#trying to put my thoughts into words be like

[bluewxrld07]

Soap (2)

Lando Norris X F!Reader

Summary: Y/N has always loved hard and shows that through affection. Especially lately. She's a touch-starved kind of lovergirl, and Lando has always been okay with it. At least she thought so.

Guess I better wash my mouth out with soap

Warning(s): angst, possessiveness, physical altercations

A/N: Tag list is completely full!! You guys are amazing wtf😭🩵 The keyboard got away from me, guys. Good luck getting through this🤧. Oops hehe. There's a poll at the bottom, so feel free to vote after reading. See u soon, friends

The world was quiet.

It was calm, especially after all the noise from the race weekend.

Y/N was tired. She couldn't keep her eyes open, her mental state just shutting down the more she stayed awake.

It felt as if she was feeling everything at once, and that brought her to the point of numbness. Feeling nothing at all. Just complete tiredness.

Max looked back from the front seat, seeing her state, fighting the exhaustion from all the crying and debriefs they had stuck around for. He could see her mind shutting down, her eyes lazily following the objects that they passed by.

She had told him she would come out with them, despite the way her eyes were puffy as she assured him.

At this point, he would put a chair in front of the door to prevent her from leaving. There would always be another opportunity for her to go out with them. He couldn't bear to see how she'd try to hold herself while being out at a loud restaurant. Not after what happened.

It was the way Max's heart broke as he heard her sob to herself in his arms.

The last time he had ever seen her cry, let alone cry like this, was when her childhood cat had to be put down. That was almost six years ago.

She's the strongest person he's ever met, ever seen. Especially with what she deals with on a daily basis.

The girl was now slowly letting her eyes close, barely fighting it. Her eyes felt too sore and heavy to put any more battle into keeping herself fully conscious.

When they arrived back at the hotel, Max couldn't help but jump out of the car and quickly open her door.

He didn't hesitate to wrap one arm under her legs, the other around her back, before lifting her into his arms. His security guard scurried over with his arms out to take her instead, Max shaking his head. "I've got her, don't," he sternly orders, the guard nodding slowly before backing away and guiding them inside.

Max felt her grip tighten on his black button-up, clenching and unclenching as she tried fighting her tiredness.

He reached his hotel room, letting his guard swipe the keycard as Max nodded at him. "I won't be long," he says to him, receiving a nod as he holds the door open for the pair.

His guard closes the door behind them, standing outside to give Max privacy, while the driver walks Y/N over to his bed. He sets her body down softly on the mattress, watching her stir slightly to look at him with a furrow.

"Max," she mutters, her eyes barely able to keep her eyes open. "What's-"

He shook his head with a hum, sitting by her side and caressing her cheek. "No," he says. "You need to rest."

Her puffed eyes tried to look up at him through her lashes, and Max rubbed a thumb over the dried tears that sat on her cheek. "What about dinner?"

He chuckles softly. "There'll be plenty more," he nods down at her. "You need to let your body and mind rest after today," he tells her. He watches her softly grab his wrist, only to hesitate before her fingers could wrap around his skin, deciding against it and putting her hand down.

Max frowns as she turns away from him. "Schat?" he asks in confusion.

She shook her head. "Please just don't," her voice sounding shaky. "You're doing enough. I don't want to suffocate you."

Max swears his chest tightens at her words. She had never pushed his touch away. Let alone anyone's. "Schat, you aren't."

"Maybe there is something wrong with me. Maybe I shouldn't be this way."

Oh, he was going to kill Lando.

Instead of saying anything else, knowing if she turned away, that she was truly done talking, he stood up and leaned over her with both of his hands caging her small figure in, holding him up from crushing her. He lets his lips press to her temple.

"You're never suffocating," he assures her. "Your love and affection with everyone is my favorite thing about you."

With that, he stands up slowly and turns around to walk towards the door to leave. He doesn't miss the way he hears her sobs quietly leave her lips, Max fighting with himself to just stay there and hold her the rest of the night.

Yet he knew that when she wanted space, which was a rare sighting, to give her the space she was creating.

Once he let the door shut softly behind him, he kept his head down while his mind raced a million miles a minute. His guard spoke up after a few moments. "Max?"

The Dutch driver clenches his jaw for a second, his head snapping up with a darker look in his eyes.

"Let's go, or we'll be late."

They were both off shortly after that, Max's pace faster with every step he took. He could feel his insides burning. Twisting.

The drive was quiet as they made their way to the restaurant, Max keeping his gaze out the window as he fidgeted with his bottom lip. His jaw was clenching and unclenching every other moment.

He didn't hesitate to whip his door open once they arrived, not giving the valet driver a chance to open it for him.

He was walking like he had a purpose, and in that moment, he did.

Once his eyes found the large table where the other drivers were sitting, he felt his face harden when he didn't see the familiar McLaren driver there.

The drivers all smile at Max when they see him, some of them soon frowning at his glare.

"Where's Norris?" his voice boomed out, not missing the flinches from a few of the guys that were close to him.

Oscar, being the only one who knew what was about to happen, answers first. "Max, don't."

Max scoffs and swats at him. "Geef me die onzin niet, where is he?" (Don't give me that shit, where is he?)

Everyone's demeanor had dropped immediately, knowing that when Max started speaking Dutch, he was not to be messed with. He was already pissed, and when a pissed off Max is near, nobody wanted to be in that damage path.

"Where?" his voice booms, getting some stares thrown his way. He didn't care.

"I think he went to the bathroom. Said something about needing to freshen up," Pierre announces, not failing to watch as Max makes his way over towards the direction of the restrooms.

Once Max found the hallway leading down to the men's room, he pushed the door open, seeing Lando in front of the sink, patting water over his face. His gaze slowly turned over when he heard the door slam open, his entire face falling and turning white.

"Max-"

"Jij verdomde klootzak," (You fucking bastard) he laughs bitterly, stalking closer to Lando, who was backing away slowly as the Dutch driver got closer.

"How dare you?" Max growls. "Hm? How fucking dare you?" his tone getting louder before he pushes Lando hard. Lando put his hands up in surrender, trying to sputter out apologies.

"I give you my fucking blessing for her, and this? This is how you treat her? Are you fucking serious, Norris?" his voice booms, echoing across the bathroom walls. He pushes Lando harshly with every word that leaves his mouth.

"Max, look. I was upset with the race, I didn't-"

"I don't give a fuck if it's about the DNF. I wouldn't give a fuck if you got a disqualification penalty! You don't fucking treat her like she's some fucking scum on the bottom of your shoe!" he screams, giving one final hard push to Lando's chest, the thump of his back meeting the marble walls behind him echoing loudly.

"I didn't mean it, I just was frustrated-"

"Jouw gevoelens kunnen mij niks schelen, Norris!" (I don't care about your fucking feelings, Norris!) Max yells back bitterly, his hands slamming against the wall right next to Lando's head. Lando clenched his jaw, holding himself back as he let Max scream at him. He deserved that. He deserved a lot worse if he were honest.

Before he can even put another hand on Lando, Lewis and Oscar scurry inside, grabbing Max by his shoulders to pull him away from Lando.

"Let's not do this," Lewis says to Max as the Dutch fights his hold. He points at Lando.

"You realize you made her cry, Lando? She rarely does, and you made tears fall from her eyes!"

Lando felt his heart clench, his stomach dropping as he remembered the tears glossing over her eyes. "I didn't mean-"

"I held her there, as she sobbed in my arms. Sobbed! Saying she felt like an inconvenience, like she suffocates people. What did you fucking say to her?"

Lando couldn't get the words out, but Max already knew in that moment. His eyes widened, seeing that just by Lando's face alone, it really was all true. He said she was suffocating. Clingy. Lando said her touch was too much. Max scoffs bitterly, rolling his eyes.

"You're fucking dead to me, Norris," he spat, letting Lewis guide him out of the bathroom. "Verdomd dood!" (Fucking dead!) he yells back once more before leaving with Lewis.

Oscar has his arms crossed, turning back to face Lando, who just stands there in shock. "Mate, what did you do?" he asks in a knowing tone, more so making it sound like a rhetorical question.

Lando lets out a strangled sob as he begins to rub his face, sliding down against the wall. "I fucked up is what I did."

"He's going to have your head," he tuts, walking over to his friend and extending a hand. "Literally and figuratively. He's going to kill you next race."

Lando shook his head, keeping his stare over at the door, waiting for Max to come barging back in. "He's gonna kill me before we even make it to practice day."

Once Oscar had helped Lando clean himself up, looking more presentable, they left the men's room.

They made it to the table, seeing Max's spot was still empty, Lando felt his insides churn. Waiting for Max to pop up behind him somehwere.

"Where's Max?" Oscar asked as they sat down.

Lewis answers this time. "He left," he admits. "He said he'd rather be taking care of Y/N than be here. Said if he stayed any longer, he was going to throw something at Lando or drag him out by his ear."

Lando let out a groan, letting his head fall onto the table with a thud.

"Mate, what the actual fuck did you do to piss him off so badly?" Charles asked across the table. Lando just shook his head.

"He made Y/N cry from my understanding," Lewis reveals, causing every single head at the table to turn to Lando.

"What did you do? She never cries," George spoke up, a frown on his face. Most of the guys agreeing, being just as confused as Russell was.

Oscar spoke up this time, pursing his lips. "He let his anger out on her. Said she's suffocating and clingy basically."

"Oscar!" Lando seethes, snapping his head over at his teammate, a glare on his face. Oscar shrugged while sipping his drink, all the guys exchanging whispers and groans at Lando.

"Mate, you fucked up. Bad," Oscar says, not backing down.

"You're absolute toast."

"Max is going to have your head on a stick."

"I'm shocked he didn't drag you out already."

"Mate, you're in deep shit. Max doesn't play when it comes to her."

Lando groans before raising his hands to stop them from commenting more.

"I know. Guys, I know!" he snaps, making them all go quiet. "I just- I let my anger get hold of my emotions at the wrong time. I regret it with everything in me. I do."

"You don't realize how bad that is. You're lucky he let you even get a chance to be with her. His possessive ass," Lewis scoffs more to himself as he shook his head, sipping on his drink. The entire table looks his way, Lando frowning at his words.

"What's supposed to mean?" Lando sputters, feeling offended by Hamilton's words.

Lewis set his drink down, crossing his arms over the table while leaning towards Lando's direction.

"It means he doesn't share," he admits. "Not Y/N at least."

Lando feels his heart drop to his ass.

No. There was no way. He would've known.

Lando tilts his head, eyes squinting knowingly. He shook his head. "No. He's not, there's no way."

George cuts in, eyebrows furrowing. "What am I missing?"

Lewis leans back in his chair. "Max has been in love with Y/N for years," He says, reaching for his drink once more. Everyone at the table stays silent. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

"When she told him she wanted to be with you, he wanted her to be happy. After everything she helped him through growing up, she was his escape. Especially when his dad was harsh on him. He vowed to always make sure she was happy. He knew you could give her that, but he fought himself a lot with going against it."

Lando feels his insides caving as Lewis reveals every word. "He saw how happy you made her. That's all he ever wants for her, even if it's not him," he chuckles, seeing Lando's face. "He did say if it didn't work out between you two, that he would make that move."

Lando leans back in his seat with a groan, head falling back while he rubs his face out of stress, curses leaving his lips.

"So, if you thought you had any chance to win her back, Max is going to try and beat you to it. You probably have lost your chance," Lewis points out, sipping on his drink.

"And if we know anything about Max." George trails off.

"He never loses. Especially when it's something he wants."

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

It was the next morning. Clouds covered the sky as it cried.

Max sat with his back against the headboard of his bed, hearing the door open from the bathroom. Y/N just finishing up a shower.

She hadn't really slept. When she would finally hit a deeper level of slumber, she would jolt up crying.

She didn't even let Max get close to her, not wanting to be touched, which was a new thing she was doing. Max hated it. He hated that she felt as if her needing and wanting touch to calm down was too much.

So he would sit there, feeling helpless, as she just held herself.

He had snuck down the hallway earlier that morning while she was somewhat asleep, packing up all of her things that were in her hotel room, bringing them up to his own. Knowing full well she'd end up doing that in the morning anyway.

She hated being alone when she was hurting. It was rare, but when it happened, Max was always there. He could always pick up on it.

He straightens up slightly when she walks around the corner, donning a pair of her sweats and one of his Redbull t-shirts. Deciding to stick with comfier pair of clothes for the flight back home.

Max had declined going to the F1 premiere, wanting to focus on Y/N as well as just not liking the idea of being stuck in New York around the press. Or having to keep things professional with Lando when he wanted to run him over with his car.

"You all packed up?" he asks softly, watching her nod.

He doesn't miss the way her face was blotched and puffy again, signaling she had cried a bit more while in the bathroom.

"Schat," he trails off in a sadder tone, getting up from his bed to walk to her. Y/N backs away from Max, shaking her head. "Please," she croaks. "Just don't touch me. Not right now."

Max stops in his tracks, feeling his heart hurt at her words. He nods reluctantly, deciding instead to busy himself with gathering both of their bags. His gaze going to see outside by the entry, seeing some fans and paps already waiting by the cars.

"They're lining up outside," he says slowly, handing her a hoodie to throw over her head. She says nothing, only sniffling as she puts it on.

The pair don't say anything more as they finished grabbing their things, leaving the hotel room to head downstairs.

Max would usually stop to take a few photos with the fans that stood outside, but he was only keeping his mind on getting Y/N past the crowd.

The security guards held the front door open as they saw Max and Y/N making their way outside, another guard going over to open the car door.

Max makes his way in front of her to shield the other side from seeing her, keeping his gaze on her figure. Y/N didn't hesitate to scurry into the car, Max pressing a hand softly on her back to help her up into the car. The man ignored the calls and pleas of his name before stepping inside the car behind her.

The door shuts behind the guard who climbs in after Max, soon being driven off towards the airport.

It was quiet the entire way there, Max keeping a close but safe distance from her in the shared backseat. He doesn't miss how her phone buzzes, seeing her peer down at it only to double-click the home button to decline it.

Lando had been blowing up her phone since the night before. Especially after Max had left, her phone wouldn't stop buzzing.

Y/N declined every call, putting his messages on Do Not Disturb. The more she sat with what he had said to her, the more it made her think back to every time he made a face when she would touch him.

She didn't know how long he felt that way with her, Y/N letting her mind overthink to the point it made her feel sick.

It wasn't good for her, and she knew that. She couldn't help it. Not when she had given herself fully to Lando in every way. Thinking he was it for her. That he was all she wanted. She was all he wanted. So she thought.

Max watched as she began to pinch at the skin on her wrists, something she did when her mind wouldn't stop running.

"Genoeg lieverd. Je zult je huid weer beschadigen," (Enough, darling. You'll damage the skin again) he says softly to her. She doesn't acknowledge his words, only pinching harder to try and stop her mind.

Max didn't hesitate in the next few moments, not caring if she yelled or glared at him as he touched her. He reached over to grab her hands, holding onto them. She snaps her gaze away from the window with a frown.

He looks at her. "If you're going to pinch skin, pinch mine. Not yours," he instructs. Y/N doesn't see anything but assurance in his eyes, Max nodding slowly with a hum. "You can't hurt me. You never could."

Y/N bites her lip before nodding. Max has her lean into his body as she begins to fidget again. But this time, with his own hands.

Max lets his head fall onto her own, watching her whole body, for the first time in the last day, soften. The more she fidgeted, seeing how it didn't hurt or affect him in any way, the more it relaxed her mind. She didn't know why.

It brought her a calming sensation, feeling Max's touch against her own body, and it made her whole body begin to relax.

Once they had arrived at the airport, Max didn't release her hands once. He kept his hands laced with her own. He only removed them once to adjust his hold, having her walk behind him as he made her lace her hands with his behind his back. They stayed that way as they walked up into the jet.

Max helped her set her backpack down on one of the cushioned chairs, and that was the time he released her hands.

He thanked the flight attendant crew as they loaded their things onto the jet, then exchanged a few words with his security guard and publicist.

Y/N stood there with an exhausted look in her eyes, just wanting to finally sleep. Let her mind and her body rest.

Once Max was done talking to them, he made his way over towards her figure. He didn't say anything, only guiding her to the back of the private jet. Y/N followed him slowly, Max opening the door to the small bedroom.

A bed in the corner, a TV sitting in front of it, while there was a recliner chair embedded into the floor on the other side of the room with a table in front of it.

This was usually where Max disappeared to when they had long flights, knowing he tried sleeping whenever he could get the chance.

He shut the door behind her softly before crawling into bed and getting comfy. Max turns back to her, seeing her stand there looking absolutely defeated.

"Come on," he assures, motioning for her to come lie down. Y/N shrugs. "I don't want to take up your space."

Max gives her a knowing look, clenching his jaw. "You could never. You know that," he says, his tone more stern. "Lay down."

Instead of her prying and arguing more, knowing she wouldn't win it, she doesn't fight it, not having anything left in that moment. Y/N cautiously goes to climb in, keeping her distance as best as she can. Giving him his space.

Max notices her actions, immediately ignoring the eyeroll he wanted to do, and wraps his arms around her waist to pull her back towards his figure.

She lets out a low squeak at his actions, and Max turns her to lie against him. He doesn't miss the way her body instantly caves into his side, him helping her lie her head on his chest as he laces their hands together in case she begins to pinch and pick at her skin again.

"Je hoeft je geen zorgen te maken, ik heb je lieverd," (You don't have to worry, I got you darling) he mumbles against her temple. He hears her sigh, the way he knows she is fighting with her body in her head. The way she tries to tense, but her body craves every touch that's being given to her. "Sleep."

That's all he has to mutter to her before her eyes finally begin to close, the closeness of another one's body heat lulling her into a deeper slumber.

Max kisses her head, letting his thumb caress the top of her hand as he feels the tenseness in her body falter away. He kisses her head once more.

"I've got you."

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A/N: Me after pressing "Post now"

Sooooooo hehe.... That got away from me, and I'm not sorry. Lando is a dumbass as we know. Are we loving a protective Max? How're we feeling overall, friends? Vote below. I love you guys <3, I'll see you soon ;)

Permanent taglist : (Please message me if you'd like to be removed!!!)

@nickie-amore , @tylerstacobell , @piceous21 , @ariesandwolves , @lifeonawhim , @formulawhore , @asterooidsblog , @staple-your-mouth , @sinfully-yoursss , @smileyshaven , @midnightsaugust , @astrlape , @relijanka , @jooooooooo-cycycy16 , @cherryhazee , @nina481 , @lighttsoutlewis , @suns3treading , @areej003 , @dramallama9 , @putherup , @green--beanie , @footyball , @callsign-mirage , @kearasaltynalapepper , @idkwahr , @teti-menchon0604 , @footyball , @avengersgirllorianna , @4norrislove , @boocmarks , @evilive , @gulphulp , @hopeless--romamtic , @f1fantasys , @ccupidbow , @ini3103 , @vinylphwoar , @ernegren , @mel164 , @lemon-stvrrr , @behindmygreyeyes , @sillyfreakfanparty , @flowersandalll , @paankhaleyaaar , @ushygushybaby , @lifeonawhim , @themasqueradereveler13 , @vdkah8ter , @p1astrizz , @rickybobbydan , @sparklepiastri

[realcube]

— BEST FRIEND! SUNA

desc ;; your best friend helps you update your nudes. tws & tags ;; nsfw mdni. vaginal, oral (m & f receiving), overstimulation, squirting, filming, slight hair pulling, begging, objectification, breeding, praise + degradation. part one.

after the initial shock dies down, suna empathises with your frustration about being blocked by a guy you actually liked, and understands why that event has led you to want to update your gallery of nudes.

he explains that there are three types of photo that anyone will be receptive to. with these three pics, you'll be able to make any guy your bitch.

the three types of picture are as follows:

1. SQUIRTING PIC

his face drops, "uh," he splutters, not anticipating pushback, "girls can't squirt.. with vibrators." he blinks. the lies were somehow becoming less and less believable, despite how they weren't very convincing to begin with.

"that's a shame." you bow your head in attempt to suppress a chortle at his ridicoulous claim. finally, you decide to give him what he wants, "would you please tongue fuck me, then, rinny?" you bat your eyelashes at him.

"...sure."

"thank you." you smile up at him, innocently, and hum while motioning to his phone in his hand, "do you want me to take the picture since you'll be, uhm, busy?"

he shakes his head gently, and the words leave his mouth before his brain is able to fully process what's going on — he's still stuck on the part where you sent him your nudes. "it's fine. i'll just start videoing and put my phone.." he glances around his room, "here." as he hits the 'record' button and then props his phone up against the lamp on his bedside table. "then you can take screenshots from the part of the video you want."

you nod along with his explanation. however, the camera was behind suna currently, meaning that when he bends down between your legs, the back of his head would be blocking any parts of interest. thus, you inquire, "the thing is, when i finish, you'll be in the way. should we try a different position?"

"uh, i was just thinking you could just let me know when you're close and i'll move out the way." he offers up a simple solution.

"hm, alright." you shrug, twitching slightly as you watch suna get onto his knees near the edge of the bed. it was a sobering sight which made all this feel concerningly real. your best friend, who you've known since forever, was really about to eat you out. it all felt like some sort of hyper-realistic dream — if you thought about it too hard, you might wake up and this will all fade away, hence you refrained from doing so and wordlessly part your legs.

suna's hungry eyes lock onto your bare cunt; how soft your skin looks and the way your lips are already glistening with a thin layer of arousal. you're so perfect, it's like his whole life has been leading up to this moment; those other girls he's been with were just practise so he could fuck you right. his eyes fluttered close and his face drifted towards your pussy like a magnet to metal, until you interrupt:

"by the way, i've never squirted before — i don't even know if i can. so, erm, don't feel bad if i don't finish the way you expect. i can always just fake the pictures if i need to."

suna quirked an eyebrow, not daring to comment on your strange suggestion of falsifying a squirting pic. instead, he says monotonely, "you will. trust me, (y/n)." before you have time to respond, his lips are already connected to your cunt and sucking on sensitive clit, and thus an instinctive whine is forced from your open mouth.

it's easy to tell that he's done this before, and he's clearly a natural at it. one of his arms hook around your leg and presses it against his ear, while his other hand cups your pretty pussy; his thumb strokes at your folds, spreading them wide to allow his tongue access to the untouched parts of your sweet cunt. once he's done sloppily making out with your pussy, his tongue delves into your puckered hole, and his thumb trails upwards towards your clit, where he begins to rub and massage it while his tongue works your insides.

even then, his lips are still latched onto your skin and as his tongue is vigoursly pumping within your walls, slurping up your delicious juices from your entrance. your back arhces into his face, and your hands find their way into his already tousled hair. "hah- rinny, don't stop.." you were in love with the way he explored your insides, flicking at your walls trying to find that rough spot within you.

"mmh, won't." he murmurs against your pussy, the vibrations shooting electric sparks up your spine. he's lost himself in your addicting cunt; when his tongue isn't as far as he can reach in your hole, he's desperately lapping at your labia, greedily savouring your wetness.

"th— ank you, thank you!" you squeal, breath hitching as you can sense his tongue as finally located it — that gummy spot in your walls that makes your toes curl. and he takes full advantage of that once he realises. he'd roll his tongue upwards and aim straight for it whenever he'd dive back into your sopping hole, causing the coil in the pit of your stomach to tense whenever he does so. it wasn't easy to maneuver his tongue due to your unspeakable tightness, but his own saliva as lube made it easier.

"you taste.." he puctuates each word with a soft kiss on your clit, "s— so good." he melts into your pussy once more, sucking on and thrusting into your sore little hole. "mph, babe.."

"think— think 'm close.." with every lick and kiss he brings you closer to your climax.

"fuckin cum, then. n' make it loud." he mutters hoarsely, you can feel his words slither inside you. and soon enough, your coil snaps and your body stiffens in response to the wave of bliss that floods though you.

your first orgasm courtesy of your best friend was nothing short of perfect. due to your constricting pussy, he opts to use his thumb to stroke your clit in order to coax you through your full orgasm. also, so he could pull his face back from your cunt for just a moment and peer at your shivering frame and your bodily response during the high. and it was just as beautiful as he imagined: your back bowed into the perfect arch, as your glossy lips pull into a pout.

not to mention your addicting moans, "ahh— rin! i can't!" you squeak, limbs trembling. "fuck! fuck me— ngh!" it probably wasn't a good sign that you were already losing your mind. especially as, although you climaxed, you didn't squirt that time. and suna must've took that a sign to keep going. before you had even reovered from the first orgasmic haze, his mouth was already glued to your cunt again and was nibbling on your throbbing clit immediately.

you gasp in response to his unexpected movement, and you instinctively grip his hair as your eyes widen, "huh— what're you doing?"

"round two." he says casually. "gunna keep going until you squirt."

"but it's too much.." you blabber, chest rapidly rising and deflating as though you had just ran a marathon. the sheets strained in your fists, wrinkling with each open-mouthed kiss upon your raw cunt.

"that right?" he groaned, the vibrations causing you to gently jut your hips towards him, "sure you want me to stop?"

you're way too fucked out to respond, but the prolonged whine drawn from your throat at the way he idly laps at your pussy perhaps gives you away. "mph, no." you reply sheepishly, in a hushed tone.

"that's right, angel." he grumbles into you, your needy hole swallowing his words up as his hand strokes to the outside of your thigh, "it's just me. you know i want to make you feel good— and erm, help you take these pictures." he hastily corrects himself, then continues on with a gulp, hoping you're to lust-dazed to pick up on his freudian slip. "so are you going to let me help you?"

"yes, rinny." you sigh.

" 'yes, rinny' what?"

"please help me."

your desperate cries for release cause the corners of his lips to curl up into a devious smile. he then mumbles, while carefully caressing your ass, "that's my girl." he finishes with a prolonged and oddly inimate kiss upon your clit, before he swiftly pushes his tongue straight back into your prepped hole and re-establishes his previous rhythm.

the tip of his tongue scrapes against your sweet spot, as his lips drum a deep groan against your sopping pussy. there's an urgency to his pace that wasn't there before. he wasn't as steady; frequently losing his breath and having to ferociously yank his tongue out of your clingy hole and kiss down your slit as he tries to catch his breath. and as soon as he does, he wastes no time in plunging straight back into you.

despite how overstimulating it was, your hips work on their own as he grind down on his face, seeking the faint yet powerful sensation of his nose brushing your clit. his mouth worked feverishly against your cunt, and even as your climax toiled within your abdomen and you were inclined to jerk away from his merciless touch, his hand gripped onto your thigh to hold you firmly in place.

due to his fervent tongue action, and how sensitive you still were from your previous orgasm, it wasn't long before the swelling heat in your core was ready to boil over, pulsing with every devious strike his tongue lays into your hole. but this time it felt different to before, something was more powerful and fierce; like it was burning up the pit of your stomach, and your legs were already twitching trying to contain it. "stop, rinny, i—"

"shh, you're okay. let me take care of you." he rasps reassuringly against your cunt, though he's unsure if you can even hear him over your staggered squeaks. suna could tell you were close by the way your walls flutter around his tongue. he pulls out only so he can suck on your throbbing clit and sensitive folds.

this was all becoming so much, too fast. his tongue on your cunt, the harsh sunction on your clit, his rude grasp on your thighs — leaving you with no where to run to and no escape from the unending stimulation. you didn't know how to cope with it. "fuck, i can't. it's too much.."

