant call of gulls overhead.

Just before the ship came into view, he stopped.

Reached into the inside pocket of his tattered coat, and pulled out a small, worn charm—carved wood strung with old thread, frayed at the edges, but clearly well cared for.

He pressed it into your palm.

“No magic,” he grunted. “But it’s kept me alive this long.”

You stared at it—at the crude carving of what looked like a curling wave and flame entwined.

“You carried this?” you asked, softer than you meant to.

“Everywhere.” He met your gaze. “So now you will.”

You blinked hard, trying not to get misty. “Old man…”

“Don’t you start crying on me now. I just got used to your face not being ugly.”

You choked out a laugh, clutching the charm tightly. “You’re terrible at goodbyes.”

He smirked. “That wasn’t goodbye.”

It should’ve ended there.

But Luffy, standing proudly at the Sunny’s railing like a goblin prince, spotted you both and shouted, “HEY OLD GUY!! COME ONBOARD!! TELL US MORE ABOUT (Y/N)!!”

You froze.

“No.”

Gorio grinned, already climbing the ramp. “Don’t mind if I do.”

“Luffy, I swear—”

“STORY TIME!” Luffy shouted. “EVERYONE TO THE DECK!”

You were dragged by your own boyfriend(s), Nami handed you a drink like she was prepared for this, and Robin pulled out a notebook.

Sanji looked like he was in for the best show of his life. Zoro had never looked more smug.

Gorio stood like a battle-worn bard, arms crossed, eye gleaming.

“All right. So. You want embarrassing stories?”

“YES!!” Luffy yelled.

“Absolutely,” Nami said.

“I’m begging you not to,” you groaned, sinking into your seat.

“Too late.” Gorio cracked his knuckles.

The stories came fast and loud.

The time you tried to fight a bear for its fish. (“She lost.”)

The time you mistook a wanted poster for a fan letter and responded to it. (“They actually sent a reply. Declined the date.”)

The time you swore a vow of silence to “train your focus” and lasted two whole hours before stubbing your toe and screaming bloody murder. (“We had a whole betting pool. I won.”)

You buried your face in your hands. “This is worse than the second trial.”

Sanji leaned down with a chuckle. “Oh no, this is much more fun.”

Zoro snorted. “Didn’t know you used to be this dumb.”

You glared at him. “Used to be?”

Eventually, Gorio stood, clapped a hand to your shoulder, and said, “You turned out all right, kid.”

You looked up, surprised.

“You're reckless. Loud. Too soft in the heart and too hard in the head.” He paused. “But you’re the strongest person I’ve ever trained. Don’t waste it.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “I won’t.”

He stepped back onto the dock without fanfare.

“Make it through the next one,” he said gruffly, looking at the Sunny. “Or I’ll find you in the afterlife and kick your ass.”

And then he was gone.