"you can take it, angel. you're almost there." your thighs were pressed against his ears but he could feel your legs twitching and lashing out behind him. it was kinda cute that he was able to have this effect on you. since you were so close, he savoured every last drop of your juices, licking your cunt clean and delving into your creamy hole for more.

with the final stretch of your walls to accomodate for his tongue, something insides you snaps and a deep heat comes flooding out of your pussy. your back arches and a breathy shriek is forced from your gut; you're left with no choice but to submit to the all-encompassing, molten feeling. it's so overwhelming yet so relaxing, putting you at ease while causing your body to tense up and your walls to spasm around suna's tongue.

squirt gushes out of your hole, pouring down your legs and soaking your bedsheets. to that you can bring yourself to care, you hardly even notice. your entire body is frozen as you whien through gritted teeth, "ahh— suna, please!" you plead for mercy, as though rintaro could help you now — no , this was a struggle against your own body.

but suna was still nice enough to lead you through it, caress your thighs and kiss your folds even as your cunt was drenching his face and hair. "that's it, ride it out. i've got you, (y/n)." he coos, not usually so affectionate during sex but what can he say? you're his best friend and you're so special to him. "rinny's here." a smirk graces his lips upon referring to himself by that silly nickname.

"hah— suna.." you pant, eventually able to flatten your back against the bed. perhaps your orgasm had finished, but the remnants remains. your pussy was still drooling and your body felt worn, but in good way, like you had just hiked a mountain. not to mention the most glaring sign of your climax, your squirt that stained everything nearby — your cunt, your thighs, the bed, the floor and even your best friend.

"thank you.." you can't help but smile down at him; seeing him dishevelled and covered in your juices was oddly endearing.

"uhm.. it's fine." suna grumbled awkwardly, avoiding eye-contact and suddenly going shy.

"what's the matter?" you ask, concerned.

"i— uh, i forgot to move out of the way for the picture."

2. CREAMPIE PIC

okay, so squirting didn't exactly go as planned. however, hope was not lost. suna explained to you that another type of image that makes guys go absolutely feral for a woman is a creampie pic.

although, you were initially skeptical of the logic; if you were a guy, seeing the girl you're interested in stuffed with the cum of another man probably wouldn't do anything for you. but suna just cited natural biological instincts, and regardless of whose cum it is, it will always activate a man's primal instinct to reproduce with you. yup, it's true.

so, you didn't argue with him any further.

there you were, laid out nude on the bed as you let your best friend in the whole world pound into you. with your legs in the air, resting on his shoulders, suna stood at the edge of the bed and fucked into your pretty pussy relentlessly. his eyes were fixated on where your hips met, watching carefully as your greedy hole swallowed him up.

"so tight. can't believe you were hiding this pussy from me, baby." he slurs, idly toying with your pebbled nipple. though it wasn't an easy task as his cock pierced into you with such a force that your tits were bouncing dramatically with each thrust.

"n' you're so big.." you return the compliment, and despite how he was fucking your brains out, it wasn't too hard to muster up the words as his fat cock was about the only thing you could think about — the way his massive length was stretching out your insides, felt like he was leaving you with no room to breathe.

he huffs a chuckle at the sultry way in which you speak, you're clearly not all there, yet you're still making sense and saying exactly what he wants to hear. "should've dicked you down earlier, huh, babe?" he gradually slows down, easing in and out of you and allowing your cunt to savour every last inch of him. really show you what you've been missing.

"uhuh.. never been— ngh, been fucked like this before." you stutter, looking up at him with dewwy eyes. feigning innocence, when you both know pull well that you just want him to start rearranging your guts againt. still, he buys it. he's so enamoured by you regardless, and leans into press a firm kiss against your lips, then begins to scatter kisses along your jaw and down your neck. however, he holds your legs against his shoulders the entire time, even as he bends over, and essentially folds you in half while he sucks hickeys into your neck and teasingly drags his cock in and out of you.

"so flexible as well. perfect fucking angel." there's a certain agony in his voice that you can't quite decipher, partially due to his words being buried against the bruised skin of your neck, partially due to how absorbed you are in his cock delicately splitting you open. "should've blown your back out on halloween. in that slutty costume."

your costume was far from incdecent that night. it was normal, but funnily enough, you were probably the most conservatively dressed person at that party — still, it was the fact you were wearing it which made it slutty. you and your perfect, perky tits and round ass. and your dripping cunt that you photographed after suna walked you home, instead letting him take care of you. in retrospect, you were the most gorgeous person at the party and you were both tipsy enough to have made some bad decisions. so, why didn't he rip that slutty costume off you that night?

as he's reminiscing, without realising, his pace increases until he's practically ramming into you once again. not that you were opposed, in fact, this what you've been aching for. "yes, rinny! please, please, keep going." you beg, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, not only from the rough way his dick was piercing into your tight little cunt, but also from the strain at the back of your thighs from the way he has your legs dangling right by your ears.

"pretty girl.." he grumbles into your neck, marking you up while still slamming his hips against your repeatedly. he's so close; he can feel your heart beat against his chest, and more importantly, your erect nipples poking him through his shirt. "dick too big for you? too big for this tight hole?"

"uhuh." you drawl, losing yourself to the hedonistic haze until he snaps you out of your trance by gripping your cheeks in his hand. your eyes are forced open and you see his face hovering above yours.

"your gunna have to get used it then. your pussy's mine now." his heavy eyes drag lecherously down your exposed body, admiring how it jerks upwards with each rough thrust. "open." his grip tightens on your face.

you shyly part your lips, just enough for him slot two fingers right inside there, so deep it almost causes you to gag. your tongue swirls his digits momentarily before he yanks them out with a faint pop, then slips his wet fingers down between your thighs to pinch and rub at your swollen clit.

"such a good g— nghh." as he's trying to mock you, he has to choke back a whimper, due to your walls clamping down on his cock unexpectedly. it's only temporary, and he's freed in time to keep furiously pounding into you, but it does cause a lapse in his rhythm. he can tell you're close; your pussy speaks on your behalf. even then, your cock-drunk expression and trembling legs were a dead giveaway too.

"you almost there?" he heaves, nails sinking into your soft hips as he continues to brutishly drive into you. "cum for me, baby."

although his wispy voice hardly cracked above a whisper, in combination with his expert fingers abusing your little clit and his buldging tip hitting just the right spot inside you, he sends you hurtling over the edge. your toes curl and back arches off the mattres as your cunt squeezes around his length. "fuh— fuck, suna! right there, mph!"

staggered breaths pull from his chest and his eyes wring shut as your walls clamp down on him and milks him for all he's worth. hushed moans fall from his lips as he relishes in the best pussy he's ever had, before he fills you up entirely with his seed. the hot tension spreading throughout his body is the only thing keeping him upright, otherwise your tight grip on his length was enough to cause his knees to buckle under him.

his cum permeates through your insides, coating your walls and burrowing at your cervix. it was the most satisfying experience; like a comforting hug for your insides after they had been destroyed by suna's fat cock.

despite the fact he's too tired to move and relishing in the feeling of your stuffed cunt, he does the right thing by gently sliding out of you and grabbing his phone from the nightstand and flipping the camera on. after his length is removed, there's nothing left to plug your hole and hence his white seed is left to slowly drip out of you. pearling by your entrance, then seeping down across your ass and onto the bed.

he took two pictures: one with flash and the other without.

"thanks, rinny.." you drone, in a whiny high-pitched tone.

"it's fine." he states, enchanted by the way he's left his mark on you. his fingers move on their own to swipe some of his cum back into your cunt, shoving it right up there roughly, despite your weak protests, "i didn't know you were on birth control."

that single sentence was enough to whip you out of your fucked-out daze. you try not to make your anxiety too obvious, but you body may have betrayed you by freezing up, "uh, right.."

3. BLOWJOB PIC

of course, this one was the least surprising proposal.

although, you were perplexed by this for a similar reason to the creampie pic — why would a guy want to see you sucking another man's dick? — but suna once again reassured you that the sensuality of the image will distract from any possessiveness. and either way, if a guy does happen to start experiencing some stirring jealousy, that will only make him want you even more, so he can stake his claim over you.

that was logic you could follow. sorta.

when you initially got on your knees in front of suna, the plan was that you would lick him clean of the variety of fluids sticking to his shaft and he'd take a couple photos as you did so. which he did; as your tongue worked up and down his warm length, swallowing the salty juices as they gathered on your tongue, suna watched from behind his phone screen. the flash was on so every time he'd snap a picture, he'd get a clear vision of your cute face lapping at his cock.

there was a dull thumping in his chest. he couldn't believe this was actually happening, his sweet best friend whom he has shared so many memories with and whose always been a shining light of comfort and innocence in his life — now you were asking him to take nudes for you.

"i got the photo." he croaked, strangely implying you could stop, while his hands told a different story as they tangled into your roots.

with your eyes shut, your kiss up his length, paying particular attention to the thick vein decorating his shaft, which made him shudder. "mm, but i'm not done, suna."

"but i got your photo." he repeated.

you smile, huffing a laugh out of your nose while your lips were still pressed against his throbbing tip. the air tickled his sensitive length and he had to grit his teeth and ball his fists to suppress a moan. you don't make it any easier by looking up at him with your starry eyes and dulcet voice, "but i want to thank you for all your help."

he blinks down at you, speechless as he watches you tease his tip with the flat of your tongue.

you take his dumb-founded silence and sitffening grip on your head as permission to finally envelope his cock with your mouth. first, you part your lips and take in his leaky tip. it's hot with need, and you can tell by the spluttered moan you lure of suna, he's been aching for this. your mouth has to stretch uncomfortably wide to fit his girth, but you're willing to make sacrifices for your best friend in the world.

you follow up by sinking forward, allowing his dick to slide back in your mouth until it's brushing against your uvula. thankfully you're too distratced by his hand lovingly caressing your strained cheek to even think about gagging. you look up at him, mouth full, and he smirks. "you look perfect like this." his thumb grazes your cheekbone then he cups your chin, tempting you forward, closer to his base, "think you can take it all?"

without further instruction, you pull away from him then lean forward again, accepting his entire length into your mouth despite how your throat constricts around his tip. and you keep going on like this; eyes screwed shut as you frantically sucked his cock. there was an extreme urgency to your movements, as you learned that if you deep-throated him and retreated fast enough, your body wouldn't have time to react or gag.

you were fully consumed by him. your best friend's cum was swirling around in your womb, conjesting your pussy and pooling in your panties while his cock was continuously drilling into your mouth. even your nose kept pressing against his base so his deep musk was all you could inhale. plus, you had his hickeys and marks littering your neck and collarbone.

your brows furrowed together as you struggling to take him all, and he laughed shakily at the sight. "when did you get so good at sucking dick, hm?" there was a sliver of sarcasm in his tone, but you were far too preoccupied to notice or care.

your severe mouth-action was far too much for him to handle. perhaps he was finally getting a taste of his own medicine, but being thoroughly pleasured so soon after his previous orgasm has left him so painfully sensitive. the way your tongue licked the underside of his shaft as your lips dragged against him was too intoxicating and it made him light-headed. fortunately, there was a wall behind him to brace against when he was about to lose balance.

his erection was so stiff, your lips were quick to bruise from the rapid friction against it. he left a dull bitter flavour in your mouth that trickled down your throat which each harsh thrust — it was unpleastant yet you loved it. you begged for more with each impassioned movement.

"shit— you drive me fuckin' crazy, you know that." he wheezed with almost a chuckle. if his dick virtually twitching in your mouth didn't make it obvious enough that he was close, then his mindless garbling certainly must have. "sendin me all those slutty pictures. it's like you wanted this."

he narrows his eyes and squeezes your chin, causing you to falter, "gunna finish me off like a good whore?"

your eyes are watery and crystalline tears poke at your lashline. you answer his question with half of a solemn nod before continuing to bob your head back and forth on his cock, but this time with a fiery desperation he's yet to see from you. tears cascading down your cheeks as you deep-throated his pulsing cock over and over. while saliva clung to his length and stained your cheeks and chin.

soon enough, that determined expression was wiped clean off and replaced with a horrifically lewd one as he comes undone right into your mouth. "fuck, that's it, (y/n). that's right. such a good girl.."

your eyes roll back in your head at the hot instrusion sinking down your throat with a sting. still, suna's fingers were locked in your roots to keep you in place as he bucks into mouth slowly, "yeah.. perfect, baby. swallow it." he says gruffly. you did so, albeit it's not like you had much of a choice.

eventually, he slides his dick out of your mouth and you both watch as strings of saliva keep you linked. you smile, amused, but suna is hasty to sever the connection and stuff his cock back into his trousers.

you gaze at him silently, hands placed neatly on your lap. there's been a sudden shift in his demeanour; he's still panting, but he notices and quirks a brow at you, "what?" he asks, curtly.

"so, are you officially my bitch now?"

[writing-munchies]

Self Aware & Obsessive AU x GN!Reader— Date Everything (Dorian, Curt&Rod, Daisuke, Doug, Mateo, Amir, Johnny, Hector, Eddie&Volt, Mac, Daemon, Tony)

A/N: This idea from @devilmaymetalgear really hooked me in, and I wanted to write a quick little something! I see your requests, and I'm planning to combine them for general NSFW HC's so they should be out quicker! There are suggestive themes sprinkled in. Sorry for any mistakes as English isn't my first language:-]

WC: 1K

⋆.𐙚˚ ⋆.𐙚˚⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⋆.𐙚˚ ⋆.𐙚˚ ⋆.𐙚˚⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⋆.𐙚˚

You’re doing your 4th re-run of the game, it’s late, and you’re not really paying attention to whatever options you’re clicking as you pull up front Dorian for a chat. You accidentally press the dialogue option that lets you leave the house and your heart drops, you’ve made so much progress, and now it’s all going down the drain— but you blink, you wait, nothing happens. Dorian is just frozen there, with an expression you’ve never noticed on his sprites before, the dialogue box is empty and there are no choices. After a few minutes, he sighs—the dialogue frame is still empty— and then you’re forcefully exited out of the interaction. That was strange but, probably just a bug! The game just came out after all, plus it saved your ass big time, so you just saved your game and went to bed.

Most of the time life and work get in the way of your hobbies, and sometimes you’re forced to work overtime for 2 days and not play a single minute of your new favorite dating game. Finally, the weekend arrives, and you boot up the game, the ‘trivia’ that you expect to read every time now only says, “They’ve missed you.” That’s…weird, probably a new welcome back thing the devs implemented to make you want to play more. You finally get into the game and the second you put your dateviators on, Curt & Rod, Betty, and Dorian pop up at the same time. Each of their dialogue boxes empty, and they’re all speaking over each other before the game just crashes.

Odd, you re-start and everything is fine. You go downstairs and aim your glasses at scandalebra, but somehow, Daisuke is the one that pops up on your screen. He does his usual greeting, you’ve already finished his route though, so this glitch cost you a chance. You sigh and skip through before the game stops registering your clicks and Daisuke seems to be staring right at you. Is the DLC doing this? As you’re just waiting, Daisuke finally speaks, “My love, why do you wish to waste time with the likes of him?” he sighed, “I’m right here, all yours, and you haven’t even looked at me for weeks. Are you… bored with me?”, there aren’t any choices you can select.

One time you aim your glasses at Johnny and Amir is there instead. He’s got this… look on his face, he’s blushing, and he just can’t seem to form any words. But trying to click through his empty dialogue does nothing, so you just wait. Before he could even speak, though, your game completely freezes and in seconds you’re somehow in the breaker room? Eddie & Volt greet you like nothing’s wrong, “Live wire! Ah, we’ve missed you, where have you been?” Volt said in this, eerily cheery tone of voice you’ve never heard from him, then Eddie started talking, “not good to ignore your boyfriends for too long, we could start getting jealous, y’know?”

You’re so close to finishing Abel’s story quest, and when you go over to him, you find out that one of his legs has come loose out of nowhere. Tony won’t come and fix it, no matter how many times you call for him. You go over to Tony, much to Abel’s dismay, he looks way more cheerful than you’re used to, “Ah, and to think I thought you’d forgotten about little ol’ Tony for that fucking table. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you, want to show me how sorry you are for ignoring me now that you’re here?”

You’re talking out loud to yourself about how this time you’re going to finally romance Keith and when those words leave your mouth your bedroom and bathroom door close themselves shut. You click and click, but Dorian just won’t open. You aim your glasses at him, the only thing he says is, “Sorry, luv, don’t feel like sharin’ you today,”

When you aim your glasses at your fridge, you expect Freddy and somehow the character standing in front of you is… Doug? “Look, I know I’m just a concept made form, but even I need some action time to time from my lover. Get your ass here and stop talking to that hairy fridge. I missed your dumbass.”

You’re talking to Curt & Rod, and you’re pretty sure they aren’t supposed to say, “Look, we know you’re popular,” Curt says, then Rod continues, “and we totally get why… I mean, look at you baby!”, Curt then chimes in, “but y’know, we do want you for ourselves the most. Why don’t you, ignore them for a while and come cuddle up with us? It’s been a while, lover.”

You talk to Mac once first thing in the day, and now the rest of your charges are gone! You try aiming your glasses at them again just to see, and it actually works, “I can get a little possessive, but you do understand, don't you?”

You do not remember about a literal sex scene where Hector and the player (you) are experimenting with temperature play as he’s breathlessly moaning your name when your character shivers, “Ah my love, seeing you so vulnerable all for me while they are watching makes my heart so full that it could burst.”

Somehow, every day a new inanimal goes missing, and you have to spend hours with Mateo to find them, somehow he doesn’t mind this at all, somehow the inanimals look chirpier than ever when you click on them.

You don’t even remember there being a shower feature, let alone how your character got into it, but the way Johnny is looking at you and the way he’s talking about your body like it’s the really expensive looking piece of cake in a bakery window tells you he’s loving this. “You look… amazin’, downright ethereal, am I allowed to… get a feel for myself, gorgeous?”

Somehow every time you try to talk with Diana, your diary, Daemon shows up. They say nothing, just look at you with a blank face, until one time you got so over it that you closed and opened the game again. Once again, aiming your glasses to Diana, yet Daemon shows up. They laugh at you, “Ah, opposite of hate, is it that hard to see you belong only to me? Since now, they know what they are too, I’ll stop being ‘special’, will you still talk to me then?”

[binmeister]

Vocally incompatible

Jinu & Rumi x Producer! Reader - Scenario

Where you have to step in and guide a couple of squabbling idols on how to sing with chemistry.

CW: Kinda fluff, both of them are crushing on you highkey, RuJinu are more platonic sibling rivalry in this AU - not proofread

OST - Everytime - CHEN, Punch (listen if you haven’t please see the vision I beg)

Were you in hell? You had to be. Of course working in any form of creative media sucks but it is actually kind of insane what you’ve been put through for the last 3 hours of recording session 2 of 3. Jinu and Rumi, two extremely vocally talented idols and leaders of their respective groups could sing their way out of anything. But apparently had less chemistry than you personally did with a toaster and a bath tub filled to the brim with water.

How could this happen? You envisioned such a beautiful harmony from the two of them, surely they could harmonise off eachother with Rumi’s richer tone and Jinu’s heavenly high notes but it was like oil and water in a hot skillet - both trying to overpower the other and just completely unable to sync up and get their shit together. You were rested against the vast audio equipment in front of you, elbows on the very edge of the table with your head in your hands as the duo in the booth had both stopped to take a water break. You felt like you were at your wits end, there’s no way they couldn’t get their shit together right?

The track you envisioned their voices on was supposed to be a romantic and charming song, they didn’t even need to harmonise that much with Jinu taking up the masc. vocal lines they only needed to harmonise at the last chorus but it was like they were fighting each other with their singing voices. Was it too much to ask of them? You heard the booth door click open and the two had walked back into the main studio with you, Rumi grumbling a little to herself as she gave Jinu the stank eye. You couldn’t see it but Jinu had stuck his tongue out at her, and her jaw dropped as she raised a hand to swat at him but before she could he side stepped her and made a noise which finally got you to raise your head to look at them - Rumi tried to play it cool, pretending to stretch with her raised hand and not show that she was mid-assault on the taller male. 

“Guys I just.. what is going on?” You finally spoke, your voice drained as you eyed them both in genuine confusion and maybe even a little concern. You expected things to be bumpy but you’re nearly about to waste a whole second session of unusable audio because no matter how much you attempted to guide them with words alone the two just.. couldn’t synergise. They both pointed to each other immediately, voices layered on top of each other as they made immature jabs at the other party.

“It’s him, he’s just going too high too fast.” “Me? You’re trying to sing my line!” “YOUR line? This is a duet.” “Oh so now it’s ours?”

They shut up as soon as they felt your deadpan stare on them, a wry smile on your face as you drooped in your chair. “So you guys hit it off when fighting but you can’t sing together?”

You thought it over for a little before sighing, maybe you should’ve done this from the start but you expected them to do better than what they did and admittedly you felt a little childish - surely you didn’t need to step in and record the demo because Rumi was usually fine but if you really have to... You stood up, gesturing for Rumi to take a seat in your place and then motioning for Jinu to follow you into the audio booth - handing him a pair of headphones as you took up the other pair and stood in front of the mic.

“You’re gonna sing with me, and you’re gonna imagine I’m the love of your life.” You said blankly, voice calm as you pointed at Jinu accusingly. “We’re gonna pretend we’re in a slow burn drama, you’ve finally realised you fell for me and are gonna imagine what it feels like when you look at me and all you can think is mushy gushy feelings.”

“We’ll do the first chorus and your first verse, then I’ll do the same with Rumi.” You finished, eyes on him waiting for him to at least do something to acknowledge he heard you.

The tips of Jinu’s ears were hot, he stammered a bit and nodded obediently and had to resist the urge to bite his lip. Did you catch it? How’d you know that he started to think you were cute. He didn’t have time to think as you gestured for Rumi to play the sound track, the clicks of the starting beats in his ears as he looked away from you to look at the music sheet in front of him so he could follow along with the lyrics.

“Oh every time I see you, geudae nuneul bol ttaemyeon...” You sang into the mic - your tone breathy and Jinu felt tingles at the back of his neck as he dared to let himself look at you, eyes closed as you sang and you looked. Breathtaking. He finally broke his gaze, looking ahead and catching Rumi’s expression and she was no better than him. Dreamy expression on her face as she looked at you like you lit the stars in the sky as she subtly swayed to the opening notes of the song and your voice.

“..shipeun dan han saram.” You continued on, he heard the beats signalling that he needed to harmonise soon on the shared adlibs and he let himself steal a last glance at your serene expression as your brows scrunched slightly as you gently laced the lyrics with emotion. Like you were the one that had fallen in love with someone and wanted to tell them through this song. that they meant the world to you. That maybe.. he meant the world to you.

“Baby oh oh oh oh..” His voice melted together with yours, like you two had been singing together for centuries and he could feel the butterflies in his stomach and how his chest felt a little lighter as he continued harmonising with you. Then finally it was his solo line, you had leant back away from the mic - eyes barely open as you nodded along to the song and listened to how he handled his voice and how he finally put some feeling into his words. A smile ghosted your lips and he had to resist the need to smile as he sang but he continued.

Yeah. He gets it now.

“Oh every time I see you, geudae nuneul bol ttaemyeon...” He sang out, eyes looking at the glint of your eyes and he finally understood the lyrics a little better. It felt more natural like this, with you. With Rumi it felt like the two were siblings being forced to be nice to each other and honestly, he couldn’t resist messing with her because of it. In that endearing older sibling way where they’re genetically programmed to mess with the younger one. 

It was maybe a minute more of him singing, his voice finally having that sweetness and yearning that you were in need of for this track and you couldn’t help it you were giddy. He was nearly done with his verse and on the last line you looked up, eyes meeting his and he choked on his last word before looking away to break your gaze. You didn’t catch it right? The fact that he was staring at you the entire time as he sang, as the past months of working with you played in his head - the small gestures, the banter, just everything played in his head like a movie and he rubbed the nape of his neck as you clapped for him.

“Yes! Yes this is exactly what I wanted, great job Jinu.” You cheered gleefully as you gestured for Rumi to stop the track, she looked surprised with what she heard. Jinu was capable of singing with emotion? No way. He’s just a stinky demon.. a stinky pretty demon but like, he’s still gross. Though she had to admit you guys sounded.. amazing together. Like you were confessing to each other in the snippet that was recorded and she felt a tinge of jealousy at that, she’s known you longer after all! Surely it’s just business. Jinu laughed you off, bashful as he gave an awkward tiny bow to you before he responded.

“The scenario you said to imagine, just kinda worked I guess?” He offered up as an explanation but you didn’t look into it too much, hands lightly clapping at his work before you instructed him and Rumi to swap places. As they brushed by each other Rumi couldn’t help it, she had to make a jab at him.

“Do you know what button to press orrrr.. are you gonna wing it?” It was childish, she had a smug smile on her face as he paused briefly before they both gave each other the stank eye and she entered the booth - taking up Jinu’s previous position as you bounced slightly on your feet in joy. Finally things are shaping up! Jinu sat down in the office chair in front of the audio equipment, staring blankly at all the shiny lit up buttons and dials and- okay yeah he has no clue what he’s supposed to press. 

Slowly he looked up, Rumi met his eye first and she had the same smug smile on her face as before like she just knew he had no clue what was going on and you? When he caught your eye you just smiled at him, walking up to the glass and trying to point out which buttons he needs to press and trying to talk loud enough through the muffling glass for him to understand that he shouldn’t press them until you give him a signal. He could do that much. Hopefully.

You stepped back up to the mic, turning to Rumi and beginning to give her the same breakdown you gave Jinu but instead you’d be singing Jinu’s lines instead and then you would harmonise on the bridge together.

“Rumi, I know you well enough that you’ve never thought about holding hands with someone before. I need you to just, pretend, that you finally found the love of your life okay?” It was a very, very poorly worded peptalk and she was shocked. “I too have thought about that!” Rumi said in protest, her cheeks heating up in embarrassment and she could just feel Jinu’s dumb smile as he heard everything through the mics.

“Okay okay, alright then.. imagine we’ve been arguing for weeks and then something clicks and you just, start seeing me in a different light hm? Just picture me as someone that you fell for.” You teased, your tone softer with her as you smiled at her before gesturing for Jinu to start up the song at a different part. You winced when he hit the wrong button, a screech playing in both you and Rumi’s headphones that made the other girl groan and mutter about his incompetence but you heard the muffled sorry from him as he corrected his mistake and finally the song started back up right near his chorus would end.

“Nal tteonaji marayo..” You sang out, no hesitance as you picked up the song from right after the chorus with ease. Rumi couldn’t help but look at you with an adoring gaze, she loved hearing you sing and.. you were just in your element when you were in the booth or when you were busy slaving away at mixing tracks. Like your own graceful kind of science. There was a yearning in your voice that tugged at her heart, a bittersweet touch to the words that left your lips and she really felt like you were saying these to her. A confession between the two of you.

“Nal mitgo gidaryeojullaeyo.” You continued and she let herself harmonise with you, emotion slipping into the lyrics as she let your voices mix together finally. No battle, no too much or too little on either of your voices. She perfectly melded in with yours like you were meant to sing this track together. She hit the high note beautifully, tastefully even with such ease and precision - strain free and you mentally cheered as you continued on eyes closing as you continued the last few lines with her. The emotion Rumi put into her voice, was natural like she’d been bottling up feelings and finally managed to let them out - a tint of shyness in her words as they left her lips.

“Nae unmyeongijyo. Sesang kkeuchirado.” Your voices continued together, Rumi ending the shared harmony with a softer touch and leaning away from the mic and continued to admire you as you sang out the last line that you wanted to show them. Jinu was stunned. He knew Rumi could sing, he knew you could sing but it was like he was listening to an intimate confession between two soulmates.. which made him feel a twinge of jealousy but he couldn’t deny that you both sounded heavenly together.

“Jigyeojugo shipeun neo,” You finished, letting the music play and holding up a hand to show Rumi not to continue on as you opened your eyes and stepped back. You motioned for Jinu to stop the track and he did, and you felt the tension leave your shoulders as you quietly cheered - the joy in your body leading you to bounce a little in joy as you fought the urge to let out a hoot of victory.

“Yes! YES! This is great, awesome, I just need you two do the exact same thing let’s get Jinu back in here.” You spoke quickly as you took the headphones off your head, haphazardly throwing them on the studio mic and rushed out of the booth. You spun Jinu, grabbed his hand and pulled him out of his seat in a blink of an eye as you ushered him back into the recording booth so he and Rumi could try that last bridge again together. 

The finally understood what to do!

Rumi and Jinu exchanged glances. This wouldn’t end well. You gleefully gave a thumbs up to them as you started the track from the beginning, full belief in them as they started the song from the beginning again. Both flawlessly sang their solo choruses and Jinu was singing the chorus the exact same way as he did with you - but then it was like a record scratch moment as they immediately started overpowering each other again during the bridge and your smile dropped from your face.

Oh.. it seems you’ll be in here for a third session with them after all.

[sheastri]

Heart of a Woman ft. Lando Norris

Synopsis : In which the only thing that's saving him is the heart of the woman who loves him.

Pairing: Lando Norris x black!fem!reader

Genre: Boderline Horror

Warning(s): Cheating

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

username oh he has her all the way fucked up

username atp she wants it to happen bc why even stay??

username in the sense that... username idk abt this one bookie

username ok but who in their right mind would cheat of THEE Y/N

username This is so shady… Do it again!🥱

username y/n, js lemme know if i need to run a fade girl

username Only thing that's saving you is the heart of a woman. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Question is, why I do the things I do. Answer I may never find, but I'll always choose you.

"Come on, pick up the phone." You say to yourself after seeing the posts all over social media. You had called 5 times prior and you were just hoping for a miracle at this point before you heard Lando's voice come through the phone.

"Hey y/n, what's up?" Lando says nonchalantly.

"What's up? Do you think I'm dumb? Like seriously." You say heated.

"What's this about? I'm lowkey lost." He responds again almost uncaring but with an edge in his tone.

"Now me and you both know you saw the pictures all over your timeline so I don't even know why you try. Who's the girl?" You say before letting out a sigh, not even mad anymore just tired.

"Which one?" He replies now sounding annoyed.

"Oh? So it's like that? Forget this then." You say sick of his shit.

"No, y/n wait. Look I know what I did was wrong but you weren't meeting my needs and she was just there." Lando says with full conviction, as if his reasoning is some amazing thing.

"The fuck? What do you mean she was just there?" You say mockingly.

"Well look at where you were and where she was... plus it was just a night out. Probably a one time thing." Lando says still trying to justify his actions.

"Just a night out?" You say raising your voice again.

"Y/n, you're just being overly dramatic and paranoid. Me and her are friends and we were just hanging out, you know? Like friends do!" He says snarky.

"You must have me mistaken for boo-boo the fool because everybody can tell there's something going on." You respond back with the same tone he used.

"But they don't know us baby, they don't understand our dynamic. I don't even do half the things I do with you with her." He says in a baby voice.

You stay silent, mulling over his words.

"Please forgive me love, I won't hang out with her anymore if it makes you feel uncomfortable." He says in the same tone, almost pleading.

"Thank you baby, you're forgiven." You say softly.

"Talk to you later babe?" He says.

"Yeah, I love you." You say all smiley.

"Love you too." He says finally before hanging up.

Wanna give up on you, but damn, I know I can't. I put the blame on me for giving you chance after chance

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

liked by imanirowe, landonorris, and 289,000 others

yourusername love my man real bad

username this is not it...

username his face being turned away in the photos should make something click in her head likeee

username this feels like a humiliation ritual...

username i feel like this is a sign to go back to my ex

username don't do it girl

username this man could push her granny down the stairs and she would come running back into his arms

username oh you got it username not one lie was told

username free my queen from this white devil, amen!!

username I hope to never reach this level of delusion.

username In love with you, but can't stand this and I try to be strong, but how much can I take?

liked by mclaren, ln4, and 349,000 others

landonorris monaco

yourusername my race winner

username the way he didn't even like her comment

username and not one photo with y/n in it

username and i'm hearing some ppl thought a whole different girl was his gf

username the way he almost looked disappointed to see y/n but maybe im looking into it tm

username no bc I saw it too

username congrats on the win lando!

username dpmo

username Put your words on your life this time and I hope your ass ain't lyin' 'cause...

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Only thing that's saving you is the heart of a woman.

You guys were now at Lando’s house after a long and silent car ride. The argument you guys had over text still fresh in both of your minds. He was sitting on the couch and you were standing with a drink in your hand.

"I hope you know that we're still continuing the discussion that we had earlier." You say straight up.

"Do we really have to get back to it? Why are we still on this topic." He says before sighing.

"We can't just laugh everything off because you don't feel like talking about it." You reply rolling your eyes.

"Can't you just get over it? I didn't think it was that serious." He says.

"Get over it? Lando, this is not just some silly little problem that won't mean anything in a couple days. It's the fact that you've cheated multiple times." You say now yelling.

"I didn't even cheat, it's just the way the media is spinning things. Maybe if you got off social media and talked to me more we wouldn't be here." He says in a matter a factly tone.

"Are you serious? Anytime I try and talk to you it's like I'm talking to a wall. Even when I call your phone, do you know how many times I have to call before you pick up?" You say annoyed and frustrated.

"Maybe if you were more interesting I'd be more eager to answer the phone." He says.

"Oh, but I'm the problem right?" You say raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, you are actually. Glad we could finally agree on something." He says.

You're about to respond when you actively feel the gears turning in your head as something clicks.

"Yeah, no. I'm wasting my time here. I don't think you've liked me for the longest time now, you just enjoy stringing me along and driving me insane. We're done." You say calmly as you walk away to go and get your suitcase and leave.

"Wait, what do you mean we're done?" Lando yells out as you walk away.

It's my mind and my soul versus your pride. Nigga, check your ego 'cause I left mine at the door

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

liked by imanirowe, oscarpiastri, and 457,000 others

yourusername the men in your books will never disappoint you

landonorris pretty girl

username be gone evil username he rlly tried ts

username wait... this is new territory, I'm scared

username ya'll don't get too excited, we don't want a repeat of last time

username oh ts broke me, everybody thought she was free and then next post they're hand in hand

username she rlly shines when there's not a man in the bg tryna out mog her

username In love with you but can't stand your ways and I try to be strong...

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Lando Norris has uploaded a story

Caption: Her.

username it seems like he only rlly applies pressure when she decides she's done

username fumble of the century

username me when i realize the baddest bitch i'll ever have in my lifetime is finally choosing herself and not me

username so glad she finally left this bum

username But how much can I take?

liked by imanirowe, oscarpiastri, and 397,000

yourusername life when you're not with somebody who hates you

username so incredibly real

imanirowe WE OUTSIDE THIS SUMMERRR

username i love this era on her

username so glad that he who shall not be named is gone

username oscar in the likes?? he's def plotting

username i was SICK of him

username Only thing that's saving you (no, I can't take it no more, I'm 'bout to walk out the door)

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

A/N: My whole google search is what would a cheating man say, can't wait to clear it up with the next ficcccc.

[writer-freak]

hii! im having suchh kpop demon hunters brainrot rn omg, could you do sfw & nsfw headcanons for baby saja please? he's my saja boys bias lol, ty!!

A/N: Baby's also my bias, and I actually wanted to write these first but I kept going back and forth on how I see him😭. So if these seem a bit messy or all over the place, that's the reason (maybe I will rewrite them in the future). Thank you though and hope you enjoy

Casually flirty in the most annoying way. Like leaning against a doorframe while you're ranting and going, “You look so hot when you're mad at me.” He says it just to fluster you and walk off before you can react.

In general he will purposefully say the most inappropriate things at the worst possible times ,whispers“Wearing that again, huh? You trying to get punished?” right as you're about to leave the house.

Calls you a very inappropriate nickname even in public one day he just called you "my lil earthquake.” You asked him what that even meant and he just smirked and went, “Cause you shake when I—” Hand over his mouth. Immediately.

Back hugs but like he’ll wrap his arms around you real sweet, then suddenly whisper the filthiest shit in your ear just to make you choke on your coffee.

His hand is either in your back pocket or riding way too high on your thigh. Doesn’t care who might see, he likes the attention. "They should know who you belong to."

His favorite thing in the world? Annoying you for fun. He hides your stuff just to watch you lose your mind over it. “You sure you checked everywhere?” he says, absolutely knowing your phone is in his pocket.

Bored easily. If he's stuck somewhere, he’ll start texting you the wildest out-of-pocket things just to pass the time. “Do you think I’d look hot in a maid costume or should I make you wear it?”

Sometimes just pokes your cheek in public until you react, or slides his cold hands under your shirt just to hear you squeal.

Doesn't help right away when you struggle with something (like reaching a high shelf or carrying a box) because he likes watching you struggle. “Oh I know you got it” he teases from the doorway. Only helps after you call him a jerk (and even then he's grinning while doing it).

He acts innocent in front of others a bit more polite, wearing a smile, quiet. But the second you're alone, his expression changes just enough for you to realize: You're in danger. The fun kind.

Cocky. So cocky. Constantly smug about how much you love him. “You’re obsessed with me, y’know that?” If you deny it, he’ll raise a brow. “Mhm. Keep lying. See what happens later.”

Lowkey possessive. If you’re giving someone else too much attention? He’ll silently pull you onto his lap and whisper, “You’re being real loud for someone who wants to walk tomorrow.” All while sipping his drink like nothing happened.

Instead of “I love you,” he says “You’d be lost without me.” But if you say it first? He’ll blink slow and go, “Yeah. I love you too” Like it was obvious.

Surprisingly affectionate. He’ll play with your hair when you’re sitting together, doodle your name on the sides of his lyric pages, send you blurry animal memes captioned “us.”

He won’t say much, but he knows when your mood drops. Doesn’t make a big deal of it, just puts on your comfort show and hands you your favorite drink without a word.

Secretly protective. He’ll tease you mercilessly, but the moment someone else even thinks about doing the same, he switches up completely. “That’s cute, but they didn’t ask for your opinion.” Cold eyes. Tight jaw. Suddenly very serious.

He can change his tone so fast. Can go from deadpan and chill to teasing in 0.2 seconds. “You really thought you were gonna win that argument?”

NSFW

Talks. So. Much. Shit. Half of it makes you want to slap him, the other half has your legs shaking. “You get like this just from my fingers? You sure you’re ready for my cock?”

Whispers the filthiest things while he’s holding you like you’re fragile. Face buried in his chest, blanket pulled up to your chin, and he’s like, “You looked so pretty choking on my cock earlier. Gonna dream about it tonight.”

Power trips like crazy when you’re a mess for him. Will literally say things like, “Look at you can’t even think straight. I did that. That’s all me.”

WANTS you to squirm. The more flustered and needy you get, the calmer and cockier he becomes. “Aww, look at you. You can’t even talk. What happened to all that attitude, hm?”

His tone of voice drops so low when he's serious. No more playful teasing, just a sharp, commanding, almost cruel tone that makes your knees go weak. “You think I’m gonna be gentle with you after the way you acted today?”

Big on control. Likes manhandling you, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other is between your legs

Doesn’t let you win unless he wants you to. If you try to tease him, he’ll raise a brow like, “Cute.” And then absolutely rail you until your legs give out.

Definitely a neck-grabber. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you squirm. Especially when you talk back. “Watch your mouth. Or I’ll find better ways to keep it busy.”

Obsessed with your thighs. Bites them. Slaps them. Sleeps with his head between them like they’re his personal comfort zone. “Best pillow I’ve ever had.”

Favorite thing? When you ride him. Claims he’s letting you take control but ends up grabbing your hips and slamming you down harder, just to watch your reaction

Calls you things like “pretty thing” and “baby” in the most degrading way possible.

Possessive in the hottest way. Leaves bite marks just below where clothes cover. Grips your jaw and makes you look at him when you’re close. “Eyes on me, babe.”

Loves to drag things out. Kisses up your thighs and just stops before touching where you need him. Smirks while you beg. “Patience, sweetheart. You’ll thank me later.”

Loves hearing you beg. The more whiny and desperate, the better. He’ll edge you for hours just to hear you plead. “Say please real sweet for me and maybe I’ll let you cum.”

Gets off on making you cry from pleasure. Not sad tears the broken, shaking, can’t-take-it-anymore kind. He’ll wipe them with his thumb and chuckle. “Tears already? We just started.”

He’ll intentionally overstimulate himself just to keep up with you. Like if you're still needy after he finishes, he'll mutter, “So fuckin' greedy,” and keep going anyway, groaning while you squirm. He lives for it.

He’s mean in the moment, but afterward? You’re immediately getting cuddled, praised, fed snacks, and hes putting you into one of his shirts. “You did so good for me. C’mere, lemme hold you.”

But if you ever use your safeword? His demeanor changes instantly. “Okay, okay. You good? Talk to me, baby.” Holds your hand, kisses your forehead. Doing anything that you ask of him

Divider by: @cafekitsune

My Kpop Demon Hunters Masterlist

[eden-axe]

Wrong Sparks p2

Summary: During an argument with Eddie, Volt gets upset with you and kicks you out of the bar, unknowingly hurting you. And now he must make things right.

Part 1

Eddie/Volt x gn!reader

Warnings: Yelling, minor violence, mentions of dying, hurt/comfort

Words: 3865

When Dorian returned he was relieved to see you smiling as you beat Curt & Rod in a game of cards. Betty helped you play by holding your last card, placing it down on the bed. She used her other hand to cover her mouth as her shoulders shook.

“Hey don’t get it twisted we let you win. So don't even think about bragging" Rod threw his cards on the bed, and pointed a finger at you. Curt nodded, and turned his head to pout.

You laughed, but stopped and allowed a smile to beam across your face when you noticed Dorian had entered the room. He quickly puts his hands behind his back as you pat the bed, becking him to come over. When he took his spot in front of the bathroom you asked about Eddie, but he noticed you hesitate before asking about Volt.

”Eddie is doing alright. Volt...” He thought about telling you the truth, but looking at your eager face. He sighed, “He's… calmed down a bit, but I ain’t allowing him back till you get better.”

You wanted to argue, but everyone else, even Betty, agreed to Dorian’s suggestion. You surrendered and fell back into Betty’s chest and agreed with a wave. Curt started a new round of cards while Rod tried to get Dorian to play a round, even roped you into recruitment. But Dorian remained standing tall at his position.

The next three days passed by pretty quickly for you, with everyone stopping by to wish you well on your recovery. Mitchell always stopped by with meals made by Stepan; or a Freddy Yeti ice cream. The three of them made sure the food was good, persevered, and beautiful. “Only the best for our dear human, and my personal dining companion.” Mitchell would always say whenever you thanked him.

Amir would switch your bandages whenever Farya took a break. You didn’t know why but him seeing your arm scared you, but he always made sure to compliment you, even the beauty of the scar. “They paint your arm like lightning. It is a reflection of you: bold, strikingly beautiful, and a light in the dark. Azizam, they may have come from pain, but do not let it harm your smile, you are a work of art. If you wish not to believe me, ask Artt.”

After learning that Curt and Rod played cards with you Parker stormed into your room, not even Dorian could keep him out, and boy did he try. Parker brought so many games and tried to set each and every one of them up in different spaces in your room. If it weren’t for Chance who followed in behind him and helped narrow down the game list you might have hurt your other hand from all the dice rolling that awaited. Though when it did come time to play duopoly, Chance rolled for you both. When you beat Curt and Rod at another game they claimed Chance was cheating on your behalf, and Parker argued that he would know if there was cheating. But he never did say if there was any foul play.

Even Reggie managed to stop by, and despite wanting to tell you to dump your ‘boy toys,’ he played nice. You and him went on his dating profile, one he used specifically to find new and fun ways to reject people. While you didn’t want to break up with Eddie or Volt, finding people who looked, acted, or hell even worked at a bar or club like they did, and rejecting them the worst way you could was slightly therapeutic. Though it did make you miss your lovers even more, scared they thought about leaving you, but Reggie reluctantly reassured you, “You’re a catch sweet thing, you don’t get rejected. You do the rejecting.” And that did make you feel better.

Though only one person made you feel like nothing was wrong with your situation. It was the only person allowed free entry without being questioned by Dorian, Beverly. She was your best friend, one of the first people, things? You awakened, and besides Dorian, was your first friend. She always brought a new drink for you to both try, even spiced things up by having Phoneicia show her some cocktails that were trending. Most however landed you with Jean Loo, who awkwardly patted your back from the terrible mix of alcohol. Although it always led you guys to have a fun laugh by the end of the night.

After the third day she brought in a new drink, you don’t remember what it was, but it tasted awful, but familiar. It was the first drink you ever tried to mix yourself after hours at the Breaker Box. Eddie and Volt wanted you to try it. Volt had the bright idea of letting you fly solo on the mix, which resulted in the awful tasting drink you manage to keep down now. Beverly ran to spit the drink out in the bathroom sink, while you just sat and nursed the rest of the bad tasting alcohol. The same way Eddie would when you first met him.

Beverly came back and saw the sad look you gave the glass. She carefully took the glass from you and placed it on the nightstand and gave you a hug. You held her closely as you let the tears finally fall. You missed Eddie and Volt, a lot.

Despite the quick passing of time for you, Eddie and Volt felt it had been the longest three days of their life. Dorian refused to let them in your room. He kept saying ‘you're resting’, despite them hearing your laughing, or watched him let in another object right before they arrived. So on the fourth day, Eddie decided to reopen the Breaker Box for a night. Eddie was starting to get restless with nothing to do and Dorian not even giving them an update on your condition was driving Volt insane

Yet despite this, the bar was nearly empty. No one even came to perform; not even Johnny. So while closing they were talking about why why no one showed.

"It's because you hurt them pretty bud." Cam heckled. Volt doesn’t know why it aggravated him, but he remains calm, not wanting to repeat his angry state again. He acknowledged he was rough, but he didn't break be anything, he hoped. At that thought he grew nervous and made his presence suffocating, just wanting an answer.

"You seriously think that's why everyone is avoiding this place? Because of a small sprained wrist. It’s bigger than that dipshits. No one wants to be around you.”

"You're here" Eddie huffed out, he didn’t like any attitude given to his partners, that was his job.

Cam sat back and lifted his empty glass "I like the booze & boo's”

Eddie goes to say something, but Volt stops him, “Please continue. What happened?”

"Hold on" Cam rolled his eyes and grabbed a napkin from, no where anyone wanted to know. He goes on to write something. He got up and put money on the table "Don't open tomorrow. I’m doing this for the human, and I better get free drinks next time I’m here. This is a one time favor!"

Cam got up to leave, but neither of the two bartenders stopped him.

Dorian opened the door & was surprised to see Cam. Cam held out the napkin limply, “It’s for the human.” He paused for a second, pulling the napkin back, “Don’t toss it, I’ll know. Then I’ll… break down the door? …nah. Create a fire escape hazard out of trash? Yeah, that.” Cam then immediately left as Dorian took the napkin. Dorian was confused, and slightly disgusted at the damp napkin that rested in his hand.

Dorian closed the door as you asked who it was. He just silently handed you the napkin. You looked at him, he just mirrored your expression. You read the letter and, to which you immediately knew it was not written by your boys, but by your long time frenemy. It read:

’Come by the bar tmmr, bring Dorian it you want -E&V’

It warmed your heart seeing Cam try to help. You laughed and put it on your night stand

“I want to see Eddie and Volt tomorrow,” Dorian was about to object, “Farya said I was doing better, bandage is off now.” You wiggled your hand, the extent of the injury a sight you were willing to tolerate.

He hesitates, still not in a good mood with the two, “I’m going with you.”

“Wouldn’t want you anywhere else.” You grabbed his hand, and squeezed it. You were grateful he trusted you more than he hated them. He knew he couldn’t keep you from them forever, but if it was for your happiness, he would back off a bit.

Volt paced the floor, while Eddie had been drying the same glass for 5 minutes.

Outside the door, you stared at the door, nervous to even touch it again. You stared at Dorian, who only nodded, knowing what you wanted to ask. He offered his arm, and you wrapped your injured hand around his forearm. It was hidden in a loose sweater, provided by the sweet Mateo. The second your hand wrapped around Dorian’s bicep, your trembling hand stopped. You let out a breath of relief as Dorian opened the door.

When you entered the bar Volt stopped in his tracks and moved closer, but froze when Dorian stepped in front of you.

It was so silent, Volt swore you could hear his heart tear a bit, "Live wire I did not mean to be so rough with you that day. I got too protective over Eddie when I— when I saw him blow fuse, but you're also my heart. I did not protect you rather caused harm, both physical & emotional. I'm truly sorry for that.”

You nodded and looked around for Eddie, who walk over from the bar, ”I'm sorry for not stopping Volt, or going after you-”

"That was my fault, & I should apologize to you Eddie. They are your lover too, should. I had no right keeping you both apart.”

”Ahem.” Dorian spoke and they both straightened up to looked back at you.

Eddie continues "And I'm really sorry I was rude when you only wanted to help. But please understand, I just wanted you to recover first. I was scared that you’d only end up more hurt, and if you did while under my care… Still it wasn’t right of me to make a choice for you.

Volt put his hand on Eddie's shoulder, "And I'm sorry, again, for unknowingly causing more harm to your wrist. If I may ask, is it feeling better now?"

Volt held out his hand, his eyes bleeding with concern, but his smile overlooked it with hope. You slowly remove your hand from Dorian and bring your hand to touch Volt's. But when you both make contact he sees the slightly faded lightning scars creep up your hand. He grabs your hand firmly in his. It doesn’t hurt, but the quick action surprised you, so you let out a yelp. Volt quickly released you, his smile full of hope, pried open in horror. Dorian pulled you behind him.

“Live-Y/N. What happened? Your hand…" Volt’s hand matches the tremor in yours.

"You did.” Dorian growled "When you kicked em’ to the curb, you shocked them so badly they were bloody out of it for two days. Your ‘little’ shock even fried the datviators. fried the technology into their octaval nerves, and now Skylar's been missing ever since! Glasses don't even do nothin’ no more.”

Volt looks shocked at the news, but Eddie asks first, "Live wire is this true?"

You don't respond, just lift up the loose sleeve and allowed the scars riding up your arms to answer his question.

“You’re pretty lucky their hand has been recovering quite well over the last few days. They weren't able to feel it after the second time you shocked em’” Dorian gently grabs your sleeve and pulls it down. "Second?" Eddie was seething looking at Volt, who looked panicked.

"It wasn't intentional, I just felt their presence near a current and got annoyed. I swear I didn't know I shocked them. You! I You! I didn't know I shocked you I swear. I would never, I don’t think, I-” Volt’s hair was sparking and you could see tears formed in his eyes. He couldn’t remember much of that day, it was all a blur, even before the performance, he couldn’t even remember if he talked to you, or if you slipped in right as the show started.

Eddie balled his hands into fists, he now understood why Dorian punched him; and if he was honest with himself, he wanted to do the same. Before he could make any decision you were in front of him, holding his fist. You shook your head and opened his fist and used it to touch Volt. Eddie knew that in this state touching Volt would be dangerous for anything, or anyone, who was vulnerable to be electrocuted.

“Volt.” Eddie didn’t realize how much he missed your voice until he heard it again. It was soft, gentle. Eddie knows that tone from nights where he doesn’t feel enough, and you lightly scolded him. It was the same voice you used when they had to make the choice to restart the breaker and he tried to back out at the last second. But hearing this tone being used on Volt, the man who was the main source of warmth in your relationship. It was scary.

You were also scared of the direction you were all going, and somewhere buried deep down, even angry. You were the one who was hurt, so why were you comforting the one who hurt you?

You didn’t want to think about it now, so you pressed on. You moved Eddie’s hand to Volt’s face, and that is when Eddie intervened, moving your hand away. Volt’s face was dangerous in any situation, but now only because it was too close to his sparking hair.

You breathe, “Volt, I’m here. Eddie is here. I’m not leaving you. I want to talk.”

Volt’s eyes glow, as his cheeks turned into a blue hue. He yelled as Dorian pulled you back, “Why aren’t you angry at me!”

You pull away from Dorian and march over to Volt. You pause for a moment, and hit him in the gut. He doubles over and looks at you, sparks gone, wide eyed. Eddie and Dorian take a step back, never had you talked about being violent, or even wishing harm on anyone, or thing. Where did you even learn that kind of punch?

You shook out your fist and yelled back, “I am angry! For so many reasons, but right now only because you think I’m going to leave!” Volt is stunned, and as Eddie helps him back up you grab his hand, “I’m angry you didn’t listen. I’m angry you shocked me. I’m angry Cam had to send a letter to you. I’m angry at… I’m angry at how much I missed you both.”

You didn’t even know you were crying until Eddie wiped your tears away, “Live wire…”

You hold his wrist with your bad hand, “But I’m grateful you let me have time. Even if Dorian stopped you every time.” You glanced back at Dorian, who blushed and rubbed his neck.

“You knew ‘bout that?”

“Of course I did, Bev tells me everything.” You laughed as Dorian looked annoyed at how much he trusted that cocktail menace. You looked back towards your boys, and grabbed Volt’s hand with your unblemished hand. “I feel so many different things when I’m with you both, even if they aren’t pleasant. And I will admit it might take time to give into your affection again, but I know you’ll work hard. You’ve never pushed beyond my limit before, I’m sure you’re still good at that.”

Volt nodded and gripped your hand. Eddie brought your hand to his lips, and kissed each line that bloomed from your wrist. To their surprise you started laughing and trying to get away from Eddie.

“Eddie no! Don’t you dare continue! That tickles!” Eddie quickly let go of confusion and concern. Dorian silently left the bar, he knew that from here everything would be just fine.

“I thought you said you couldn’t feel your hand live wire?” Volt asked, rubbing the back of your hand gently.

You tried to calm your laughing fit down, but it took a bit before everything was released, “I did, and that is true. Ha…. But luckily Farya is a trained doctor and did wonders on it. Aka she treated it well.”

“Well then I’ll have to thank her later then.” Eddie sighed, but was silent compared to the loud sigh Volt let out.

Volt stared at you for a while, not knowing what to say or do. He didn’t know how he could ever make it up to you, but he knew if he wanted to, it had to start here.

“Let’s get something good to drink. Bev’s been torturing me with shitty internet cocktails,” You dragged Volt to the bar and sat down and pushed him to the bar. You looked at Eddie and patted the seat next to you. Your smile was mischievous, “He’s on bar duty for us until I say so. And you are gonna help me drink cause, ya know.” You lift your shaking hand.

Eddie rolled his eyes as Volt started on the drink. You were going to milk this, and neither was going to complain, they loved treating you like this anyways, so it was already a set towards getting back to something normal.

Over the next few days people started returning back to the Breaker Box, even Johnny returned, and no one knew how to feel about it. His bad singing made this place feel homey some days. You hadn’t shown up yet, something that wasn’t normal for the two, even before the fight, you’d either show up before opening, or before the show. Volt grew nervous that you didn’t want to see him. He thought he had been on his best behavior. Volt was jolted from his worries as Eddie placed a black looking liquid onto the bar.

“Give it to Cam, on the house. Again.” Eddie rolled his eyes, not a fan of free drinks unless for you, but you told them to give Cam a free drink every now and then. Only until you had the courage to kiss Volt again. That was the worst part. You were absolutely serious about withholding your affections from Volt. Volt respected the boundaries of touch, he had ever since it was only him and Eddie, but not being able to touch you was painful. He gave Cam his drink, who looked at him smugly. Cam knew being on a line between friendly and rude with you had perks, but didn’t know it would bring good perks.

After everyone filed out, there was still no sign of you. This even brought Eddie to get anxious, but for a different reason. He still had that same worry that you were helping someone when you were injured. “They’re fine. They are an adult and know their limits. They. Are. Fine.” Eddie muttered to himself each time he moved to leave the bar and go find you.

When they finished cleaning up and were about to lock up, you burst through the door. “Guys!”

“Live wire! You’re alright!” Volt explained rushing over to you, but stopped when he realized he was about to hug you.

You looked at him bewildered, face scrunched up, “Of course I am? Anyways you won’t believe it!”

“What could have you buzzing this late sparks?” Eddie moved in closer.

You bounce on your toes and rush to the door, pulling someone in, “It’s Skylar!”

Volt’s face looked horrified at her presence, he was so focused on hurting you, it didn’t even register that he almost killed Skylar. He quickly fixed his face into a smile, “Skylar! I’m so glad you’re alright. I must apologize, I did not intend to get you mixed in. I mean I didn’t mean to—”

“Hehe, I get it, don't worry.” Skylar waves him off playfully, “It felt nice though. I wasn’t just in the glasses anymore. I was everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” Eddie sounded suspicious at how that sounded.

“Yeah, while she was ‘gone’ she was able to see everything that was connected by electricity. Even the telephone poles outside, and what was down the block!” You match Skylar’s enthusiasm

“It was so fun! I’ve never been outside before!” Skylar was practically floating while she talked so animatedly. “We spent the entire day talking about what’s out there, who’s out there, and even why it's out there! Can you believe that?”

Eddie and Volt share a confused glance, “I guess not?”

You wave to Skylar as she leaves, turning back to them. Volt watched her leave, “So is she not in the glasses anymore?”

“She is, but we’re kinda linked now?” You linked your pinkies together, “Like she gave me her powers, and I gave her my ability to leave. That’s what we’ve settled on for an explanation. Her suspension of disbelief and all, it was very happy with that.”

“So you weren’t mad at us- me?” Volt asked, and you felt your heart ready to burst. He looked like a kicked puppy, and you really couldn’t resist him much more.

You put your shaky hand on his cheek, then slowly down to his neck. He hummed and closed his eyes, taking whatever you were willing to give him. “No, I do love you, and I really don’t plan on leaving.” You quickly pulled him down by the back of his neck. The kiss wasn’t quick, but Volt wished it lasted longer. He let you take the lead as you bit his lip, he moaned as he felt his knees grow weak. You were gentle, but forceful, nearly pushing him backwards. He went to grab your waist, but paused. You pulled away for a second, and he tried to chase your lips, but you quickly pulled his hands to grip your waist before you dove back in; and before you could take the kiss any further you heard Eddie groan.

“Thank the amps above. I can stop giving that trashy bastard free drinks” You laugh and pull away, leaving your hand resting on Volt’s chest. Volt squeezed you, not wanting to let go, but glaring at Eddie, who just walked up to you and gave you a chaste kiss, and patted Volt on the shoulder as he walked away back to their room.

“Can I stay for a night?” You batted your eyelashes at Volt. Who short-circuited for a moment before smiling an uneven smile.

“Of course darling, anything you’d” You removed his hand from your waist.

“No touching.” Volt groaned, but followed quickly behind you, glad his efforts were not in vain.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes: OMGOMGOMG THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR THE LOVE ON PART 1!!!!!! I really wanted to write a resolution that wasn't just "I forgive you" bc I don't think that is fair to the reader, you, or myself. I hope this ending was a good one for you all. I think it ended in the best way it could, all while having a happy end! And thank you to everyone who wanted to be tagged! That was truly a surreal moment to have so many people want to see what happens next!

Also this two parter might be part of a longer series of Eddie, Volt, and you having a poly relationship. It was actually started on the idea of Bev being your first friend and introducing you guys! Let me know if you want to see that sometime in the future!

Again I do have requests open, just check my pinned post! and uhhhhh eat your greens?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@animeweeb99 @redjeanjacket @error-cant-function @dwaniee @mae-jingles @haileybugulug @eaterof-concrete @handmade-witch @hauntingthissite @girlwithadragonheart @theautisticwriter @shadowdreamer22 @btsgangleader @ididntwantto-signup @miss-ecto @fandomaddict505 @josie-mia @lonigiri @trixie541 @bloodrime @noihatemyself @miloonmetis @ghost-heart34 @writing-munchies @kaechu1 @sapphirest0nes @hon3ydewcaram3l @icarus-falling-down @obeyme4life @twinkyjohnson @main-acc-of-zhonglis-spear @mumberie0 @council-of-colors @bats-wings @sleepy159 @m0nst3r-mash @angelicsoul16 @nex-is-an-idiot @mamorukimura @funosmotic @alocaldemisexual02

[phantalgia]

This shit is the fucking worse. I swear. I’m self concious and insecure as is. And my Doctor is making out my suffering to not be that bad. With this whole hyperventilating thing reductionism. Literally good days, good weeks, good months. But sometimes. Bad hours, sometimes bad days. It makes me doubt I suffer.

I havent been able to stop thinking about all the signs that something wasnt right. That this isnt just anxiety. There's a bigger picture here I’m not being told. And I keep getting that help and ability to form that picture taken from.

It doesnt help that my therapist (although he does his best) is also reductionist in the anxiety realm. Like I wish they all would just say yeah you’re complicated and valid. I feel shut off from everything. It's all up to me now.

And because I have to essentially semi self diagnose. It makes it less real or authentic to others. Or that it's "all in my head". Literally sick of "just anxiety". There is no "just anxiety" even if it was it's still just as physical. That is so much strain on the body it becomes crippling when it's chronic or all you know.

Oh but I guess that just means I’m "weak" and need to take responsibility for myself. Whatever gets their inspiration porn addiction going. When I HAVE been taking responsibility. Trying to reach out and getting slapped in the face and told "you’re just anxious". Fuck man. You cant please these fuckers.

And I love my doctor. He could be worse but even he's not immune to the whole thing. I don’t know what kind of culture the medical field cultivates. I can only make guesses based on "capital and co" and heirarchy as the foundation. But it's a real pain LITERALLY going through this shit.

Every week I complain about physical symptoms "just breathe into a bag". But it's like no no no. This shit is just happening passively. Yes there are triggers. Yes I know I’m anxious and highly sensitive. Which NONE OF YOU ABLE BODIED FUCKERS UNDERSTAND.

"Just anxiety" is just the most painful thing to hear. Even people with chronic anxiety or occasional anxiety just say it to others. Anxiety-realism. Literally. Anxiety has been sterilized and become meaningless as a word to describe a sensation unique to each person yet chronic in a collective so high on "the grind" that when some people fall down. And fall down in complex ways. Theyre seen as weak. They have been afflicted with the "anxiety" psychosomatic bug. It's in their brain and cant possibly be seen as an interwoven complex issues of a culture hellbent on extracting every ounce of your money, time, soul, mental health, physical health. EVEN JUST BEFORE YOURE BORN.

It's painful. The strides I've been making in my reach for authenticity, honesty, and transformation. It's often seen as an exaggeration. That going out of the house while second nature to most had been anxiety and stress inducing to me till the point my body couldnt take it anymore along with covid and surgery. That regardless I’m fighting for a life i want given these curses which have at the same time brought me the gift of seeing life differently in more holistic ways. Outside of binary positive/negative norms that people just don’t understand.

I’m fighting hard and the celebration is quieter than a whisper. I’m grateful to be able to celebrate and mourn my body and strides. And maybe the quiet isnt so bad. I can put on my own music. Move and groove at my own pace.

But it is painful. It's painful having been the one lost to time all your life. The after thought to everything. My celebrations go quiet because it's all just me and my Dad's twilight years. To not be sure where to go next. To find connection with likeminded, similar minded creatures. That one day you just "woke up" but it was a build up to that moment for sure. But you just woke up one day. And now you’re confused. Where do you go next?

I want to do more for my communities. But it can be hard. It can even be hard to find a sense of it. When you need help. When I need help getting through a scary episode...who will be there?

It's not hard to imagine a world where we have that culture. But the culture is too realist or worse chronically pessemistic that it becomes narcissistic.

Invisible disabilities are strange. They can put you in the inbetween world. Where nothing is consistent. And people don’t like inconsistency. It makes them uncomfortable. When it's just a reality. It's liminal. I remember saying how last year every day felt like groundhog day. It was the same day over and over and over again. It still is in a lot of ways.

There's a battle of identity insecurity that goes on. To conform to able bodied standards but to also conform to disabled body standards. You cant win in this world. If you’re better it must mean you’re fine. But if not. You must be sick. But if it keeps oscillating between the two. Then you must be "delusional" or "just anxious".

You scream and bang on the door begging them to please look at this. I said that my symptoms were unprecedented to my doctor. And all I got was a "well no theyre not, anyone can have these symptoms given hyperventilating". The curiosity ends there, hit a brick wall. Nothing moves forward.

It's my own little space of hell for me. I thought that the physical stuff was the hell. It really is the least of it. I know what I need and what to do when they happen. What is really hell is other people.

being chronically ill with fluctuating symptoms is so annoying because when it's at it's worst im like "okay i desperately need some type of mobility aid right now, i haven't been able to leave my house in days" but then i'm able to go for a walk one day and suddenly i feel like im exaggerating my symptoms and that i actually can walk fine and it would just be embarrassing and pointless to ask for a mobility aid assessment

but like ... not struggling as much one day doesn't take away from the days that i struggle the most

our pain is valid even when it's not at it's worst and we deserve the accommodations we need even if we don't always need them at all times

[hatethysinner]

kinda messed up toxic!remmick x pregnant reader

ᴛᴏxɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ

ᴀ/ɴ: NOTHING IS TOO MESSED UP FOR ME ANON!! please heed the warnings, they are there for your benefit <33! went more serious than my normal headcanon writing bc even though i love writing dark themes i never want to come off as too silly when approaching these topics. i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MDNI (!!!!!!), shamelessly gratuitous smut, unapologetically dark (!!!), malicious fluff (i'm coining this), obsession, manipulation, isolation, lovebombing, dubcon (!!!), noncon (!!!), mental/emotional abuse (!!!), heavily abused power dynamic (!!!), breeding kink, pregnancy kink, lactation kink, praise/degradation kink, cunnilingus, fingering, p in v, free use, overstimulation, dacryphilia, unreliable narrator-ish, read at your own discretion

remmick loves you so much it’s suffocating. tells you so every single day, in a voice dripping honey, in words soft enough to be a lullaby. “ain’t nobody in this world loves ya like i do, darlin’. not your friends, not your family. nobody.”

and he’s so good at making you believe it. at making you think he’s the only one who ever could.

he’s doting in ways that would be sweet if it wasn’t all followed by iron chains. he insists on cooking every meal for you, pressing kisses to your temple as he sets a plate in front of you, murmuring, “gotta keep my best girl strong. my baby needs ya strong.” he does the chores, every single one, moving around the house like a gentle shadow, humming while he sweeps, while he folds your clothes, while he rubs oil into your growing belly at night.

he draws your baths, tests the water with his fingers, carries you to the tub if your feet are sore. he brushes and combs through your hair with long, careful strokes, cooing, “such a pretty girl. my pretty little wife.” and sometimes it almost makes you forget the other side of him.

almost makes you forget the hours he’ll lock you in your room when he’s angry, pacing on the other side of the door, telling you it’s for your own good. makes you forget how you never get a private moment anymore, not even to bathe or change clothes, because he’s always there, eyes tracking every breath you take, every twitch of your fingers.

he buys you gifts constantly, filling the house with flowers and silks and gold, draping you in it like he’s gilding a shrine. but you’re not allowed to go out and show it off. “don’t want all them eyes on ya, baby. you’re mine to look at. mine to keep.”

he isolates you, sweetly. softly. makes sure you know the world outside the house is cruel, full of people who’d never understand you the way he does. “ain’t safe out there for a pretty thing like ya. folks’d try to hurt ya. i’d kill ‘em if they did.”

sometimes you believe him. sometimes you want to run. but even the thought of running makes your stomach flip, because you can’t imagine where you’d go without him. you can’t imagine being alone.

and he loves you so thoroughly that you start thinking maybe you’re the one who’s being cruel. for doubting him. for crying when he touches you. for saying no. for not wanting him every time he wants you.

because he always wants you.

he’s obsessed with the way you look carrying his baby. the round swell of your belly, the fullness of your breasts. runs his palms over you like he’s petting something precious, voice low and reverent. “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful, baby. didn’t think it was possible for ya to get prettier, but look at ya now. full of me. just like y’should be.”

he talks about putting more babies in you before you’ve even had this one. about keeping you pregnant for the rest of your life. about how your body was made for this. “gonna keep ya so full, folks won’t even remember what you looked like before i bred ya.”

he adores your milk. even before it’s fully come in, he’s latched to your tits whenever he can get them, licking and suckling and praising you for how sweet you taste, even if you’re crying. especially if you’re crying. “shh, darlin’. let me have it. s’just me. always gonna be just me.”

he’s always touching you. even when he’s pretending to be gentle. fingers stroking your belly, your thighs, slipping between your legs while he murmurs, “need to make sure you’re still stretchin’ nice f’me. can’t have ya closin’ up on me now.”

he’ll tell you how good you are in one breath and tear you down in the next, lips soft against your ear. “such a good girl lettin’ me use ya like this. my sweet little broodmare. nothin’ but a hole to keep my kids warm.” and when you sob, he groans, hips snapping harder. “cry all y’want, sugar. ain’t gonna stop me.”

he lives for the taste of those tears too. for the way your voice goes high and broken when you’re crying and coming at the same time. loves licking the salt off your cheeks and telling you how pretty you are when you cry. “ain’t no sight sweeter than my girl in tears. means i’m doin’ my job right.”

eating you out isn’t even something he asks permission for. you’re his. he’ll spread your thighs, mouth hot and relentless, licking you until your legs shake and your tears spill, ignoring your babbled pleas to stop. loves how your blood sings under your skin when you’re aroused, how your pulse hammers, how your body betrays you even when you’re trying to crawl away.

and fucking you while you’re pregnant is nonnegotiable. he’ll go slow sometimes, murmuring about how delicate you are, but most nights it’s ruthless. bent over the bed, your swollen belly bouncing with every thrust, your breath catching on sobs as he snarls, “takin’ me so good, even with my baby inside ya. gonna stretch ya wider. gonna make room for all the rest.”

he uses your body whenever the urge strikes him. nothing and nowhere is off limits. slides his cock between your thighs while you’re folding baby clothes, or pushes you up against the pantry shelves while dinner’s bubbling on the stove. he’ll slip his fingers between your legs while you’re half-asleep on the couch, or drop to his knees to eat you out right there on the countertop. sometimes he bends you over the bathroom sink, fucking you slow and deep while steam curls around you both, and other times it’s fast, frantic rutting on the front porch as moonlight spills over your bare skin. sometimes he comes just from grinding against you, his fangs scraping your neck, red eyes rolling back as he groans, “can’t help it, baby. can’t fuckin’ help it.”

but remmick never seems satisfied, no matter how many times he takes you. he’ll fuck into you for hours, fingers or tongue or cock never stopping, dragging you over the edge again and again until you’re shaking so hard you can’t hold onto him anymore. even when you’re sobbing, whispering you can’t take any more, he only kisses your temple and murmurs, “just a little longer, darlin’. just one more.” and that’s when he finally bares his fangs and sinks them into your throat, drinking you down as your body convulses around him, making sure the last thing you feel is the bright, dizzy pleasure of giving him everything he wants.

and you want to hate him for it. you know you should. but sometimes, curled against his chest, feeling the weight of his palm over your growing belly, hearing him whisper how you’re his whole world, you wonder if maybe this is love after all.

because you can’t remember what it felt like to breathe without him.

[studioeisa]

the way the cookie crumbles 🍪 chan x reader.

you need one good story to get your career off the ground. lee chan is on a mission to try every chocolate chip cookie in seoul. better start somewhere, right?

🍪 pairing.  interviewee!lee chan x food journalist!reader.  🍪 word count.  14.4k.  🍪 genre/warnings.  alternate universe: non-idol. slice of life, romance, angst, hurt/comfort. mentions of food, disease (which neither mcs have); profanity. themes of food/memory/grief, svt ensemble as journalists. 🍪 footnotes.  this is part of the milestone: 100 collab. it’s been a while since i’ve written something that i feel like actually means something, and this is that fic for me. it’s my soul on a baking sheet, and i’m grateful that i got the chance to bring it to life. the two halves of my heart, a @chugging-antiseptic-dye & tara @diamonddaze01, proofread the outline for this months ago. thank you, @eclipsaria, @nerdycheol, @gyubakeries, and @shinysobi for the trust!!! 🎵 recommended listening ⸻ the way the cookie crumbles.

It’s taunting—the way the Google Docs cursor is blinking up at you. 

You swear you’re going mad. How long have you been staring at this empty document? An hour? Three? 

You heave out a sigh, slouching at your work desk until your forehead has landed on your mechanical keyboard. A couple of keys are smashed in the process, and you find an intelligible smatter of letters on your screen when you look up. 

That’s the most progress The Story has had in a couple of days, unfortunately. 

“You know,” a bemused voice calls from behind you, “maybe you’re trying too hard.” 

The thought draws a snort of laughter from you. Trying too hard. It’s more like you’re not trying hard enough. How else to explain the sheer lack of progress in what was supposed to be your magnum opus? 

You don’t wheel around to face your workmate. You already know who it is, anyway. 

“Easy for you to say,” you grumble. “Aren’t you accepting a Hinzpeter Award next week, Mr. Humans-Write-Recipes-Better-Than-A.I.?”

Joshua lets out a low chuckle at the light jab about his capital-s Story. You poked your fun at your senior, but you had to give credit where credit was due; the article had been a riveting read, and Joshua deserves all his flowers for tackling it with such finesse. 

“It’ll be your award next year,” he says with a certainty that should be comforting. 

Instead, it reminds you of looming deadlines, of your prickly Editor-in-Chief, of your empty fucking Google Doc. Another sigh. This time, heavier. 

“Or Seungkwan’s,” you say. “His ‘swicy’ story is doing crazy rounds on SNS right now.” 

That was Seungkwan’s Story: A bold declaration of sweet and spicy— aptly called ‘swicy’— being the flavor of the 2025 food scene. Even the new guy, Vernon, had already managed to write something worth reading. Some feature about how foreign candy puts American candy to shame. 

And you? Dozens of listicles and a couple of How-To’s later, you’ve yet to make your dent in The Korea Post’s Food beat. 

You can’t see Joshua’s face, but you can imagine his expression when he sympathetically chides, “What did I say about comparing yourself to other people?” 

You swivel around in your computer chair. Sure enough, Joshua is sporting a disapproving look.

“I’m not comparing myself to Seungkwan,” you say defensively. “I’m just factually saying that his article has over twenty thousand hits already.” 

“Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” 

Joshua’s demeanor softens a bit when he notices the palpable frustration on your face. “You’ll get there,” he reassures. “I’m sure you’re closer to it than you think.”

You’re tempted to call Joshua out for the platitude, to wax poetics about the Google Doc collecting cobwebs on your screen. Instead, you flash him a tight smile and go to change the topic—bringing up instead his most recent baking endeavor. 

By the time Joshua has flounced away to go bother someone else, you’re ready to call it a day. Head home with your tail between your legs and watch Culinary Class Wars until you crash. It sounds as good of a plan as any, you gingerly think as you click on to Reddit one last time. 

Crawling the web was typically a good source for inspiration. You’d been coming up empty-handed for the past couple weeks, but it never hurt to try. As you click through r/foodkr, your mind wanders to mala cream shrimp dim sum and—

A post catches your eye. You have to backtrack a bit to check it out, having scrolled too fast the first time around. 

r/foodkr • 2hrs ago pichanlin

I want to try EVERY CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE in Seoul 😃

Now that I have your attention: Please name a cafe/bakeshop that sells chocolate chip cookies. Criteria: MUST be in Seoul, should be PURELY chocolate chip (no raisins, nuts, et cetera). Price is NOT an issue. Even if you personally think it is the worst cookie known to man, please please please name it. I am on A MISSION.

↑  12  ↓     🗨  8     ↷  Share

It’s a lot to unpack. The abysmal use of all caps. The ambitious declaration. Who the hell is this ‘pichanlin’, and what sort of death wish does he have? You tongue the inside of your cheek. 

Closer than you think, Joshua had said. 

The words ring in the back of your head as you go to send an invite message to start chatting.

--

For all intents and purposes, user ‘pichanlin’ isn’t the type who looks insane.

He’s bright-eyed and boyish in his attractiveness. He looks like he’s around your age, too, though that’s an assumption you make solely based on his megawatt smile.

Lee Chan, he had introduced himself prior to your meetup at Taegeukdang Bakery. 

He sits across from you now, one leg crossed over the other. When the waiter comes to give him the warmed cookie he had ordered, he flashes the stranger a charming grin. It occurs to you that he’s not trying to be particularly winsome; it seems to be a natural quality. 

You notice that his order doesn’t come with a drink. 

“Just service water for me,” he explains when he catches your scrutinizing eye. “I’m already going to be blowing so much money on cookies, so I have to cheap out somewhere.” 

You respond with a fake laugh. Such was the life of working in a corporate-adjacent setting. Mastering the art of the fake laugh was a must, and you’re convinced you’ve somewhat perfected yours. 

You’re not on the same budget as Chan, so you can at least enjoy an iced latte. You absentmindedly stir the drink as you ask the million won question. “So, what’s up with this insane cookie run?” 

The query is posed to be one that’s almost casual. When Chan responds just as coolly, you figure that you’re partly to blame. 

“I like cookies,” he says simply. 

You offer him a tight grin. “I like coffee,” you say, “but you don’t see me running around the city chugging Americanos.” 

Chan’s responding laugh is far from fake. He sounds genuinely tickled. “Are you making fun of me?” he jokes, feigning hurt as he places a hand over his chest. “And here I thought you were a serious, no-nonsense journalist.” 

A part of you bristles at this virtual stranger trying to poke and prod at you. You know he’s kidding, but the topic of being serious at work is a sore spot you’ve yet to find a balm for. You sip at your drink to try and forget the fact. The coffee is scaldingly hot, which makes you wince. 

“I need to know what I’m getting into.” Your tone is surprisingly sage for your internal conflict. That gut feeling is beginning to tug again—that fear you’re pursuing a dead end, interviewing someone who’s not about to make sense.

It doesn’t help that Chan’s smile only breaks at your words. You want to snap that this isn’t a joke to you, but you’re trying to reign in that temper that’s given your editors so much grief in the past. 

Fuck it. You should cut your losses. Head home and consider this yet another freak hoping to find his five minutes of fame with a viral TikTok series that won’t get more than a couple hundred views. 

You open your mouth to excuse yourself to the bathroom from where you have no intentions of returning when Chan, seeming self-aware of how insane he sounds, motions for you to wait. He fishes through his backpack and—

It’s a map of the city. Not one of those folded, English maps you can pick up at the airport, promoting tourist traps like N Seoul Tower and Nami Island. No, it’s meticulously scribbled, with splotches of ink and hasty scribbles. Chan lays it out in the table between you with excruciating care, as if the map isn’t already battered with its torn edges and faint coffee stains. 

There are dozens of hand drawn, red pins, indicating what you can only presume are the destinations that Chan wants to hit. Pain d’echo. Aoitori Bakery. Samarkand. It’s extensive, obsessive, and the work of either a genius or a lunatic. 

Said genius-slash-lunatic smiles up at you, unashamed of what he’s presenting. “This,” huffs Chan, “is what you’re getting into.” 

Touché, you decide, as you settle back into your chair. 

--

Your editor, Minghao, doesn’t look impressed. 

To be fair, it’s hard to impress a man like Xu Minghao. A part of you feels silly, proposing this cross-country cookie run to him. Minghao is a serious journalist. He brings to the table—no pun intended—narratives that are unheard of in the field of food writing. 

His Story was a thrilling investigative on Chinese fleets and their impact on the seafood industry. It landed him in this gorgeous corner office, where he edits drafts with a 0.3mm Muji Gel Ink Ballpoint Pen. In red, of course. 

He’s holding that very pen now as he surveys your pitch, printed on an immaculately crisp piece of A4 paper. Minghao is old school like that. He doesn’t believe in Microsoft Word; he wants you to get blood on your hands, in the form of his editorial genius. 

He clicks his tongue. You wince, bracing for impact. 

Instead, you get grace. “This has potential,” he says. 

To hell with I love you. Those are the three words you want to hear most in the world. This has potential, from the world’s most anal proofreader. 

You exhale. Let your guard down. “But,” he starts, and you have to scramble to bring your wits back together. “You haven’t filled out this part.” 

You knew it’d be called out. Before Minghao can even tap his pen at the empty portion of your pitch, you’re already prepared. 

Rationale. That’s what you’re missing. The reason why Chan is trying to speedrun himself into diabetes. 

“Yeah, well.” You shift from one foot to another as Minghao peers at you from over his glasses. “I was hoping I could fill that out later on.” 

“You’ve got balls,” says Minghao dryly, “for making a pitch when you haven’t got a reason for it.” 

“It’s interesting.” 

“So is the fact that cheese is the most stolen food in the world, but you don’t see us writing 7,500CWS for that, do you?” 

You bite back a laugh. A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward despite himself. He’s not as formidable as people make him out to be. He just has the tendency to make interns want to cry, and writers question their entire existence. 

You were already full of doubt the moment you stepped into his office, so—it cancels out, you suppose. Minghao sees right through you nonetheless. 

“Is this guy a frustrated baker? Is he someone planning to start a bakery?” Minghao poses, handing you back your pitch. The carnage isn’t bad today. A couple of struck-out adverbs, some dangling sentences with eight question marks next to them.  “You’ll have to figure that out, or else your story will have no gravitas. It will float.” 

“Float,” you repeat, clutching your pitch closer to you. 

“Float,” he confirms. “Like an astronaut jettisoned out into space.” 

You’re not sure you get the analogy, but you suppose a man who gets paid an annual salary of ₩100,000,000 deserves to be a little cuckoo. He rattles off your deadlines. You mumble gratitude and get ready to chase leads for a short-form listicle. 

You’re only halfway out Minghao’s office door before you’re pulling out your phone from your pocket. It’s your latest saved contact, which makes things infinitely easier. 

To: [INTERVIEWEE] Lee Chan 🍪 I’m in. 

100% ▼   |   Normal text ▼   |   Arial   ▼     |   - 12 +   |   B  I   U   A

Lee Chan has a plan: To try every single chocolate chip cookie in Seoul.

Not every cookie, you realize a little later on. Just around a hundred. Which is still certifiably insane. 

A bakery and dessert café off Itaewon is where you two start your mission. Passion5 is gorgeous in that probably-overpriced way, set in an art-gallery like space. They boast of everything being made in house—cakes, ice cream, sandwiches. 

You and Chan don’t look too out of place. If anything, the two of you look like a couple on a date. It’s a horrifying realization, but it’s also a good cover. You like to think of your stories like that, sometimes. Like they’re something Actually Important instead of a lead followed from Reddit. 

Chan orders his chocolate chip cookie. You get an iced matcha that you put on your company card. 

“So,” Chan says loftily, setting the cookie down between you two. 

“So,” you respond, voice carefully measured. 

You wait. You weaponize the silence. It’s the first good tip you got about interviewing: letting the quiet stretch, so your subject might divulge more than necessary. But Chan doesn’t look like he’s about to spill his entire life story. He just stares at you for a moment too long. 

“Are we gonna half or what?” he asks instead of—I don’t know, giving you a quote you could use for your story. 

You force on a tight-lipped smile. “No,” you say. “Go ahead.” 

Chan doesn’t have to be asked twice. 

Being a writer has made you more attuned to the little things. Mannerisms that might make or break a sentence. Tics that could point to something just below the surface. Most of these habits are the kind you have to dig for, the one you need 20/20 vision to be able to clock. 

Lee Chan is as subtle as a foghorn. His fingers are stiff when he picks up the cookie. His bite is deliberately slow. When he chews and drawls out a comical, exaggerated ‘mmm’, you resist the urge to face palm. He’s putting on a show. 

You couldn’t care less, though. Chan can perform all he wants. You give him a beat, and he cracks. “Very chewy,” he says through his mouthful of pastry. “Uses chocolate chips. Mmm. Nice.” 

You jot it down in your notepad, even though it makes you feel like a student highlighting things that won’t be on a test. “Anything else?” you prompt. 

“It’s… sweet,” he says lamely as he swallows. “A bang for your buck.” 

At least that makes you laugh. Bang for the buck. “I didn’t know value for money was part of your criteria,” you jab. 

“It’s not,” says Chan, and you feel that slight thrill that comes with having an opening. 

You spring the question on him. “What’s your criteria, then?” 

It’s meant to be the first question to a dozen more. What’s your end goal? Do you come from a family of bakers? What’s the worst cookie you’ve ever had? 

But Chan doesn’t give, doesn’t bite. He only gives a noncommittal hum, finishes off his cookie, and wipes the crumbs off his fingers. He pulls out his city map from his bag and crosses out Passion5. No ceremony, no fanfare. 

You stare at him incredulously as he chirps, “Next stop?” 

--

You build your days around Chan. 

On days when you’re not expected to report to the office, you follow him on his mission. He agrees to not try anything while you’re gone lest he find himself finding whatever he’s looking for while you’re in Google Docs hell.

He always gets the same thing: a chocolate chip cookie, and a glass of service water. You get mostly drinks. Every now and then, you give in to something novelty—a cheesecake-cookie hybrid at Songpa’s Au de Cookie, a s’mores-flavored cookie at Cafe Chunk. You’re convinced you’re going to both be very broke and a couple pounds heavier by the end of this story. 

If you can even call it a story. The visits go like this: he orders. The two of you sit across from each other for seven minutes, tops. He eats his cookie, gives a half-hearted commentary on it, then crosses it off his map.

You’re not stupid. Chan obviously has no fucking idea what he’s talking about when it comes to the cookies. He doesn’t make any particular comments about the ingredients, about the consistency. He isn’t consuming them with the criticality of a pastry chef. By the fifteenth café, you realize maybe you’re just asking the wrong questions. 

You’re at Breadypost—another recommendation that looks like it’s about to be struck out—when you try a new approach. 

“What do you do?” you ask, the end of your pen tapping the table. “When you’re not on a cookie rampage, that is.” 

Chan chews at his cookie thoughtfully. You’re bracing for another evasion, some lackadaisical comment about his personal life, so you nearly jump when he answers, “I’m a dancer.” 

Your pen skids across your notebook. Dancer, you write down without ever looking away from Chan. “Oh?” You fail to sound casual. At least you sound interested, which, to be fair—you are. “A professional one?” 

“You could say that.” Chan brushes some crumbs off the front of his shirt. “My parents own a dance studio. I help run it.” 

Dance studio, you jot down. “Like… ballet? Hip-hop?” 

A boyish sort of smile tugs at his mouth. “All sorts of things,” he says vaguely. “I’ve been training since I was a kid, so it was pretty natural for me to start teaching once I got old enough.” 

You feel dizzy. A dance instructor. No, dance prodigy. Has a better ring to it. You have a feeling you’ve struck gold, but there’s still that hint of suspicion. Whether the gold is real. Whether it’s just the truth wrapped in gold. 

“Being a dance teacher,” you start, brain already working on overdrive, “is that something you’ve always wanted to do? Or is this one of those, like, tiger parent situations?” 

Chan seems to catch on to the underlying question. Really, you have to start giving him some more credit. His smile breaks into a laugh, one that’s still rattling through his chest as he pulls out his map. “I want it on record,” he teases, “that whatever you’re thinking is wrong.” 

You hiss in some air through your teeth. He knows you’re still trying to find that rationale, still trying to land on a reason for all this. “What is it, then?” you ask, frustration leaking into your tone.

It’s highly unprofessional; Minghao would probably flay you alive for speaking to a source like this. But going on just enough cookie runs have made you kind of crazy, and perhaps a little too comfortable around Chan. 

He doesn’t clock you on it. He just gives the same, infuriating answer. “I like cookies.” 

Your pen jabs into your notebook. A period to the same sentence spoken time and time again. Chan pretends not to notice. 

You do notice, however, the slightest quiver in his fingers as he crosses Breadypost off his map.

--

“What should I do if my interviewee is lying to me?” 

Seungkwan levels you with the most vicious side eye mid-salad bite. Vernon pulls off one of his earphones, pausing his transcription of his Ahn Sung-jae interview. 

You’re caught somewhere between the two of them. A working lunch. Greasy fingers flying over your keyboard, chasing a deadline, as you try out KyoChon’s new dakgalbi.  

“Is this the cookie monster?” Vernon asks. 

“Ha. Cookie monster.” You snort out a laugh. “Nice one. I should have that somewhere in my title.” 

“Only if you want Minghao to murder you,” Seungkwan deadpans, and Vernon gives a jerky nod of agreement. 

You take a quick bite of your lunch. The gochujang is a little on the sweet side, but the perilla leaves are a nice touch. You briefly contemplate paying extra to have it with cheese next time. 

“I’m just saying,” you say after swallowing. “He’s hiding something.” 

“Everybody’s hiding something,” Seungkwan says loftily, brandishing his plastic fork at you. “That’s why you have to build trust with your interviewee.” 

“This is a story,” you shoot back. “Not a relationship.” 

Vernon, who has gone back to transcribing, grunts. “Most stories are just situationships,” he says absentmindedly, already half-tuned out of the conversation. 

A muscle in your face twitches. “What does that even mean?” 

“He means,” Seungkwan interjects, “that you’re building something with every story. Like one does with a relationship or—fuck it—a situationship. Conversation. Rapport. All that shebang.” 

You’re sure the three of you sound crazy. Such was the life of the newsroom, anyway. Long-winded metaphors, thinly-veiled critique. You’ve all mastered the art of saying things the way each of you can understand, and Seungkwan’s explanation—no matter how insane—makes sense. 

You rub the heel of your palm into your temple. “Okay,” you sigh. “Build trust. Got it.” 

Seungkwan and Vernon share a look. Quick enough that it could be missed, but you catch it. Before the scowl can fully form on your face, Vernon is jumping in to explain. “What if he’s just… dunno.” He gives a half-hearted shrug. “A guy who likes cookies?”

“It’s pretty interesting in itself,” Seungkwan offers as he pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. His next couple of words are muffled. “A dancer with a sweet tooth.” 

“Right.” You hit your Enter button a little too hard. The key gets stuck, and so you jam on it a second time until it clicks back into place. “Interesting.” 

It could be, really. Chan’s attractive enough for the article to fly as one of those cutesy photo essays, and the mission is amusing in that semi-viral TikTok sort of way. 

But you don’t want fifteen seconds of fame. You don’t want fluff about a ‘cookie monster’ dance instructor. You want a capital-S Story. The Story. 

Seungkwan demolishes his salad and makes unsolicited comments about the croutons that came with it. Vernon complains under his breath about Ahn Sung-jae’s lack of decent audio recording despite being filthy rich. 

You nod along as you think about what it means to trust and be trusted. 

100% ▼   |   Normal text ▼   |   Arial   ▼     |   - 12 +   |   B  I   U   A

There’s a secret to the perfect chocolate chip cookie, and only Lee Chan knows it.

The days start to blend together. Cookies. Iced coffees. Cafés and patisseries, places you’d never have thought to visit if it weren’t for Chan. 

He keeps crossing out places on his map. You keep prying, slow but sure, snatching up every little piece of information he drops. Born in February. Came from Iksan. Graduated from Seoul Broadcasting High School. A breadcrumb trail. 

After a productive day (five cafés!) that was ultimately futile (all crossed out!), you find yourself on the same path with Chan. Something about the nearest bus route being the same one you two could take. 

You’re making small talk about the day’s weather when Chan’s ears perk up at a commotion. “Oh?” He cranes his neck in the direction of the crowd. “Let’s check it out.” 

You really, really don’t want to. You want to go home, order takeout, and start your fourth rewatch of Inventing Anna. But Chan is already moving before you can politely deny him, and so you drag your feet towards the loose circle of people gathered in Seoul Plaza. 

The noise hits you first. A The Boyz song on full blast. THRILL RIDE, you think it might be. People squeal, rush to the center. 

Chan smiles. A kind of smile you haven’t seen yet. This isn’t cookie-induced, isn’t a grin given after you’ve made a dry joke. This one is bright and wide with realization. “It’s a Random Play Dance,” he says in explanation. 

You give a small ‘ah’ in response. It’s not really something you care much for. You’ve seen it on your For You Page, sure, but this wasn’t the sort of thing you sought out. Chan, on the other hand, starts to shoulder through the crowd. You follow a couple of steps behind, mumbling apologies to the people you squeeze past.

“Have you ever?” Chan asks once you’ve come up to his side. 

“Me?” A high-pitched laugh escapes you. “God, no.” 

Chan’s grin is lopsided, a little crooked. You really wish he wasn’t so pretty; when he’s smiling like this, it’s so easy to get distracted. “Why not? Shy?” he prods. 

Your nose scrunches on instinct. “Let’s go with that,” you say, and Chan drops it. For now, at least. 

He has his arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the dancers in the middle. You realize he’s leaning down a bit, stepping into your space so he can whisper into your ear. “The girl in red has good form,” he says, his voice taking on the type of quality you personally reserve for discussing the merits of one-pot meals. “And see the guy over there—the one wearing Converse? His footing’s a bit off. Watch.” 

You watch. Chan is right. Budget Juyeon is one step behind for the t-thrill ride, t-thrill ride, how ya feeling. “I wouldn’t have noticed that,” you say, eyes still fixed on the people have Chan pointed out. 

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. The smugness rolls off him in waves anyway. “‘S my job,” he says. 

A new song strikes up. You’re startled when, only a beat in, Chan is already laughing to himself. Instant recognition. He shoots you a sideways glance before breathing out, “Give me a minute, yeah?” 

And then he’s gone, again, but not somewhere you can’t see. You watch, both awed and mortified, as he skids to the center of the circle with practiced ease. A couple more people follow suit. The new song bleeds into the crowd. Hey girl, take you home tonight. Get that give me, get that give me, give me. 

Lee Chan transforms before your eyes. 

Gone is the boy who said ‘you too’ when a barista told him to have a good day. (Twice.) In his place, somebody else. Someone entirely new. A Lee Chan who moves like water, who hits all the marks. A dancer. 

People make room for him, as if sensing just how much of a force he is to reckon with. Chan doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care, maybe. He just dances—perfect steps, controlled movements, one well-placed wink that isn’t cringe at all.

He’s so happy about it, too. You see it in the looseness of his limbs, the spark in his eye. He laughs with the people at his side, sharing that secret language that only dancers can speak, as he hums along to 2PM’s it’s alright, alright, it’s alright. 

When the song transitions to something by aespa, you expect him to keep going. Maybe you even want him to keep going. He doesn’t, though. Just half-jogs back to you with beads of sweat clinging to strands of his bangs. 

“Ready to go?” he asks offhandedly, and you can only nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak yet. 

The two of you go back on your merry way to the bus station. “That was nice,” he huffs out; you have some vague sense that he’s fishing. 

You bite. He deserves that much. “You were good,” you say. “Like, really good.” 

His grin is very what, me?, but you cut him some slack. “I told you,” he shoots back. “Dance studio.”

Even the way he says it. The word ‘dance’. You notice, now, how his voice lilts a bit. Reverence for the craft. There is no doubt: Lee Chan loves to dance. He lives to dance. Which means—

You let out a groan. “I really thought you were a frustrated baker,” you admit, drawing a breathless laugh from your interviewee. 

“I told you it wouldn’t be something like that,” he sing-songs. 

Your shoulders briefly bump into each other. You put a half-step of distance between the two of you. After he’s caught his breath, Chan catches you off-guard: “What about you?” 

“Hm?” 

“You know. Is journalism just a pit stop before you become Seoul’s genderbent Gordon Ramsey?” 

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it. “No,” you answer without missing a beat. “Journalism is… it.” 

“How long have you known you’d get into the field?” 

You feel it, then. The bricks of the wall, sliding into place. Your next words feel like mortar sealing the cracks. “I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions,” you tease, your fingers unconsciously flexing at your side. 

Chan does that thing again where one shoulder rises and falls with attempted nonchalance. Having spent enough time with him, you’ve started to keep a mental repository of his quirks. How he is when he’s faking it until he can make it. How he is when he actually thinks something is good. 

He doesn’t say anything more. You wonder, briefly, if this is a page right out of your book. Waiting for the silence to stretch unbearably so the other person might be forced to fill it. 

You clear your throat. You think of Seungkwan, of Vernon. Build trust. Conversation. Rapport. 

You will have to give as much as you want to get. 

“I’m a bit jealous,” you admit, your voice low like you’re sharing a secret. Maybe you are. It feels like it. “I don’t think there’s anything I’m passionate about outside of writing. And even that, I’m a slave to, you know?” 

It’s supposed to be light. Supposed to be a joke. But Chan is looking at you like he understands, like he sympathizes. It’s in the wry way he smiles, the way he shoves his hands into his coat pockets as if to keep them from clenching and unclenching. He does that, you realized. When he’s excited about something. 

“I hear you,” he says, and it strikes you that he means it. 

So you keep going. It might not be the most ideal situation—could this qualify as trauma-dumping?—but Chan listens well. He nods in all the right places. Throws in a joke or two himself. The two of you are still discussing the whole turning-what-you-love-into-your-job debacle by the time you get to the bus stop, and the conversation is good enough for you two to linger by the benches and let at least two buses pass. 

“Yeah,” you say as the conversation comes to its natural end. “It’s just—I guess I want to write something that matters.” 

You don’t expect Chan to meet you halfway on that sentiment. You don’t doubt his dancing has its own legacy-making end goal, but story-telling is in an entirely different league of its own. Chan understands that much. 

He looks at you, his smile softer at the corners. “Let’s hope I can give you that, then,” he says, the teasing dulled by the sincerity he can’t tamp down. 

A story that matters. 

--

The cookie list is halfway conquered now, sugar and flour and cocoa powder a familiar terrain you navigate with something bordering on affection. Each crossed-off name feels like a mission completed. Almond crinkle from a hole-in-the-wall near Hapjeong that melted on your tongue, a New York-style chocolate chip so thick it could double as a doorstop, a miso caramel that you and Chan argued about for a full subway ride.

You’re walking side by side, crumbs on your sleeves, when Chan, entirely unprompted, drops the bomb like he’s been carrying it in his pocket all day.

“Buttery. Chewy. Thick.” He ticks each word off with a finger, eyes trained straight. “Semi-sweet chocolate chips, probably. Definitely not milk chocolate.”

You stop mid-chew, blinking. “Wait. Are you—are you just now telling me your cookie criteria?”

He nods with all the gravity of someone revealing state secrets. “Yes. I’ve decided you’re ready.”

Your phone is in your hand within seconds. Notes app open. “Say that again,” you prompt. You’ll transfer it to your notebook later. “Slower.”

Chan repeats himself, voice low and deliberate. You transcribe dutifully, thumbs flying over the screen, but your brow pinches at the word thick.

“Thick?” you echo, narrowing your eyes.

“You can’t trust a cookie that flattens like a pancake.”

You honest-to-goodness gasp. “That’s slander. Thin cookies are elite,” you argue. “They’ve got edge crisp. They shatter when you bite in. That’s half the joy.”

He looks at you like you just confessed to liking soggy cereal. “And no raisins,” he throws in for good measure. 

The indignation rises in you like steam. “That’s a hate crime. Raisins have their place!”

Chan grimaces theatrically. “In oatmeal, sure. But not in cookies.”

“But oatmeal is a cookie. It’s nostalgic! Textured! Wholesome!”

“It’s betrayal disguised as dessert.”

You snort. A full, undignified laugh escapes you, loud enough that a couple of people passing by glance over. You duck your head, pretending to examine a croissant in the bakery window. Chan, of course, is utterly unbothered. He’s basking in the win. In riling you up after days of indifference. 

And then—

“See?” he half-joked. “You’re passionate about other things, too.”

You’re not ready for it. The words land like a thud in your chest. You blink, trying to play it off.

Because it’s such a throwaway thing for him to say. A casual observation. Still, it knocks something loose.

You’ve been clawing at meaning lately. 

Tired drafts. Half-finished essays. Interview transcripts that go nowhere. You thought writing about food would save you, would make it matter. That if you turned love into narrative, maybe it would give you something to hold onto.

But here’s Chan, not even trying, reminding you of something you forgot: it’s okay to love something without needing to spin it into something useful. To just love.

You let the thought settle. The warmth of butter. The snap of a crisped edge. The comfort of chewing something that tastes like your childhood.

Maybe you’re allowed to love food for food’s sake. Maybe you’re allowed to love writing separately, too. And maybe—maybe it’s okay not to love them both at the same time.

You glance sideways. Chan’s attention is on a chalkboard menu now. He has no idea that he’s just pulled the rug out from under your existential crisis. No idea that you’re reordering your worldview between bites of cookie.

“I’m gonna grab a coffee,” he says, already stepping toward the register. “If we’re about to argue for another hour, I want to be awake for it.”

He grins at you before he leaves, a flash of teeth and a crinkle of eye. Easy. Unbothered.

You nod mutely, still holding your phone like a lifeline. The cursor blinks at the end of your note.

Buttery. Chewy. Thick. Semi-sweet.

You tuck your phone back into your pocket. Some conversations should be off the record. 

--

You’re supposed to be writing about Seoul’s independent café renaissance. Instead, you’re staring at a blinking cursor and a blinking Chan.

Well. A photo of Chan.

He’s mid-bite in this one, cheeks puffed out slightly, eyes wide with theatrical delight. The cookie in question is half gone. There’s a second photo, blurry, of him doing a little wiggle in place, what you’ve now internally dubbed The Happy Dance. You remember the exact sound he made, too. Something like a muffled mmmph! that might’ve been embarrassing if it weren’t so endearing.

You exhale through your nose, set your phone down screen-first. Focus.

You pull up a different document and try to switch gears. An interview transcription. A listicle about croffles. A half-finished pitch about post-pandemic dessert trends. You give each one a valiant 30 seconds of attention before your mind veers off course.

Back to Chan.

Your fingers sift through the pages of your notebook. It started structured. Professional. Clean. Now?

hates raisins in cookies

buttery chewy thick semi-sweet ONLY

says thank you to bus drivers. every time.

does the happy dance when cookie is a 9.9/10, but will still cross it out on the map wtf

crinkles by the eyes when he laughs (every time??)

once said “i think choreography is just storytelling with muscles”??? what does that MEAN???

You stare at the last one for a second too long. You shake your head, as if that will rattle the thoughts loose.

You have a Google Doc named [Writer’s Close] Lee Chan Cookie Tour. You open it. Read the first sentence. It’s fine. Serviceable. You could probably write four more paragraphs after it, waxing poetics on Chan’s criteria and the fifty cookies you’ve seen him try so far. 

It wouldn’t matter. It doesn’t say anything. 

It doesn’t say that Chan cares deeply and easily. That he notices things like foot placement and poor form in a crowd of strangers, not to nitpick but because he believes people should move like they mean it. That he lights up when he talks about his students. That he grins with his whole body. That he likes cookies the way some people like vinyl. Specific, devotional, particular.

It doesn’t say that he’s surprised you.

You chew your bottom lip, flipping through your camera roll again.

Chan, reaching for a cookie with both hands. Chan, trying to stuff half of it into his mouth at once. Chan, dramatically pretending to faint after a good bite. You catch yourself smiling. Oh no.

You sit back in your chair, stretch your arms above your head like it might pull you back to objectivity. Like the physical act of recentering your spine might recenter your heart, too.

The blinking cursor waits. So does the draft. And you, God help you, are still thinking about the boy who hates raisins.

100% ▼   |   Normal text ▼   |   Arial   ▼     |   - 12 +   |   B  I   U   A

How many cookies can a man have before he starts to go insane?

Coconutbox Cafe & Gallery smells like burnt sugar and acrylic paint. It’s the seventy-something café on Chan’s map—an exact number he could recite in his sleep but one you stopped trying to keep track of after number forty-three. 

Today’s pick is sun-drenched and quiet, tucked between a pilates studio and a bookstore with faded signage. The playlist is indie enough to make you feel cultured but familiar enough not to distract you. Mismatched furniture fills the space in organized chaos: chipped wooden stools, velvet armchairs in colors that were probably fashionable once, and a swing bench that no one actually sits on. 

Chan seems to like it immediately. He always does. There’s something about the newness of a place that makes his face go soft at the edges.

You’re halfway through your drink—something frothy and complicated that you didn’t mean to order but didn’t correct the barista on—when he leans across the table. Chin in hand, eyes curious. “Can I read it?” he asks.

You don’t look up from your laptop. “No.”

“Aww.” He drags the syllable out, mock-wounded. “Why not?”

“Because I want it to be honest,” you say. “No preconceived biases. No shifts in behavior. You might start… posing more.”

He glares at you, dramatically offended. “You think I’m that self-conscious?”

“You wore a beanie for three days straight because you didn’t like how your ears looked in that one photo.”

“Wow,” he mutters, sitting back like you’ve physically wounded him. “Low blow. Personal foul. Yellow card.”

You glance up. He’s pouting, full-lipped and cartoonish. You don’t feel bad about it.

“Just give me a little spoiler,” he pleads. “One sentence.”

You don’t tell him that one sentence is all you have. That you’ve written and rewritten that first sentence countless times in the past couple of months. To be fair, it’s the golden rule of journalism. 

An article is only as good as its hook. With all the time you’ve spent with Chan, you want that hook to be foolproof. The kind they give a Pulitzer to. 

Met with silence, Chan amps up his act. He gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve just told him he’s being cut from the final edit. “Am I that boring?” he bemoans. 

You roll your eyes. “I’m still trying to find the right angle. The perfect execution. I’m biding my time.”

He narrows his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

Then he leans back, and you can see it happen. The spark. The tiny gleam of mischief in his expression. You’ve come to fear it. “Oh,” he says ominously. “Well, if I’m not interesting enough as is, maybe I just need to give you material.”

“Chan—”

Too late. He’s already on his feet. He grabs the empty coffee cup from your tray and balances it on his head like a crown. Then, he plucks a single dried flower from the centerpiece and tucks it behind his ear, like he’s a painter’s muse from a pretentious student film.

“This,” he announces in a deep, solemn voice, “is my artistic era.”

You stifle a laugh. It doesn’t work. “I’m a tortured soul,” he goes on, arms wide, spinning slowly in place. “Fueled only by caffeine and existential dread.”

“Please sit down.”

“Would a boring subject do this?” He strikes a pose in front of the gallery wall, back arched as if he’s modeling for an extremely niche fragrance ad. The dried flower falls out of his ear and lands in his sleeve.

You cover your face with your hands. When you peek through your fingers, he’s still going. Shuffling dramatically across the floor like he’s in a modern dance interpretation of heartbreak, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re watching.

You are.

You’re even laughing now, full and real and impossible to suppress. Your stomach starts to ache in the way it does when you laugh too hard and too long. The barista looks vaguely concerned. Chan doesn’t notice, or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

Eventually, he returns to the table. Smug and satisfied, like this was all part of a well-rehearsed plan. He sips the last of your drink without asking.

“I take it the writer’s block is gone?” he says, not looking at you as he adjusts the empty cup back onto his head.

You shake your head, trying to steady your grin. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hums. “But useful.”

You glance down at your laptop. The sentence still blinks, alone, on the screen. But your fingers twitch. The weight that’s been pressing into your ribcage for days now loosens, just a little. 

You think, maybe, you’ve got your second sentence now. Maybe even a third.

--

You meet Minghao at a tiny place near the newsroom, the kind of café with two outlets per table, quiet lo-fi playing through ceiling speakers, and a chalkboard menu written in both English and a half-hearted attempt at French. It’s clean, minimalist, and exactly the sort of place he’d approve of. Muted palette, simple typography, no nonsense. Even the pastries are geometrically intimidating.

Your coffee arrives first. His, second. Then, without thinking, you add a chocolate chip cookie to your order. It’s not until the cashier bags it that you realize what you’ve done.

Minghao raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “That for you?”

You stir your drink like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room. “No.”

He watches you for a beat, then nods. Like he already knows, but he’ll let you say it anyway. He’s good at that. Letting you inch your way to honesty instead of forcing it out of you. It’s what makes him editor material; you both adore and despise him for it. 

“It’s for Chan,” you finally admit, not meeting Minghao’s gaze.

The corner of his mouth twitches. Just barely. “You’ve grown to care for him.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, too quickly. “This is just—part of the mission. A gesture. Fuel for the fieldwork.”

“Sure.”

You glance at Minghao. He sips his coffee like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just called your bluff in six syllables or less. “It’s okay,” he says after a moment, voice neutral but not unkind. “It’s not a sin to care about your story and the people who comprise it.”

You nod slowly, but wait. There’s always a but with Minghao. You know it’s coming. He’s not the type to leave things at kindness. You sip. You brace.

“But,” he says, as expected, “remember why you’re here.”

There it is. The bucket of cold water. No dramatics, just clarity. The kind that slices right through the comfort you’ve been pretending isn’t there.

You look out the window, where a new wave of commuters spills onto the street. People moving with direction, with purpose. Everyone headed somewhere. No one wondering if they’re already too close to what they’re supposed to be observing.

You came into this story ready to dig. To get close enough to see the seams and the flaws, to understand what drives a person to visit dozens of cafés in search of the perfect cookie. You thought it would be clinical. Interesting, maybe even charming. But not this.

You didn’t account for how Chan would worm his way in—through humor, through dance, through the moments between café visits. You didn’t expect to memorize the sound of his laugh or learn the difference between his fake pout and the real one.

And now, you’re too close. Not just to the story, but to the boy at its center.

“This is work,” you say as firmly as you can manage.

“It is,” Minghao agrees. He doesn’t press. He doesn’t need to. “So do the work.” 

You nod, even if part of you bristles. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s too right. You hate how much sense he makes.

The conversation mellows from there. You finish your coffees. You talk about deadlines, the new layout for the online features page. You trade stories. He tells you about the intern who once spelled sablé as sable and defended it with a passionate monologue about endangered animals. You laugh, and the sound is not forced. Minghao smiles, rare and real, like a crack in glass that somehow makes it prettier.

When you stand, he reaches for the cookie bag, peeking inside with an appraising eye. “Thick. Buttery. Semi-sweet,” he observes. He’s seen your notes. He has the memory of a goddamn elephant. “You remembered.”

You snatch it back with a roll of your eyes. “It was a coincidence.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, tone dry.

He lets you go with a knowing look. Doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t have to. That’s the thing with Minghao. You always leave with more questions than answers, and a better draft because of it.

Late afternoon has dipped into early evening, and you pull your coat a little tighter around you. The cookie bag swings lightly at your side. You walk toward the train station, footsteps steady.

When you pause at the corner, waiting for the light to change, you glance at the nearest trash bin. The thought creeps in: maybe it would be simpler to toss the cookie. Make it a clean break. Cut the thread before it knots.

You hover. One step closer, maybe two.

But you don’t throw it out.

You grip the bag a little tighter instead.

The light changes. Green. You cross the street, the lines, until your feet are taking you where you have to be. 

--

The park is quiet, brushed in soft gold. Everything is painted in warm tones. Leaves, benches, kids on scooters, the worn path beneath your shoes. A dog runs off-leash in the distance. There’s a couple on a blanket sharing earphones. The air is warm, but not oppressive, touched by the early edge of evening.

You spot Chan before he sees you, and for a second, you don’t move. He’s crossing the field, steps light, head tilted slightly like he’s listening to music only he can hear. That same bounce in his gait. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair caught in the breeze. The sight of him tightens something in your chest.

You hate that it does.

You’re supposed to be the one in control. The observer. You even practiced the speech in your head on the train ride over. Professional boundaries, clarity, distance. Reminders of what this is and what it isn’t. You swore it wouldn’t get messy.

But then he gets closer, his joy unrepentant in the face of your internal conflict. “I got you something,” he says, lifting a small paper bag like it’s a peace offering.

Your hands tighten around your own little gift. “What?”

“Oatmeal. Thin as cardboard,” he sings. “Thought of you when I saw it.”

Your fingers close around the bag when he offers it, but you don’t look inside. You look at him. You were just about to tell him. Just about to say all the things you rehearsed. How this needs to stay professional. How you can’t afford to blur the lines any further. But now you’re holding this ridiculous cookie, and he’s looking at you with the kind of warmth that comes with preheated ovens.

The bag smells like raisins. He remembered, too. 

You don’t think. Your body moves before your mind can catch up.

You kiss him.

The bag falls, forgotten between you. The cookie, you suspect, is probably flattened beyond salvation.

He freezes for half a second. Just half. Then one hand finds your waist, tentative but sure, while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck. He kisses you like he’s catching up. Like he’s been holding back and didn’t realize until now. There’s the briefest hitch in his breath, then something else takes over.

He kisses you like he means it—and for a second, you let yourself mean it, too.

But it doesn’t last.

Reality crashes in all at once. Too sharp, too loud, too late. You pull away fast, like the kiss burned you. Like the world has snapped back into focus and left you gasping for air. “This isn’t—” You inhale sharply, taking a step back. “God, it’s not right. Fuck!”

Chan looks stunned. “Wait, what?”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you say, still backing up, swiping your hand over your mouth like it might erase the taste of his Chapstick. “It’s not appropriate. I shouldn’t have—”

“But you kissed me.”

“It was a moment of weakness,” you say, harsher than you mean. “It didn’t mean anything.”

His face falls, just a little. “Didn’t mean anything,” he repeats.

You can’t look at him. You start to turn, hoping maybe the wind or the silence will carry you away from this. “Don’t do that,” Chan says. His voice cuts through the stillness. More steady than you expect. “Don’t walk away like that didn’t just happen.”

You whirl back around, jaw tight. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.” 

He’s not screaming. Not really. But his voice rises just enough for a couple of heads to turn, and your stomach churns at the thought of this being some teenager’s tweet of the day. saw a couple breaking up at seoul park lol omg frfr. 

You’re not supposed to be part of that. Part of anything, really. 

“I can’t care about you,” you say. Your voice isn’t steady anymore. “I’m not supposed to. This is a job. You’re—”

You stutter. He waits. You wish he wouldn’t.

“You’re just a guy who likes cookies,” you finish, flat and hollow. “You’re nothing but a story to me.”

Silence follows, thick and immediate. 

You can practically hear the rush of your heartbeat in your ears. The pain doesn’t register on his face all at once. It unfurls, slow and soft, like paper tearing. Chan nods once. He swallows. His mouth curves, barely, into something that might look like a smile if you didn’t know better.

“Okay.” He swallows hard. His shoulders are tight, drawn inward. As if he’s keeping himself from unraveling. 

You want to claim you’re not being cruel. This was just the way of the world, the unsigned contract you two had drafted up. You were the journalist; he was the interviewee. You’re not cruel. You’re not cruel. You’re doing your fucking job. 

Right? Right? 

“Well,” Chan says, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it, “if a story is all I am, then I’ll make sure it’s one that matters.”

Your own words, thrown back at you. You dare say you deserve it. There are some lines you can’t uncross, and this feels like one of them. 

100% ▼   |   Normal text ▼   |   Arial   ▼     |   - 12 +   |   B  I   U   A

You’re back on the trail. Kind of. Not really.

Chan’s walking beside you, but the lightness in his step is gone. You feel it before you see it. Something dulled at the edges, like music with the treble turned down. The city hums around you, oblivious. There’s a café on every corner, but none of them look promising. They all look like endings.

You try to make conversation. About the weather. About the new seasonal menu. About how one of the cafés you visited last week now sells espresso in waffle cones. Chan nods, polite but absent.

The cookie tasting continues. Technically. The first café’s cookie is overbaked. Dry. Crumbles like disappointment.

The second one has promise—a good smell, a nice shape—but too sweet. He barely chews before passing you a napkin to spit it out. The third café? He doesn’t even bother tasting. One glance at the chalkboard menu and he’s out the door.

You finally say, “I’m sorry.”

Chan cocks his head to one side. “What?”

“For earlier. The park. The kiss. The... everything.”

He doesn’t stop walking, but he slows. Just enough to let the moment catch up. “Let’s just finish,” he says. Not cruelly, but measured in a way that indicates he is truly done with all this. He’s just… going through the motions. “One more left.”

The final café is small and tucked between a laundromat and a nail salon. It’s got a handwritten sign and a cinnamon-heavy smell. There’s a single cookie on display.

You both get one. You eat in silence. It’s chewy, at least. You observe Chan carefully, wondering if this is it. It would be a nice climax. The one hundredth store being the one.

Chan pulls the map from his back pocket. 

You watch as he crosses off the last location. 

He stares at it for a second too long. The whole thing is covered in tiny red x’s, like battle scars. You swallow your bite of cookie, tasting the weight of the world in the chocolate chip that’s not what either of you needed. “So,” you say delicately, “what now?”

He folds the map neatly, tucks it away. “You write your story.”

“And you?”

Chan exhales through his nose. A humorless little breath. “I never eat another cookie again.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but the punchline never lands. You laugh anyway, the sound unconvincing and weak, because it’s better than silence. It’s better than the look on his face, the one a man gets when he’s lost something. When he hadn’t gotten what he wanted. 

It’s beginning to feel like neither of you are about to get what you want. 

“I’m sorry,” you say again, this time softer. Not for the kiss. For this. For the empty hands and crossed-out boxes.

Chan doesn’t speak right away. His jaw flexes. Then he turns to you, eyes catching yours—and this time he doesn’t look away.

There’s a beat. Two.

His gaze lingers, and it does something to you. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I’m sorry, too.”

And that’s it. That’s all there is.

You stand there beside him in the dying light, two people who went searching for something sweet and ended up with something else entirely. You don’t ask what that something is. You’re not sure you want to know.

--

The cherry on top is that you get tonsillitis.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Not the kind of ache that curls under your ribs or hides behind your ribs or flares to life when you pass a bakery that reminds you of a certain boy who used to smile like he’d invented happiness.

No. This time, it’s literal.

Your throat is on fire. Your glands feel like someone slipped rocks into the hollow of your neck. Your voice is gone, your sleep disrupted, and you can’t even swallow without it feeling like glass.

And of course, of course it had to come after all of that. After the story. The kiss. The silence that followed. The slow disintegration of something that was never meant to be more than an assignment.

You sit slouched in a hospital hallway, head tipped against the cold wall, wondering if you’ve somehow earned this. Tonsillitis as divine retribution. An inflamed throat to match an aching heart. An article that hasn’t even gotten past the first sentence.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Someone down the corridor is watching a mukbang on full volume. You are seconds away from shoving a tongue depressor in your own ear just to make it stop when a familiar voice cuts through the din.

You freeze.

It can’t be.

You look up—slowly, cautiously—and there he is.

Chan.

He’s standing not far from you, wearing a navy baseball cap and an oversized hoodie like he’s trying not to be noticed. He’s not alone. There’s an older woman beside him. Elegant. Unsmiling. Her features are drawn in that unmistakable way of someone with experience in the art of shutting people out.

You don’t catch everything they say, but you see it. The subtle tension. The way Chan follows half a step behind, reaching out like he might steady her. She brushes him off. Keeps walking.

Something twists in your stomach.

You don’t know what she is to him. A relative, maybe. His mother? An aunt? The resemblance isn’t glaring, but there’s something in the posture, the deflection, that feels practiced.

Chan calls after her softly. Not loud enough for anyone else to hear. You watch as he jogs after her, gentle hand at her elbow. She doesn’t stop. He falters. He looks around, helpless, and that’s when he sees you.

It’s a split-second flicker of recognition. His eyes widen, just a little. The barest twitch of his mouth. You can’t tell if it’s surprise or guilt or something else entirely.

But you look away.

Because it’s none of your business. Because whatever this is, whoever she is—you’re not a part of it. 

For once, the Universe is on your side. The receptionist calls your name. You scramble towards the doctor’s office, the feeling of Chan’s gaze burning into your back. Dr. Jeon asks everything you expect him to, but all you can really manage are a few choice words that feel like barbed wire being dragged through your throat. 

“It hurts,” you tell your doctor, voice broken and raspy. “It really, really hurts.” 

--

Joshua pokes his head into your cubicle with a grin that immediately puts you on edge. “You have a visitorrr,” he croons. 

You glare at him, throat still raw from last week’s tonsillitis-adjacent hell. “What kind of visitor?”

“The attractive kind.”

You already know who it is.

Still, you don’t expect to see Chan standing in the lobby of your workplace, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes trailing absently across the ceiling like he’s rehearsing something in his head. When he notices you, he straightens. Offers a small, careful smile. Not his usual one. This one’s dimmed, as if someone turned the dial down on him.

You don’t say anything as you lead him to the cafeteria. The air between you carries the ghost of too many almosts.

The coffee here is terrible. The cookies are worse. Neither of you bother.

Chan settles across from you at a small table scratched with initials and hearts carved by interns who fell in love with the wrong people. His hands are clasped together on the table, thumbs twitching in search for rhythm. You realize you haven’t seen him this still in a long time.

“After everything,” he begins, voice forcibly steady, “I think I deserve to ask you one question.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth and ready for impact. For something heavy. Something that might break the room in half.

Do you love me? Why did you kiss me?

Instead—

“What’s your story with food?”

You’re not sure you heard him right. You stare for a minute too long, and he stares right back, as if saying yeah, that’s what I want to know. When you laugh, you’re surprised by how much it aches.

“Do you have the time?” you start, your heart rattling in your chest.

He nods. 

You tell him about your childhood kitchen. The yellowing linoleum, the faded recipe cards, the way your mother used to hum while slicing scallions. You tell him about the little step-stool you stood on to watch her stir soups, how you’d sneak pinches of dough and get scolded half-heartedly.

You tell him about the messes you made trying to bake from memory. About the apple crumble that turned into applesauce. The birthday cake you forgot the sugar in. The ramen experiments that ended in smoke alarms.

You tell him that food was love before you ever had a word for it. That it stitched you and your mother together in ways language never quite could.

Then you tell him about your first story. The one that got you published. A noodle shop three blocks down from where you grew up, run by a ninety-two-year-old widow who spoke in proverbs and gave out extra toppings when no one was looking. You wrote about her hands. Her children. The lineage of flavor passed from one generation to none, and how storytelling, like cooking, could preserve things.

People. Taste. Time.

You tell him about the guilt, too. The constant, low hum of it. How ridiculous it sometimes feels to write about something so soft in a world that feels like it’s made of broken glass. How food writing isn’t just about what’s delicious. It’s about what’s been lost. What you’re desperate to hold on to.

Chan listens. He buys you a bottle of water when you start to stutter. He never looks away. 

When you run out of breath, out of steam, he exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his own this whole time. His turn. 

“I guess,” he says, “if I had to pick one story to explain me, it’s her.”

You don’t need to ask who. You already know.

“She always had this chocolate chip cookie in her purse. Same brand. Same crinkle on the packaging,” he says, and the look on his face shows he’s already half-lost to memory. “I don’t even think she liked them, but she made sure I always had one. She’d hand it to me at the end of every visit. Channie, for you.”

His eyes are glassy, but not wet. Not yet. “I know it was store-bought. She wasn’t a baker,” he goes on. “She burned toast. But that cookie—it stuck. It was her. A kind of love language, I guess.”

“And that’s what this was all about?” you ask. Gently. So gently. “Finding it again?”

He nods. “I thought if I could find that exact one, maybe it would… I don’t know. Bring her back. Even for a second. Maybe time might crack open a little and let her through.”

The implication hits like a truck. Your voice lowers. “She’s sick?”

“Alzheimer’s.”

He doesn’t say it for sympathy. He says it like he’s still talking about the weather. Inevitable. Slow and cruel and impossible to predict.

“She started forgetting where she put her keys,” he narrates. “Then names. Then faces. I thought it was just age catching up to her. I didn’t… I didn’t think it was this.”

He glances away for the first time, and you don’t demand he keep his eyes on you. You don’t ask if you can pull out your recorder so you can get all this verbatim. This isn’t that kind of moment. 

“And now, she barely knows who she is,” Chan goes on. “I visit. I talk. Sometimes I sing old songs she used to like. Mostly, I just sit. I just sit there and hope. I sit with my hope, you could say.”

There’s no drama in the way he says it. Just grief. Lived-in. Paper-thin. There is no teeth in your silence. Not this time. There is only space for Chan to be, and that’s exactly what he does. What he gives you. 

“I thought maybe if she tasted it again—just once—it’d click,” he finishes. “She’d remember me. She’d call me Channie again. I thought that would be enough.”

You want to say something. Anything. But there are places that words don’t reach, where no degree in journalism can help. Where you can hear the quiet, It was not enough. 

You do what is second best. 

Your hand rests over Chan’s. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t reciprocate either. He just lets the warmth of your palm stay there. In fact, he stares at it as if the answer might exist in the spaces between your fingers. You have taken what he’s come to give. You’ve given what he’s asked. 

He stands after a long while. The chair scrapes back with a reluctant sigh. “I should go,” he says, tight-lipped and dry-eyed despite the waver in his voice.

You rise with him. “Chan—”

“Thanks for listening.” It’s plain and simple. No frills. An echo of affection, maybe, but not the kind that demands. 

You draw back. You give him grace. “Thanks for trusting me with it,” you respond.  

This is where the sentence should end, where the line should break. But Chan offers you a rueful smile, hands stuffed in his pockets, head tilted just slightly. “You’re missing the point,” he says.

He walks away before you can ask what the point is. What’s the point of anything, really. 

You’re left there at the table with its long-forgotten initials and hearts, feeling like something else is carving within you. 

100% ▼   |   Normal text ▼   |   Arial   ▼     |   - 12 +   |   B  I   U   A

Food is magic, because food is memory. A man named Lee Chan has tried to chase that magic for over half a year.

Minghao reads your first draft in silence.

You hate that you’re watching him instead of looking over your own work. Every flick of his red pen feels like a personal attack, even when it doesn’t land on anything at all. He’s halfway through page three when you realize you’ve been holding your breath.

You pick at your thumbnail. Regret it instantly. It throbs under the pressure, but the pain feels easier to manage than the tension building in your chest. When Minghao finally sets the pages down, you sit up straighter and prepare for carnage.

“It’s good,” he says simply.

You blanch. “Good?”

He nods. Crosses his arms over his chest. “Solid structure. Strong voice. A little long, but it’s got bones.”

You know you should be relieved. Instead, there’s this twisting in your gut. It’s like you ate something bad, and you try not to let it show on your face. 

Minghao narrows his eyes, immediately catching on. “But?”

You try to deflect. “No but.”

“Liar.”

You deflate. “I’ve been so scared of screwing this up,” you blurt out. “Of letting you down. When you said ‘remember why you’re here,’ I thought... I don’t know. That maybe I wasn’t doing enough. That I was getting too close. That I was crossing a line.”

Minghao tilts his head. The sharpness of him softens, just a little. “You misunderstood me.” 

He leans forward. Taps a finger on the table between you. “What’s the most important thing about a cookie?” he asks. 

Your eyes twitch. “The... flour?”

He stares. “Okay. No,” he rephrases. “Let me rephrase. What’s the most important thing about food?”

“Salt?”

“God.” He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “People. It’s people.”

You stare. He continues, more gently now. “Vernon’s story about candy shone because it was about tradition. Culture. Community. The way a single sweet tied together generations. Seungkwan’s was about food tech, but really, it was about ingenuity. Human innovation in the face of resource scarcity. Even Joshua’s piece about AI ramen wasn’t just about automation. It was about how technology still tries to mimic human intuition.”

His voice is measured, but there’s something in it. A belief. The kind that only comes from loving something deeply, and for a long time. You’re silent, letting it wash over you. Letting it settle in the hollows of your chest.

“At the root of food,” Minghao continues, “behind every recipe that’s unwritten or winged, every craving, every comfort—there’s people. Someone made that dish for someone else. Or remembered it. Or passed it down.” 

“The food we love is only as good as the people who make it,” he says. “The stories we tell are only as good as the people behind them.”

You don’t realize you’ve stayed quiet until Minghao looks at you with that familiar editor’s patience. The kind he uses when he knows you’re on the edge of a revelation, only needing a push.

You think of Chan. Not the cookie-searching version. Not the boy who tried and failed to track down a taste from his past. Just Lee Chan. His grin. His terrible jokes. His self-assured rhythm. 

The corners of his eyes, the crumbs underneath his nails. The way his voice wavered when he talked about his grandmother. The weight he’s carried all alone. The hope, still flickering.

“I made him a punchline,” you murmur, the horror settling low in your gut. “I made him a mission.”

Minghao shrugs. “You made him a start,” he says, forgiving in a way you’re not sure you deserve. “Now you get to decide where you finish.”

You exhale. A long, unsteady breath. There’s a beat of silence. The air feels different now. Lighter, but charged. Like the moment before a storm breaks, or the second before a leap.

“I need an extension,” you declare. 

Nobody asks Minghao for extensions. He runs the newsroom with military precision, and you can’t blame him. Journalism relies on clockwork—press cycles, deadlines in red pen. But you’ve come to understand that some things are bigger than that. More important. Worth going against everything you believe. 

“Yeah.” You meet Minghao’s gaze, steady and unwavering. “I want to tell the story right.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he taps the table once. When he smiles, it’s slow and small. Real. 

“Okay,” he concedes. “Go write something that matters.”

This time, you know what that means.

You just have one thing to do before that. 

--

You show up to Chan’s studio and immediately wonder if this was a mistake.

He answers the door in a hoodie too big for him, sleeves pushed to the elbows, hair damp like he’s just showered or maybe it’s sweat-slick from rehearsal. There’s a beat of surprise in his expression before it hardens, folding in on itself like wet origami.

“Hey,” you try, voice quiet but even.

“Hey,” he echoes, flat.

It stings more than it should. A hollow ache opens up in your chest, sharp and cold. You shift on your feet, offering a small, uncertain smile. “I have something for you.”

He raises a brow. “Unless it’s the cookie I’ve been looking for, I’m not sure I’m interested.”

You breathe through your nose. “Give me one chance,” you say, wincing at the sound of your own begging. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Chan looks at you, unreadable. For a second, you think he might actually shut the door in your face. You’d deserve it. 

But then he sighs, grabs a jacket hanging from a hook behind the door, and mutters, “Lead the way.”

You’re not sure why he agreed, but you’re not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe he took pity. Maybe there’s still some residual respect from the moment shared in your company cafeteria. Whatever it is, you know it’s temporary. Fleeting. One shot to get things right. 

You take Chan to a co-baking studio tucked into a homely alley in Mapo-gu. 

The air inside smells like vanilla and ambition. Stainless steel counters stretch out in clean lines. There’s sunlight pouring in through high, smudged windows. Rows of labeled jars—sugar, nutmeg, semisweet chocolate chips—stand like small sentinels. It’s industrial, but cozy. Clean. Bright. Full of possibility.

Chan squints. “What is this?”

“A baking studio.” You gesture around with a tilt of your head. “I booked us a session. You have everything you need to try again. One last time.”

His head snaps to you. “You want me to bake?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“You do realize I don’t know how to bake, right?”

“That makes two of us.”

You see it, then. The tiniest crack in his demeanor. The corner of his mouth twitches, the beginnings of a smile surfacing, then retreating like a wave too nervous to reach the shore. He gives you the ultimatum you were already half expecting: “I’m not doing this without you.” 

You sigh, mostly for show. “Fine.”

The instructor gives you two a brief rundown, gesturing toward the pre-measured ingredients and the recipe card in bold type. Then, mercifully, she disappears, leaving you alone. 

The two of you pull on aprons that are slightly too big and immediately begin fumbling like contestants in a reality show neither of you signed up for. The butter isn’t soft enough. The sugar spills. Chan nearly drops an egg on the floor, and you burn your hand lightly on the oven door.

There’s flour on the counter, on your sleeves, in your hair. The vanilla extract sloshes over the measuring spoon. The dough looks more like cement than something edible. 

It’s a disaster, but it’s yours.

You glance at Chan after a particularly clumsy attempt at whisking, and the two of you dissolve into laughter. It bubbles up from your chest, full and warm, like something you’d forgotten you still had in you. Chan looks startled to hear it, like he hadn’t expected joy to make an appearance.

“This is terrible,” he says, grinning despite himself.

“Objectively,” you agree, shaking your head.

His smile stays this time. 

You lean over the counter to scoop a bit more flour, and in doing so, you miss the look he gives you—soft, open, maybe even wanting. He reaches out without thinking. His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and sure, wiping away a smudge of flour you didn’t know was there.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Neither do you. You don’t have to. The moment stretches, unspoken and delicate, like a string pulled tight but unbroken. There’s something in his eyes when you finally meet them. Something fragile and fierce all at once.

You look away first.

The cookies make it to the oven. You’re both perched on metal stools, watching the timer count down. The smell starts to fill the room. Warm, chocolate-laced, a little too sweet.

It’s not quite forgiveness. Not quite love, either.

But it feels like it could be.

--

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, which translates loosely to I don’t have to be here for this. 

Chan shakes his head, as if to say, You should be here. 

The fluorescents of the hospital lights are unforgiving. The only warm thing in the hallway is the tupperware of cookies nestled in Chan’s death grip. Your fingers instinctively brush over his knuckles, and he loosens his hold enough to let the plastic grip. 

You’re standing in front of the hospital room. Once again, you have that striking feeling that you don’t belong. That this isn’t somewhere you should be, not a story you should be a character in. 

But Chan is looking at you with please written all over his face, and who are you to deny him? 

Your throat works around the words. “Ready?” 

He takes a shaky breath. “Give me a minute.” 

You would give him the world, really, if he asked. The two of you stand side by side for a couple more moments, until Chan breaks it with words that are edged with a healthy dose of nervousness. “Do you remember the conversation we had at the cafeteria?” 

You nod wordlessly in response. His eyes dart skyward for a moment. “I said you were missing the point,” he notes. 

Right before he’d left. You’re missing the point. 

You think of Minghao’s claws retracting enough to tell you about the people behind food. You think of the stories you’ve written, the voices that bleed into every single one of them. You think of your own mother. 

You think of kitchens you’ve outgrown, and people you’ve loved, and you understand. You know, now, what the point is. To Chan’s mission. To your article. To everything. 

Your hand rests at his elbow. You give it a gentle squeeze. This story is bigger than the two of you. It’s always been, hasn’t it? 

Chan nods and pushes the door open. 

It’s all a little clearer with context. The silver-haired woman you’d seen way back then is undoubtedly a blood relative of Chan’s. The same nose, same set of lips. She’s still unsmiling, still closed off, and the knowledge of what she’s gone through has the puzzle pieces in your mind falling into place. 

She looks up when you and Chan walk in. She says nothing, though, even as Chan pauses by the door. As if he’s waiting to be yelled at, to be told to leave. It makes your heart clench in your chest. 

Chan’s voice is impossibly soft as he pads further into the sunlit room. “Halmeoni,” he greets. “It’s me. I’ve brought… a friend.” 

She glares at Chan, face devoid of recognition, before glancing at you. You raise your hand in an awkward wave before folding into a clumsy bow. Chan’s grandmother says nothing about your abysmal manners. 

You’re a stranger to her. That adds up. But Chan being a stranger to her—

You feel the sudden urge to cry. You have to glance away from this shell of a woman lest you actually do start sobbing. This moment is not supposed to be about you.  

Chan approaches her as if he were nearing a particularly skittish animal. “I’ve brought you a snack,” he says, already popping the top off the Tupperware. His fingers are shaking as he says, “Do you want to try one?” 

The smell of chocolate and sugar wafts through the room. Something shifts in the old woman’s expression. The slightest twitch. You watch, wretched, as Chan perks up. 

His grandmother reaches into the Tupperware. Her bony fingers bring the cookie to her mouth, and she takes the smallest of bites. 

Despite having already said earlier that the cookie is nothing like the one he used to have as a kid—too sweet, too crumbly, too obviously made by someone without experience—Chan looks devastatingly hopeful. He doesn’t look his age. He looks like a child waiting in the pleats of his grandmother’s skirt, hoping to be handed the love that was his since the moment he was born. 

His grandmother chews, careful and slow. Considering, you want to believe. 

She keeps chewing. She takes another bite. 

Nothing in her face changes.

Chan’s shoulders fall. 

You’re at his side in the next moment. You don’t say anything, don’t do anything drastic. A hand at the small of Chan’s back. That’s all you offer. A reminder of what has been done, who has been loved. Despite, despite, despite. 

Chan looks towards you and breathes. In, out. An inhale that bears the weight of memory. An exhale that lets the grief unravel. 

“Well,” he says, managing a smile, “I guess that’s it.” 

You smile back at him. “It’s okay,” you say, even though it’s not, and Chan nods, even though he doesn’t think so, either. 

Chan lingers for just a couple minutes more, giving his grandmother updates about his day even though she says nothing in response. She just works her way through the cookie, blank eyes fixed on Chan as he talks about his parents and the dance studio. 

Eventually, Chan catches your wrist and gives it a gentle squeeze. “We should head out,” he says. “Visiting hours are over soon.” 

You nod. You look to his grandmother who still has crumbs at the corners of her mouth. 

“It was nice meeting you, halmeoni,” you say, and though you’re not quite sure why, you feel compelled to add, “Thank you.” 

That, at least, makes Chan’s smile a little more genuine. Like he understands the weight of you thanking her. He keeps his hold on your wrist as you two turn away. 

When his grandmother speaks, it’s with the musicality that undoubtedly runs through Chan’s veins. You catch the way her eyes crinkle—a joy that is inherited, passed down. Pressed into a grandchild’s hands at family gatherings. 

“Where did you get this cookie, boy?” she asks Chan. “I think my grandson would like it.” 

--

The cashier offers you a free cookie at the register—some kind of promotional thing—and Chan immediately shakes his head.

You glance at him. He glances back. A shared look. A brief pause. Then, unbidden, a laugh slips from your lips. It startles you in its ease. He chuckles, too. 

You take the cookie, cradling it like something precious. “Old habits die screaming,” you say as the two of you slide into your seats.

Chan grins fondly. "Some things are worth keeping alive."

You sit across from each other, mugs nestled between your palms, steam curling into the space between you. The café hums around you. Low music, clinks of cutlery, snippets of conversation that blur into background noise. It acts like a privacy screen. Cocooning. Comforting. There’s a subtle stiffness to it, like a page that’s been folded one too many times.

It’s been a couple of months.

After the hospital. After your deadline. After you had to text Chan that the story was being banked for a bit, and he responded with a GIF of a cartoon otter sobbing. Romance didn’t click into place like you thought it might; it’s not like you were owed that, either. The two of you didn’t really keep in touch, but the tension nonetheless lingered in every pastry listicle, in every dance video, in every article about being one step closer to a cure for Alzheimer’s. 

You were the one to eventually invite him out for coffee. You made it a point to choose a place that hadn’t been on his map, which had been a near-impossible feat. 

“I’m sorry for disappearing,” he says first, thumb grazing the lip of his mug, his voice pitched low.

“You didn’t,” you say quickly. “Life just shifted.”

Shifted. That’s one way to put it. Chan nods, taking the grace. “My grandmother’s back home now. Out of hospice,” he tells you. 

Your breath hitches a little at that. “That’s good,” you say, and there’s nothing feigned about your enthusiasm.

“It is. I’m with her most days now. She doesn’t always know who I am, but…” He cracks the smallest of grins. “Sometimes, she smiles when I sit beside her.”

Your chest aches in that quiet, bruised kind of way. You reach across the table, let your pinky hook against his. The contact is small. It feels monumental. “I’m glad she has you,” you say.

He gives you a look you can’t quite name. It lands somewhere between gratitude and grief. “And you?” he asks, pinky curling around yours like muscle memory. “What’s the story these days?”

You shrug, take a sip of your coffee. It’s a little too hot, but you welcome the burn. It grounds you. “Got assigned something called The Joy of Food.”

Chan’s face lights up. That same rare brightness you’ve always been drawn to, like a match flaring in the dark. “That’s your Story.”

You tilt your head, smile lopsided. “You’d think so. But I’ve spent more time polishing yours.”

He mimics you. Head tilted to one side, grin crooked in an endearing, confused sort of way. “Mine?”

“It’s not ethically sound to show an interviewee the final article,” you say, trying for professionalism. Failing miserably. You’re nervous. More nervous than when you pitched the sugar conspiracy article to Minghao. 

“But—” you say, “I could show my boyfriend.”

Chan’s brows shoot up so high they disappear behind his bangs. Then, he laughs. Really laughs. Wide and real, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that familiar way you’ve come to adore. It makes something in your chest loosen. “Are you asking—”

You shrug again, casual in that not-so-casual way. “Depends,” you say, too quick to be casual. “Are you saying yes?”

He leans across the table, hand sliding over yours. “Let me have a taste first,” he hums, “and then we’ll figure out the rest.”

You meet him halfway. 

His lips are soft, a little coffee-warmed, a little sugar-slick. There’s a stillness to it, the kind that comes after a storm. You feel the curve of his mouth against yours, and so you let yourself smile, too. Let the kiss be nothing more than a kiss. Not a story to tell, not a metaphor for anything else.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “Sweet.”

“Like cookies?”

“Even sweeter.”

You groan, but it’s affectionate. He kisses you again just to prove a point. You pull back this time, breathless and just the right amount of dizzy. “Don’t you want to see my first sentence?”

“Let me kiss my girlfriend for a little more,” he argues, mouth already chasing yours.

The Google Doc glows faintly on your phone screen beside the mugs, open but unattended. It bears the title you agonized over for weeks. The cursor blinks after the last sentence. 

You don’t care if a thousand people read it, or if only one does. You don’t care if it wins awards or garners likes or clicks. It holds everything that mattered, all in a few thousand words. 

It’s not your story anymore.

100% ▼   |   Normal text ▼   |   Arial   ▼     |   - 12 +   |   B  I   U   A

In a Seoul hospice, there is a grandmother who loves her grandson more than anything in the world—even if she may not remember him.

[cass-1]

౨ৎ — visit from the wife — ౨ৎ

"There's a damn hot lass who walked into Price's office just minutes ago," Soap whispered to Simon, amusement filled his voice.

And when Simon didn't give any response, he continued, "She looked pissed. Wonder what that could be. Could be trouble in paradise for those two."

clearly Soap would be the one to wanting to figure things out, whenever it was about rumors or some spicy behind the scenes, he would be first to sniff around. Especially as it involves a hot lass like er’

Simon gave a brief glance at Soap before returning his eyes to his phone. Lieutenant Riley wasn't the one to give a second thought about other people's private lives and since he had a hog missus at home himself, why should he care?

Soap was still ranting about the drop dead gorgeous, pissed off woman who walked into Price's office when he suddenly stopped at the sound of high heels clicking at the ground.

That made Simon raise his eyes from phone. As soon as his gaze met hers, his jaw clenched, eyes widened a bit in surprise.

Tight fit jeans enlightening her curves, white blouse and black suit jacket. It all complimented her body well. It was hard to tear eyes away from her.

"Do you think she's his girlfriend? Or what is she doing here?" Soap leaned closer to Simon, both of their eyes still on the woman.

"She's from Counterintelligence." Simon grunted.

Soap's head snapped to look at him "How do you know mate?"

"She's my bloody missus.” Simon said, getting up from his seat, leaving Soap dumbfounded as he made his way towards the woman.

“What’re yu’ doin’ here.” He asked, looking down at you with that same stern glare.

“Drop the look, Y’know you’re not like that at home, handsome.” You flirted, trying t lighten the mood.

“I’m not in the’ mood, doll.” Simon stated, “du’ y’know how many men have gawked over yu’ the second u’ve entered the base?” He sighed, trying to contain his irritation.

“Let’s save the jealousy and keep this till we get home, aye?” You said, putting an innocent smile amongst your face. Y’know you’ll be having words with him later on his tone of voice towards her.

“Yes missus.” He surrendered. Simon was so getting it up the ass later on for the way he speaks to her amongst his pals.

“Good boy.” You whispered with that same weak ol’ smile. The innocent look on your face— he knew you were the man in the relationship. Simon tried his hardest to be it, but it failed.

You gave him a little kiss on the cheek before waving goodbye and heading back to the entrance. Your heels clicking every movement on the floor, making it echo in the halls.

“Oh Ghost, I ain’ thought yu’ ad’ that much of a gem at home.” Soap cackled, this only made Simon shoot him a glare. His laughing soon stopped.

“Enough chattin’ about my missus, yu’ should focus on keepin’ one.” He stated, the normal glare painting his face when he went and sat back down in his original seat.

The whole room began laughing their asses off, it only made Soap sit in denial and anger at the embarrassment. Now he knows when to keep his mouth shut.

I loved this guys. lmk if u want a part two of the at home vers. 👅

[nmhk]

It's weird disappointing how the republican administrations and senators are so freely and readily able to lie about things to further their own agenda, and then get caught in the lie and somehow, every time, [weasel || porcupine || raccoon || fox || etc ad nauseum infinitum] their way out of it

And every 2 and 4 years we keep electing the same or similar liars back into office. But no, we don't need no education. No history lessons. No civics classes. Nah, we're good, looking at our screens, playing our distractions over and over again. While other countries leap ahead, and the class warfare goes seemingly unchecked.

We'll continue being temporarily embarrassed millionaires, abashed race car drivers, ashamed fashion models, forever looking to celebrities for guidance. Forever letting people in power tell us how to feel, who and whom to love or hate. Forever consuming without thought like ungulates chewing cud.

They say, "it's a dog eat dog world," because they want us to treat each other as animals, competing for scarce resources. But resources aren't scarce. How did our world population get over 8 billion? Mercantilism brought trade to the world, but developed into this cut throat capitalism which demands scarcity (usually faked) to survive.

Not buying into the system is how we kill it. We don't want politicians influenced by corporations (they are people, my friend)? Don't buy their products. Don't look at ads. Don't support the monetary system that is a zero- sum game. We can easily see the effects by looking at our monopoly board and counting how many people have x amount of fake money. Those on Boardwalk and Park Place? Yeah, that's not us, is it? You want to win this game? The only way is to step away from the board.

Yes, yes it is easier said than done. But bartering still works.

Blah blah blah

I can only hold this energy so long. As can you. We need to work together, support each other, stand in solidarity against those who try and break us apart.

I believe in universal interconnectedness. We are all connected in a way that is unexplained and poorly explored. I don't know how many of you remember nine-eleven, but the pick 3 and pick 4 numbers drawn coinciding with thousands of entries matching these numbers, while being chalked up to mere coincidence, could also either be one of two other things. 1) the system is obviously rigged (in whatever way is most plausible) 2) thousand of people putting their thoughts and aligning their [energy || Chakra || life force || pure will power || etc] into wanting these numbers to be drawn, not once, but on multiple occasions, speaks to me of something greater.

The more obvious scientific answer is a rigged system.

My whole point is we can change the system of we all work together. Yes, I know! I'm an idealistic idiot. So what? Does my hope for humanity stop your everyday travails? Does it hurt my interactions with others that I try to see the best version of them in conversation? Why would someone poo-poo the idea of wanting interconnectedness if it doesn't hurt anyone?

Oh. I'm getting it now. That kind of hope can turn into a religion. I see. If it's only faith-based, it's bad. Okay. Well. I guess humanity isn't full of artists who move you with simple pictures and words. I guess nature can only be seen through a scientific lens. I guess since beauty is immutably subjective, there is no such thing as a beautiful flower or a beautiful poem.

That's fine. Stick to your science and gadgets. Stick to your distractions and fears. Don't read fiction more deeply than the words on the page. The answer is simple. No, androids don't dream of electric sheep. No, robots aren't capable of growing beyond the rules you establish for them. No, consumerism is the only way for people to survive in a technological world.

I just hope for the best for you

[coldfanbou]

SYLM Side Story: Looking Good, Feeling Good

Alrighty, today we have a little side story to my Twice series. We get to see the fun Mina and Momo get up to when it's just the two of them.

Length 2.1K

Momo X Mina

Momo smiled as she placed a bag down on the table in front of Mina. The younger woman cocked her head, “What’s this?”

“Some clothes for us to wear the next time we meet with a certain someone,” Momo said with a slight smirk. Mina turned her head, blushing slightly as she thought about what Momo meant. 

Momo reached into the back and grabbed a set of clothing, tossing it to Mina. “Here, put these on.” Momo grabbed her friend’s hand and dragged her along to the bedroom. The suddenness nearly had Mina drop the clothing. As they entered the room, both women stripped down and then dressed themselves in the clothing Momo had bought. “This is going to make him go crazy for us. Just think, if we showed up at his house dressed like this. He won’t be able to resist us.” 

Mina patted her lap, pouting as she pulled the hem of her skirt down as far as it could go. “Isn’t this a little short?’ she asked, looking over to Momo, who was looking at herself in the mirror with a smile. 

“No, this is perfect!” She said, turning around to face her roommate. “He’ll love it and barely be able to keep his hands off us.

“I just think it’s a little embarrassing, don’t you? You can almost see my butt because of how short this skirt is.”

“You say that like he hasn’t seen you naked,” Momo responded, sticking her tongue out. Momo was right, but it didn’t make Mina feel any better about the outfit she wore. It wasn’t the most revealing thing in the world, but her point still stood. Her outfit consisted of a short blue miniskirt, with the word four scrawled out on the front. Any movement that required her to bend over or squat would show something off. Mina didn’t have a problem with the tops at least, they covered her well, zipping up in the middle and stopping at her neck. 

“You know what I mean,” Mina whined, filling her cheeks with air and puffing them out. 

Momo laughed and squished Mina’s cheeks together. “This outfit is just for him. It’s been a while since we've had the chance to do it together.”

“Yeah, but you did it with him and Chaeyoung.” Mina mumbles, her face squished by the younger woman. “I should get another turn with him.”

Momo leans in, “You want your daddy to cum in you again?” The younger woman smirked, knowing that it was embarrassing for Mina to hear that. Mina’s face turned red, and she looked away, pursing her lips. “I may not be your daddy, but I can help you,” Momo said, pressing her lips against Mina’s, pushing her onto her back. Momo’s hand drifted under the younger woman’s skirt. She rubbed Mina’s slit through her panties, earning herself soft moans from her roommate. “How long has it been since we had fun together, just the two of us?” Momo asked, not getting a response from Mina as the younger woman was too busy moaning as Momo slipped her fingers under her panties. Momo gently tapped against Mina’s slit, when her roommate’s mouth opened to moan she snuck her tongue inside, playing with hers. 

Momo knew just what buttons to press with Mina; the two had been intimate with each other so many times over the years, they knew each other’s bodies like the back of their hands. Momo moved her fingers in small circles around Mina’s sensitive clit.

Mina arched her back and craned her neck, breaking the kiss. As pleasure flooded her body, she reached for Momo’s zipper, pulling it down to free the older woman’s tits. Mina’s hand shook, but she reached forward, gripping the large heavy mounds and squeezing them roughly as she felt Momo’s fingers push into her cunt. “M-momo,” she whined, her body tensing as Momo rubbed her walls. The older woman leaned down and sucked on Mina’s neck marking her body.

Mina pursed her lips, trying to hold back her moans as Momo’s control over her grew. She felt her roommate unzip her top, opening her shirt. Mina shut her eyes, waiting for Momo’s mouth, but it never came. She opened her eyes, wondering what the older woman was doing. Momo was staring right back at her, a wide, toothy smile on her face. “What’s wrong, baby?” She said in a low tone. “Is there something you want?” Momo was teasing Mina, wanting her to beg for more pleasure.

Mina pushed out her chest, her modest mounds out for the older woman, “Please play with my nipples,” she replied shyly. Momo nodded her head and leaned in, sticking out her tongue and running it along Mina’s soft nipples. She could feel the nub hardening the longer she teased it. When Mina’s nipple became stiff, Momo flicked it. It made Mina squirm. Momo’s warm and wet tongue was coating her nipple, playing with it in just the right way. “Ahh, more,” Mina moaned as the older woman bit down on her nipple and pulled it taut. Mina’s voice got caught in her throat. She could feel her climax approaching as Momo’s fingers picked up the pace at the same time. “C-cumming,” Mina managed to grunt, her body shaking as she held back her climax. 

“Cum for me.” Momo moaned into Mina’s ear, her fingers speeding up further to push the older woman over the edge. Mina’s hips thrust upward, she cries out in pleasure as she cums on Momo’s fingers. “That’s it baby, cum for me,” Momo whispered, her fingers continuing to rub Mina’s walls as they tightened around her. Mina’s lower body slowly falls back down, her legs shaking from her climax. She watches as her roommate brings her nectar-soaked fingers to her lips and sucks them clean.

Momo smiles at her, rubbing Mina’s cheek before stripping off her top and pulling down her skirt. “Do you want a little more?”

Mina nods. Her eyes follow Momo as she walks over to the drawer and pulls out a double-sided strapon. She watches as Momo puts it on, her hand stroking the fake cock as she walks back over to Mina. “Do you want to ride, or do you want me to do the work?” Mina considered her options for a second, deciding that she wanted to ride Momo’s strapon. Momo smiled and lay down on the bed, her hand rubbing the strapon as she waited for Mina to straddle her. Mina crawled over Momo slowly, giving her a kiss and grabbing at her tits as she leaned back. The younger woman reached down, aligning her wet slit with Momo’s cock before sitting on it, she felt the thick head spread her lips apart. It pushes inside her; it wasn’t as big as you were, but it would do. Mina made sure every inch was inside her before she began grinding against Momo. She moaned softly, enjoying the feeling of it inside her. Mina placed her hands on Momo’s chest, squeezing the older woman’s mounds, watching as the soft flesh filled the gaps between her fingers. Momo groaned, enjoying the way Mina was playing with her. She wanted more, though. Momo reached back and grabbed a handful of Mina’s cheeks, giving the firm pieces of flesh a quick squeeze before slapping them. It was a quick giddy up, a sign for Mina to start fucking herself on Momo’s faux cock.

Getting the message, Mina began to bounce on it. She rose, squatting over Momo’s crotch and jumping on the cock. Momo could feel the end inside her move; it brushed against her G-spot, making her moan harder. 

Both women were beginning to get lost in the pleasure they felt. Mina bounced on Momo’s cock quickly, she grabbed at her own breasts, squeezing the small mounds tightly in her hands as she chased another orgasm. She moved quickly along the shaft, coating it in her nectar; the faster she moved, the deeper it felt as she sent her body crashing into Momo’s crotch.

The act only got rougher as Momo grabbed Mina’s ass, gripping it tightly and slamming the younger woman down on her cock. Momo would thrust up, meeting her halfway. It shifted the toy inside her, making it all feel better.

“Harder,” Mina moaned, imagining it was you fucking her instead of Momo. Momo smiled, seeing the younger woman enjoy herself. She spanked the younger woman’s ass, earning her a small yelp. “That’s it, more,” she continued. Momo gave Mina another slap on the rear, and a stinging pain lingered where it landed. Momo knew that Mina wanted more. The young woman might’ve looked shy and pure when they were out in public, but Momo knew better than anyone who Mina really was. 

“It’s my turn to be on top,” Momo groaned, rolling Mina onto her back. The older woman pulled out without a word and forced Mina onto her hands and knees. Momo would give Mina all that she wanted. She grabbed the strapon and pushed back into Mina’s needy cunt, thrusting it all deep into her in one smooth motion. Mina groaned loudly as she felt the strapon hit deep inside her cunt. Her arms began to give way as Momo began to thrust without a care. Soon she was on her face, moaning wildly as Momo used her body. 

The older woman watched the way Mina’s as shook from each violent thrust, the way her flesh jiggled as it recoiled from the impacts. Momo knew what Mina really enjoyed and reached for her reddened ass. She grabbed one cheek moving it to the side to reveal Mina’s puckered asshole. Momo had decided to tease the younger woman a little. She used her thumb to circle her precious asshole. Mina’s growing moans were already a good sign that she had noticed what the older woman was doing. Momo smirked and circled the hole twice more before pushing her thumb inside. “Oh, god,” Mina groaned, feeling the second intrusion.

“Sorry, I just needed something to help grab onto,” Momo told her. It was a complete lie; both women knew it, but Mina wasn’t going to argue. She was too buy enjoying getting fucked. Mina arched her back and grabbed onto the bedding, begging for more from the older woman. Momo just smiled, reveling in the sight of Mina giving in to who she really was.

Momo could feel her orgasm building; the dildo inside of her was rubbing against her G-spot with every thrust. She was so close. She bit her lip as she tried to hold on; the moment she came, she would come to a complete stop. Momo brought her other hand down on Mina’s ass, making the piece of flesh grow a brighter red, her hand print almost visible after repeated strikes. “I-I’m cumming,” Mina moaned, her knuckles turning white as she got closer to the edge. Her muscles were tightening, with a few more thrusts Momo forced the younger woman to cum. Mina’s walls tightened around Momo’s cock, clamping down on it. Momo was only able to give her one more thrust before cumming herself. She buried the cock inside Mina. Momo’s body shook as she was overcome by the pleasure. She collapsed on top of Mina, her nipples rubbing against the younger woman’s back as she adjusted herself. 

“Fuck, that was good,” Momo moaned before kissing the back of Mina’s neck. “Should we send him a picture? You know, show him what he’s missing?” Momo asked with a devilish smirk. 

“Y-yeah, I think we should,” Mina replied through heavy breaths. Mina stretches her body to the nightstand and grabs her phone, pulling up the camera. She holds the camera at arm's length. She gives a piece of sign and Momo does too, their sweaty bodies on full display. Once the picture is taken, Momo pulls the strapon out of Mina and takes it off. The pair lay beside each other, with Mina sending you the image and attaching the message. “We had a little fun without you. I hope you can come by soon. I miss you.” Mina had debated writing that she missed your cock, but she felt embarrassed to be sending such a message and decided on the alternative. Once the message was sent Mina put her phone down and caught her breath for a moment, but only for a moment as Momo’s hands reached around her body, one tugging at her nipple while the other played with her cunt. 

“I think we should go another round,” Momo said, kissing the younger woman’s neck. The two continued to have fun for the next few hours, enjoying each other's company and taking turns being the dominant one.

[yuujispinkhair]

I WANNA BE YOUR ENDGAME – Chapter 15

🏒❤️ A Hockey Romance feat. modern!Sukuna

Pairing: HockeyPlayer!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: College AU, Hockey AU, fluff + smut Playlist: I wanna be your Endgame Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: 18+, smut, cigarettes, alcohol. Fuckbuddies to lovers. Reader is a creative writing student. Sukuna is an ice hockey player + history student. This story will have approximately 17 chapters. Minors don't interact. Header by me. Divider @/benkeibear

MASTERLIST

"In two weeks, I'll be away on training camp. For a week."

You and Sukuna sit on the couch after a long day, both in sweatpants and matching Tigers hoodies, cuddled up in front of the TV, where a cooking show plays, when he announces the news. You turn your head to look at his tattooed face, pouting a bit when you reply,

"A whole week? And I guess you won't come home in the evenings?"

Sukuna grins at you, that boyish playful grin that makes him look too damn attractive,

"Aww, are you gonna miss me?"

You sigh and stretch, putting your legs in his lap. And Sukuna immediately grabs one of your socked feet and gives you a foot massage, making you hum before you tell him with a mischievous grin,

"Maybe a little. I'll miss your cooking skills..."

"Only my cooking skills?"

"Yeah, and it will be a bit of an inconvenience that I'll have to carry my books to class all by myself."

You smile and make a show of inspecting your fingernails boredly before you lift your head to look into Sukuna's eyes again and ask,

"What about you? Are you gonna miss me, baby?"

The grin on Sukuna's face is downright evil by now, and his eyes sparkle with devilish amusement. He huffs and shrugs cooly,

"I don't know. Maybe a tiny little bit. I might be the slightest bit bored without your unqualified statements when I watch hockey vids."

You snort and try to kick him with your socked feet, but Sukuna just grabs them tighter with his large hands and gives them a squeeze while he raises an amused eyebrow at you, asking with a smug smirk,

"What, princess?"

You glare playfully at him but get distracted by how beautiful Sukuna looks with his handsome face and all the tattoos, those long black lashes framing his maroon eyes. Eyes that are filled with far too much smugness. You roll your eyes at him and cross your arms in front of your chest.

"I love you, asshole."

Sukuna's smirk grows even bigger.

"I love you too, brat."

The two of you stare into each other's eyes for a long moment, neither wanting to look away first and then both of you burst out laughing at the same time. Sukuna cocks his head, grinning at you,

"Come here, give me a kiss, princess."

He makes a kissy face that makes you laugh even louder before you pull your feet out of his hands and crawl over to him, smiling when you feel Sukuna's strong arms immediately wrap around you and pull you in his lap, right before your lips find his in a sweet kiss.

You never thought being apart from Sukuna for a week would be so hard.

Considering how this whole thing between the two of you started with the whole fuckbuddies thing, it should be absolutely easy peasy to spend a few days apart.

But what you learn in those seven days is that a week can be very long when you miss your boyfriend.

It makes you realize how used you have become to spend almost all day with Sukuna. You even sleep in his bed, or he in yours every night. You have breakfast together and walk to class together, and meet for lunchtime and study dates in the library, and you drop by his practice all the time now, and have dinner at his place and have overly competitive Mario Kart matches with Yuuji, and watch hockey videos in bed until you fall asleep wrapped in each other's arms.

Now you feel like a piece of your soul is missing when you walk to class on your own, and lunch isn't the same without making fun of Sukuna's daily chicken and rice and listening to him shit-talking about a rival team.

The weirdest things are the nights, though. It's kind of embarrassing how fast you got used to feeling Sukuna's tall, buff body behind you, and somehow, you feel cold in your bed now even though your room isn't cold at all.

The nightly phone calls with Sukuna help a little, and either he is also unwilling to hang up, or he knows you well enough to know you can fall asleep more easily when you hear his soothing low voice talk to you, so he always stays on the phone with you until you have drifted off to sleep.

Of course, he teases you endlessly about how loud you snore or how he saw you drooling onto the pillow, but he always murmurs the sweetest little nothings to you late at night, too tired to play it cool or wear a mask. So you could easily tease him too about being such a huge simp for you, but you stay nice and just smile and listen to his low murmurs.

Those nights on the phone aren't able to replace Sukuna's physical presence in your bed, though, so you seem to be in a constant state of withdrawal, which makes you restless and grumpy.

So when the week has finally passed, and you hear the long-awaited loud knock on your door, you are off the couch in an instant. You yank open the door impatiently, smiling when you see Sukuna's tall figure with his sports bag slung casually over his broad shoulder and that attractive boyish smirk on his tattooed face that always makes your knees weak.

"Hey, princess. I'm home."

His low voice sounds smooth and warm, and you practically fling yourself at him, wrapping your arms around Sukuna's tall, muscular body, hugging him tightly as you tilt your head to smile up at him,

"Welcome home, champion."

Sukuna laughs, one strong arm immediately wrapping around your waist where it seems to naturally belong. His lips brush over your forehead, murmuring the exact words you were just thinking,

"Damn, I didn't know a week could be that long."

But now he is finally back home, standing in front of you, tall and broad, looking so good in his soft white hoodie with the team logo embroidered on the front.

Before you can reply, Sukuna drops his heavy sports bag and wraps both of his strong arms around you, pulling you against him and making you gasp when his lips instantly claim yours in a hungry kiss.

Your surprised gasp turns into a happy sigh as you practically melt against your boyfriend's muscular body, hugging him tightly and letting him pull you on your tiptoes so he can deepen the kiss, pushing his tongue into your mouth and kissing you with those sexy deep French kisses that drive you a little crazy each time.

You are both breathing heavily when you finally part, hazy eyes looking into each other for a long moment before Sukuna starts to grin again, and you chuckle softly while your thumbs brush over the short hair of his undercut.

"You played so well, baby. I'm so proud of you."

You're referring to the game Sukuna's team played at the end of the training camp. You saw most of it thanks to Yuuji, who was sitting on the bench with a sprained ankle and face-timed you to show you his brother scoring goal after goal. Sukuna even skated over to grab his brother's phone to blow you a kiss and dedicate the victory to you.

Sukuna's large hands sprawl over your waist as he laughs and raises a cocky eyebrow at you, but you can see that he is basking in your praise.

"I would have scored even more goals if you were in the arena. I would have destroyed those losers completely if my girl was there cheering me on in the stands."

You laugh too and shake your head, snuggling against Sukuna, resting your cheek against his chest and inhaling his scent, the sexy cologne he always wears, his cherry-scented hairspray, and faint traces of cigarette smoke, meaning he managed to sneak away from his coach to smoke in secret despite the constant lectures about how athletes shouldn't smoke.

"Oh, I think you already ruined their chances for the championship enough. You didn't really need me there."

Sukuna huffs and a long tattooed finger touches your chin and makes you lift your head. Those beautiful maroon eyes gaze deeply into yours, and his lips lift in that attractive lopsided smirk.

"And that's where you are wrong. I always need you by my side."

Sukuna's voice is velvety and low, with that teasing, flirty tone you love so much. That tone of voice that always reminds you of nights spent tangled in soft sheets, your sweaty bodies moving against each other while soft moans and breathy love confessions fill your bedroom.

And you know that Sukuna means those words, no matter how teasing he sounds. You can see it in how soft his eyes are when he looks at you right now. And you know your eyes must give away how smitten you are with him, too.

Your hands come to rest on Sukuna's broad chest, gently brushing your fingers over the soft cotton of his white hoodie, feeling the swell of his buff pecs and his strong heartbeat even through the thick fabric of the warm sweater.

"Then I'll try to sneak onto the team bus next time."

Sukuna chuckles and captures your lips in another slow and deep kiss. He's so tender with you that it makes your heart throb.

It's one of those secret, soft moments that most people don't expect a rough guy like Sukuna to be capable of. He is feared by his opponents. Gets called The King of Curses because he is like a curse coming over rival teams, making their most important players drop like flies, spending weeks on the bench with various injuries caused by your boyfriend. Even his own teammates are scared of him.

But when it comes to you, Sukuna is always sweet.

And you are sweet to him, too.

Your hands slip under Sukuna's soft white hoodie and find his smooth, warm skin and firm muscles, caressing his abs and pecs while you kiss him sweetly, showing him how happy you are to have him back.

You're both breathing heavily when Sukuna whispers against your lips,

"I missed you, princess."

Right at the same moment as you murmur,

"I missed you, baby."

Sukuna laughs softly, and then he smiles. That dazzling, beautiful smile he only reserves for you.

"I got something for you."

He leans down to unzip the side pocket of his sports bag, and when he straightens up again, there's a small gift package sitting in the palm of his calloused hand. You blink at Sukuna's hand and the gift and then look at him with suspiciously moist eyes,

"Oh... Kuna. You... you didn't have to buy me something..."

He smiles at you, shrugging seemingly casually, but you can see the tips of his ears turn slightly pink, and it's one of the most endearing things you ever saw. Sukuna watches as you take the gift package and slowly unwrap it, murmuring in his low voice,

"When we went to dinner, we walked past a shop, and I saw it in the window, and thought of you. Had to get back the next day to get it for you."

The wrapping paper opens and reveals a rectangular box. You lift the lid under Sukuna's watchful gaze and gasp softly when you see a delicate gold necklace with a pretty charm in the shape of a pair of hockey skates adorned with a small diamond that sparkles prettily in the light.

You clap a hand over your mouth, blinking up at Sukuna, and this time, you can't hide the tears in your eyes anymore. You reach up to wipe them away at the same moment as Sukuna cups your cheek with his large hand to brush his thumb over a stray tear running down your left cheek. You smile up at Sukuna, voice soft,

"That's so pretty. Thank you so much, baby."

Sukuna laughs softly, sounding pleased, when he tells you,

"And you haven't even seen all of it yet. Turn it around."

You bite your lip as you carefully take the small ice skates pendant and turn it around. Your smile grows even bigger when you see the small engraving on the back of the charm. Sukuna, it says in a filigree font next to a small heart.

Your pulse races. Sukuna got you a necklace with his name on it. It's so intimate somehow and possessive as if he is staking his claim, and it makes butterflies flutter wildly in your stomach. You like the thought of Sukuna wanting to mark you as his.

"I love it!"

You beam up at Sukuna, smiling brightly, and Sukuna's cat-like gaze travels slowly over you, lips lifted in a proud smile.

"Let me put it on you."

He makes a circular gesture with his long, tattooed fingers, and you nod and turn around right when Sukuna adds, in a low, seductive voice,

"Take your sweater off first. I wanna see how the necklace looks against your skin."

Your heart is beating wildly as you take off your sweater and let it drop to the floor, leaving you in your bra, standing with your back to Sukuna, feeling your breath quicken as he steps closer, and you can feel his tall body brush lightly against your skin. His large fingers are surprisingly skilled in fastening the delicate gold chain around your neck. His breath is warm on your shoulder as he leans down to whisper to you,

"I love you."

The words are followed by a tender kiss getting pressed onto your shoulder. And your eyelashes flutter, your whole body feeling so warm. Butterflies flutter not only in your stomach but also in your pussy when Sukuna trails more teasing kisses over your shoulder and neck.

He makes you so weak, makes you tremble in his strong arms. Makes you yearn for him.

Sukuna's warm hands come to rest on your waist, long, tattooed fingers sprawling possessively over your skin, fingertips dipping into the waistband of your sweatpants teasingly.

Your voice sounds shaky when you reply,

"I love you too. And I love having your name on me all the time now."

You are answered by a low growl and a tightening of those strong hands on your waist.

"Fuck, do you know how crazy it drives me when you say stuff like that?"

You can feel Sukuna smile against your naked shoulder, and you turn around in his arms, hugging him again, moaning softly when your half-exposed breasts press against his soft hoodie.

There's a hunger in Sukuna's eyes when your gaze meets his, and before you know it, you get scooped up into your boyfriend's strong arms.

"Let's celebrate my goals properly. I missed my victory fuck. How am I supposed to ever score again under these conditions?"

You roll your eyes and grin playfully at Sukuna while letting your fingers play with his undercut,

"In that case, I guess I have to take one for the team, huh?"

You both laugh, but the laughter soon gets replaced by heavy breathing and soft groans while you kiss and undress each other impatiently and tumble down onto your bed.

You whimper needily when Sukuna lets his hard cock glide through your wet pussy lips, his swollen tip caressing your clit while he kisses you deeply. And then he pushes inside you for the first time after a week apart, claiming you again and moaning your name softly when he is fully buried in your warm pussy.

He takes his sweet time with you, fucking you slow and deep as if he needs to cherish every second of it after being apart from you the whole week. It's not so much a victory fuck, as he claimed, but slow lovemaking instead.

Sukuna is pressing you down into the soft sheets with his tall, athletic body, making you mewl with every slow roll of his hips. The necklace he gifted to you is the only thing you are wearing, the small charm resting between your breasts, gliding over your skin with every thrust of Sukuna's cock.

You hug Sukuna tightly while his warm mouth is on your neck, kissing and sucking on your sensitive skin, making you moan his name even louder than his cock alone already does.

You feel so taken care of like this when Sukuna is covering your whole body with his broad figure. All big and strong and muscular on top of you, pressing you down, making sure you go nowhere and stay right where he wants you.

Sukuna's skin is so warm against yours, his naked body deliciously heavy on top of you, moving slowly but powerfully against you. He is everything you see and feel. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, needing more of him, babbling incoherently, begging him to take you, to fuck you, to love you as thoroughly as he can.

Your hands are wandering aimlessly over Sukuna's broad back, digging your nails into his beefy muscles, caressing his warm tattooed skin, tracing all the scars from various hockey injuries before they finally come to rest on his flexed biceps, marveling at how good those strong arms feel under your hands.

Sukuna's cock is so deep in you, long and thick, making you almost delirious with how full and good he makes you feel. You can't help but whimper, and Sukuna answers you with a low, sexy moan before his lips capture yours in a hungry but loving kiss.

You both get lost in your sweet lovemaking. Sukuna's low groans make your head spin, and his velvety voice sounds thick with desire when he murmurs against your neck,

"Fuck yeah, my beautiful girl. Feels so right to fuck you again. Your pretty pussy missed me, too, huh? So wet and warm for me."

You sob his name shakily, feeling your pussy tightening around Sukuna's cock, while he slowly fucks you into the mattress.

"I missed you so much, Kuna. Need you, baby."

"Fuck... I missed you too, princess."

Sukuna grabs your hands, captures them tightly in his much larger hands, and brings them up beside your head, fixing them there by interlacing his fingers with yours. A gesture so tender for a rough boy like him that it makes you sob loudly, overcome by how much you love him. It makes you clench around him and arch up against his heavy body, a breathless moan of his name falling from your lips.

Your legs are wrapped tightly around Sukuna's narrow hips, clinging to him, pulling him even closer, needing him so bad. The slight adjustment of positions makes him rest more of his weight on you, and it feels perfect. You are moaning his name anytime Sukuna lifts his hips ever so slightly and then rolls them against yours again, fucking you with those slow, gentle thrusts that feel so intimate.

He is so close to you, as close as possible, filling you so good, loving you so good that it makes you feel drunk. Drunk on his dick, drunk on his love. His thick mushroom head is kissing your sweet spot with every move, fucking you closer and closer to a toe-curling orgasm that you can already feel building up in your core.

"S... Sukuna...."

You sound desperate when you sob his name, your hands clutching Sukuna's tightly, your fingernails digging into the back of his large hands, surely leaving their crescent moon-shaped marks on his skin. And Sukuna's lips are on your neck, surprisingly tender and sweet. He groans in your ear, sounding almost like a purr, and whispers to you,

"Yeah, I know, angel, I know. Feels so fucking good."

Sukuna's large hands tighten around yours as he stills on top of you, ramming his thick cock as deep as possible into you.

And you watch him with love-drunk eyes. Watch his beautiful tattooed face while he cums. Your heart swells at the love and trust Sukuna has for you to let you see him like this. To let you see him give you his all. His cheeks are flushed slightly with arousal, his maroon eyes heavy-lidded with lust, closing fully as his orgasm washes over him, his lips parted as those sexy low moans spill from them.

Sukuna's hips twitch against you as he cums. And you press yourself against him, taking his cock even deeper, wanting all he has to give you. You mewl his name brokenly as you drown in the heavenly, warm waves of your own orgasm.

You tremble under Sukuna's heavy body, your pussy spasming around his cock, while Sukuna rocks slowly against you until he has spilled his full load in your pussy.

He finally lets out a long breath and opens his eyes again, gazing down at you with unveiled affection, smirking that sexy, boyish smirk at you while he is still inside you, making more butterflies flutter in your stomach.

Your hands slip out of Sukuna's grasp, and you hug him again, trailing your fingers slowly up and down his muscular back, caressing his tattooed skin tenderly. And Sukuna's lips wander over your neck, leaving a trail of kisses before he slumps on top of you with a contented sigh.

His head is resting on your naked breasts, his breathing in sync with yours. You can't stop smiling, feeling elated after the sex, and because you have your boyfriend back in your arms. Everything feels as it should again. You reach up to run a hand slowly through Sukuna's soft pink hair, and he hums happily. His voice has that sexy, sleepy drawl when he murmurs against your skin,

"I hate training camp. A week away from you is far too long. Honestly, the whole week, I just thought, let me be back in bed with my girl and watch videos on my phone with her and have my back scratched and my hair petted. I am growing so fucking soft."

You chuckle and let your nails slowly run up and down Sukuna's broad back,

"Is that a bad thing?"

You can feel Sukuna's grin against your skin when he answers,

"Nah, I wouldn't change it for the world."

Guys, what can I say? I am horribly in love with him AAHHH 😭💗 Writing this chapter made me so happy. It's SO SOFT. Can you imagine big, bad Sukuna acting all tough and being an overly ambitious asshole towards his teammates all day during training camp, but then lying in his bed at night simping for us and almost going crazy because he misses us? That boy is down bad for us, and it makes my life complete uwu.

I hope you liked the update! Comments and reblogs would be very sweet!

As always, thank you so much for still reading this story, which became so much longer than I thought. I am so happy to be on this journey with y'all! 💗

[ladyyomiart]

This post is 100% Yokai-coded! 🐶🔥 The second pic even looks like him, haha:

Okita shrugged slightly and spoke with a softness uncommon in him as he replied: "If it makes Kondou-san happy, then it makes me happy." Having said this, he turned to engage with Yokai; who was barking as loudly as his small (and tired) lungs allowed him to in order to intimidate the newcomers. Okita brought his hand close to him and smirked when the little dog immediately bit it; shaking it as if he was trying to tear apart a prey that was unlucky enough to fall into his jaws. "Oh, this one has an interesting attitude. What's his name?"

"Yokai," Chie replied, coming to her senses after receiving a gentle hug and a few words of encouragement from her sister (who thought her noticeable unhappiness was due to Izanagi's poor health rather than her embarrassment at lying to Heisuke).

"A demon's name. Hmm, I hope it doesn't bring you bad luck and the restaurant burns to the ground again." He crooked his lips into a mean smirk, boring his green eyes into Chie's without bothering to pull away the hand that Yokai was viciously biting. "How have you been, Chie-chan? I hear you've gotten into dozens of troubles since we last saw each other."

"Oh, yeah..." Chie pouted before backing away to stop her pet from further attacking the visitor. "Yokai, stop it! Leave Okita-san alone!"

"Leave him be, I've been bitten by worse things," he confessed, as amused by Chie's discomfort as he was by the way Yokai bared his tiny teeth, eager to resume the confrontation.

"Yokai-kun has good instincts," Kohana commented after offering a graceful bow to Heisuke, which he returned with a flustered awkwardness that stemmed from how much he disliked formalities, "it's only natural that he would prevent a Shogunate dog from entering his territory."

"A dog recognizes another dog, huh?" Heisuke joked, putting his hands to his hips as he asked: "Hey, but what the hell are you two doing here?"

[Excerpt from Chapter 25 "Moral High Ground" of my Canon x OC Hakuouki fanfic "A Friend Like You"].

[avengxrz]

rooster is not a leech (except when he is) ; bradley "rooster" bradshaw [part 1]

pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x reader

word count: 10.7k (oops)

summary: bradley bradshaw should’ve gotten the callsign leech with the way he stuck to you since college. he followed you everywhere, through the academy, every flight, every base. you never told him to stop, not really. until one day, you finally said the words—let go. and he did. he actually let go. but when he stopped trying, why did it suddenly feel like something was missing?

warnings: smut (soft, emotional, detailed, consensual), angst, slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, sunshine x grump dynamic, reader is cold and emotionally repressed, rooster is clingy and hopelessly in love, one bed trope, hoodie lore, crying rooster hours, yelling because she cares, post-ejection hospital scene, rooster chokes on jello, thunderstorm cuddles, power outage, forced proximity, quiet confessions in the dark, emotional intimacy, body heat science, rooster being annoying on purpose, reader slowly melting, unresolved tension, rooster finally letting go, second chances, heartache turned comfort, soft love after long silence.

note: english is not my first language, so please be kind. i wrote this in the middle of the night, raining heavily outside while “iris” by goo goo dolls was playing on loop. this is just something that sat in my chest too long and needed to breathe. thank you for reading.

part two

masterlist [part 2]

your call sign is sunbeam.

You knew fate was a smug little bastard the second you walked into the academy’s briefing room and saw him. There he was—Bradley Bradshaw, in the flesh, mustache thicker, smile cockier, and posture still carrying that same brand of infuriating confidence like the world owed him a high-five for showing up. He hadn’t seen you yet. You considered ducking back out. Honestly, if there’d been a vent large enough, you would’ve crawled through it. But your boots were already echoing against the tile, and his head turned.

The moment your eyes met his, the entire room fell away for him. He stood so fast his chair nearly flipped backward. “No way,” he gasped, as if God had delivered you straight to his personal wishlist. “Sunbeam?!”

You resisted the urge to sigh through your teeth. “Bradshaw.”

His grin widened, shameless and bright, like he was starring in some reunion special where only one of you had read the script. “You’re here! I can’t believe you’re actually here! I thought—well, I hoped, but I didn’t know—I mean, I put your name into that database search like five times just to—”

“Bradley.”

He shut up. Briefly. His eyes scanned you, like he was checking for damage, like the four years hadn’t just been years—they were famine, exile, and he was seeing light for the first time. And you? You just stared at him. Quiet. Blank. Letting the silence stretch in that wonderfully uncomfortable way only you had ever mastered. Because if you’d learned anything in college, it was this: if you waited long enough, Bradley would start talking again just to fill the silence.

You weren’t wrong.

“God, you haven’t changed a bit. Still got that resting glare, huh?” He nudged your shoulder like you were best friends reunited at a wedding, not two adults thrown together again by cruel chance. “Still wear those dead-inside eyes like a badge of honor. I missed that. I mean, I missed you, obviously. But that too.”

You didn’t answer. Just blinked at him. Long and slow.

“Right, sorry, I should shut up.” He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, and sat back down, clearly not shutting up at all. “I just… I can’t believe we’re finally gonna fly together again.”

And oh, did you fly. Every assignment. Every damn deployment. It didn’t matter if the mission was recon, escort, or hell-dive—you could bet your last ration bar that Rooster would be there.

You could’ve gotten assigned a WSO from a completely different squad, and somehow Bradley would pull strings or trade favors or “coincidentally” end up slotted as your wingman.

There were times you wondered if he bribed someone. Or if he had dirt on every CO.

Maybe he was the dirt.

It got to the point where you stopped asking how or why. You just accepted it. Like gravity. Like taxes.

Like the fact that every time you zipped up your suit, you’d hear his voice chattering from the locker next to yours, saying something like, “Your helmet looks good today. Real aerodynamic.” Or, “Did you sleep okay? You looked a little murdery this morning—more than usual.”

At first, you thought the others would question it. They didn’t. They just got used to it. Because by the time the Dagger Squad came around—years into this strange, lopsided partnership—Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw had cemented his role as the enthusiastic golden retriever to your chronically unimpressed house cat.

Phoenix noticed it first. “So, uh… does he always talk that much?”

You stared at the floor. “Yes.”

Hangman snorted. “And she always look at him like she’s mentally measuring his coffin.”

“Also yes,” Phoenix replied, eyes wide.

They watched, in horrified fascination, as Bradley launched into a detailed monologue about some new band he found on vinyl, how the drummer reminded him of you, how maybe you two should start a band—“You could be the bassist. You look like a bassist”—all while you slowly chewed a protein bar and stared blankly at the wall behind him. You weren’t even nodding. Just enduring.

It wasn’t love. Not on your end. At least not obviously. It was more like… tolerance. Deep, patient, bone-deep tolerance for the man who had once given you a call sign like Sunbeam and then made it everyone else’s problem.

“Why does he call you that?” Coyote asked once, during a long deployment.

You didn’t even look up from your maintenance checklist. “Because he doesn’t shut up.”

Across the hangar, Bradley was mid-ramble about constellations and how you once told him Orion was overrated.

“And she says it like she’s bored,” he said proudly. “But I know she’s secretly passionate about space. She just hides it like everything else.”

You didn’t correct him. You never did. Not once.

It became a game. For them. Not for you, obviously. You were simply trying to live your life in peace and silence and protein bars. But for the Dagger Squad, observing Rooster’s one-man devotion tour had turned into the squadron’s favorite reality show.

They started keeping score.

“He’s said her name fifteen times in the last hour,” Payback whispered, eyes wide, jotting something on a little notepad. “That’s a new record.”

“He made her coffee again,” Fanboy pointed out. “Three creams, no sugar. That’s love. Or a cry for help.”

“I think he’s nesting,” Phoenix added, arms crossed as she watched Rooster adjust your seat in the jet before you even got to the cockpit. “Like a bird. Bringing shiny things to the one he’s trying to mate with.”

You were aware of all of it. Every look. Every snort. Every dramatic reenactment of your interactions that happened two feet away, like they thought you were deaf just because you refused to engage. And still—still—you said nothing. Because saying something would validate their nonsense. And you? You didn’t negotiate with chaos.

Bradley, of course, was blissfully unaware. Or worse—he was aware, and just didn’t care.

One morning, he brought you a bagel. Not just a bagel.

A custom bagel. The exact one you used to get back in college from that one overpriced hipster café with the annoying tip jars labeled “Star Wars” vs “Star Trek.” That café had shut down five years ago. You had mentioned it in passing once, probably half-asleep and pissed off about the lack of decent breakfast on base.

But somehow, Bradley had remembered.

“Boom,” he said with a grin, holding out the bagel like it was a peace offering to a feral cat. “Sesame, toasted, cream cheese, pepper flakes, and a little honey. Just like old times.”

You stared at the bagel. Then at him. Then back at the bagel.

“Did you rob someone?”

He gasped, wounded. “Excuse you, I couriered that. Special delivery from San Diego. You’re welcome.”

You took the bagel. Not because you wanted to encourage him. But because you were starving and he was right. It was just like old times.

“You didn’t have to,” you mumbled, biting into it.

He lit up like a damn Christmas tree. “But I wanted to. Anything for my Sunbeam.”

Phoenix choked on her coffee across the room. You didn’t even blink.

Later that week, Bradley rearranged the locker room just so yours would be next to his again. You never agreed to this. You never asked for this. But there it was—your nameplate suddenly moved, your gear transferred neatly, and a sticky note taped to your helmet that said:

“i missed you. this is cohabitation now. ~r.”

You stared at it for a solid minute.

Then you calmly peeled the note off, walked over to Bradley—who was stretching unnecessarily in front of a mirror like some tragic Top Gun calendar shoot—and handed it back to him without a word.

He took it, smiled, and folded it into his wallet like it was a love letter.

Hangman witnessed the whole thing and immediately muttered, “I’m telling you, it’s like watching a wolf try to flirt with a statue.”

Phoenix nodded solemnly. “No. It’s worse. It’s like the statue lets him.”

You learned to accept certain facts as constants in your life. The sun would rise in the east. Gravity would do its thing. And Bradley Bradshaw would find a new, profoundly unnecessary way to remind everyone within a five-mile radius that he knew you first.

“Oh yeah, Sunbeam used to fall asleep in lectures with her eyes open,” he was saying one afternoon on the tarmac, while you methodically checked the flaps on your F/A-18. “Scared the hell outta me the first time. I thought she died. Turns out she just disengages from reality like a light switch. Isn’t that adorable?”

You didn’t even pause. You just yanked the panel open a little harder than necessary.

“I have not known peace,” you muttered under your breath.

“Did you say something?” he chirped, leaning his elbows on your wing like you were having a moment.

“She did,” Hangman answered for you, appearing with a smirk and a handful of popcorn. “She said she’s actively drafting your murder in her head.”

Rooster only laughed. “Classic Sunbeam.”

And then there was the base-wide Rooster Alert System—coined by Phoenix—because no matter where you went, he showed up. Like clockwork. Like taxes. Like glitter at a children’s birthday party.

You went for a run at six a.m.? There he was, jogging up beside you, too chipper for someone who hadn’t had caffeine yet. You went to grab a snack from the vending machine? He popped out of the hallway like some sort of clingy airman jack-in-the-box, saying, “You want my granola bar? It’s peanut butter. Just like you like.”

You hadn’t told him your favorite granola flavor in years.

“Do you have, like… a tracker on her?” Bob asked once, dead serious.

Bradley just smiled. “No. But her soul and mine are cosmically linked.”

You stared at him. “I will un-cosmically unlink us.”

He winked. “You always say that.”

The worst part wasn’t even the talking. It was the commentary team he’d unknowingly recruited. Dagger Squad started giving running analysis like it was an Olympic sport.

“Oh look, he’s fixing her helmet strap again,” Payback muttered, crouched beside Fanboy and Coyote behind a storage crate. “That’s the third time this week.”

“Still no ‘thank you,’ though,” Fanboy whispered, scandalized. “Do you think she’s gonna snap and shove him into the ocean?”

“Honestly, I think she’d miss him,” Coyote said. “But only in, like… a ‘this is too quiet now’ kind of way.”

You knew they were watching. You knew every move you made around Rooster was being documented like a wildlife special: Here we see the elusive Grumpus Sunbeamus in her natural environment, ignoring the over-affectionate Roosterus Clingicus.

“Hey,” Bradley said one morning during pre-flight checks, gently brushing something invisible off your shoulder, “you know, if you ever wanted to hang out outside of training, I’m down.”

You glanced at him. “We hang out every day.”

“No, I mean like... not at work. Like movies. Or drinks. Or mini-golf.”

“Mini-golf?” you deadpanned.

“Okay, bad example. But you’d look good swinging a putter.”

You blinked at him once. Then turned away without a word.

“...She’s thinking about it,” he whispered behind you.

“No, she’s not,” Phoenix called from across the room.

You were in the hangar, tucked beside your jet with the sun dripping low through the open bay doors. The golden hour light slanted across the concrete floor like a mood filter, softening the sharp edges of the world—not that you noticed. You were busy swapping out a busted nav panel, hands deep in wires, trying to make sense of a system that didn’t want to be understood. Peaceful. Focused.

Then came the footsteps.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to. You could tell it was Bradley from the rhythm. Always just a little too heavy on the heel, a little too eager in the pacing, like even his feet couldn’t wait to be near you.

“Hey, Sunbeam,” he said softly, like he thought if he said it quieter, maybe this time you’d say his name back.

You grunted in reply, not pausing your work.

He sat down cross-legged across from you, his back against a crate, like this was storytime and you were the campfire. A moment of silence passed. You savored it. It was rare.

Then, tragically, he began.

“I was thinking the other day,” he said, which was always a bad sign, “if we ever weren’t in the Navy, like, say we were just... two regular civilians, I think you’d run a bookstore.”

You stopped moving. Not because you were touched. But because—what?

He nodded seriously, gesturing with both hands. “Yeah. Like a tiny one. Corner lot. Dusty shelves, quiet jazz. You’d sit behind the counter and judge people’s taste in fiction. Maybe knit. Maybe glare at people who talk too loud.”

You stared at him. “You think I knit?”

He grinned. “You look like you secretly knit. Like angry knitting. Spite scarves.”

You went back to your wires.

Bradley leaned his head back against the crate and smiled up at the ceiling like it had the answers to everything. “And I’d come in every day and buy the weirdest books just so you’d roll your eyes and mutter something like, ‘That author’s a hack.’ And I’d be like, ‘Yeah, but I thought the cover was neat.’”

You didn’t respond.

“Then I’d ask you what you’re reading, and you’d pretend not to answer, but you’d leave a copy by the register the next day. Dog-eared. And that’d be your way of saying I’m not the worst.”

You slowly looked up. “Are you high?”

He laughed, full and loud, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just on life. And maybe jet fuel fumes. Hard to tell.”

You let your gaze settle back on the panel. “You’re a lunatic.”

“And you’re still talking to me,” he said, utterly unbothered. “Progress.”

Silence.

Then, casually, he pulled something from the inside pocket of his flight suit and held it out to you. It was a patch.

Not just any patch—your callsign, Sunbeam, stitched in your usual yellow and burnt orange, except this one had a small embroidered rooster just below it. Not his full patch, not Rooster, just a tiny little chicken, peeking out smugly like it lived there.

You stared at it. Then at him.

He raised his eyebrows. “What? I thought it was funny. And, you know... accurate. You may be a Sunbeam, but you’re my Sunbeam.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I will burn you alive.”

He smiled so bright it could’ve powered a damn aircraft carrier. “See? There’s that sunshine.”

You weren’t trying to make him jealous.

In fact, you weren’t trying to do anything beyond finishing your post-flight diagnostics and maybe, maybe, drink a bottle of water without someone appearing like a golden retriever with boundary issues. But Rooster had wandered off for a second—probably to go flirt with the vending machine or whatever it is he does when he disappears—and in that fleeting, blessed moment of quiet, Bob slid into the space beside you with a nod and a clipboard in hand.

“Your rudder inputs were clean,” he said, calm and matter-of-fact. “Flawless on descent. You clipped the throttle smoother than I’ve ever seen you do.”

You glanced up at him. “You were watching?”

Bob shrugged, faintly smiling. “You always fly tight. Makes it easy to watch. Hard to miss.”

It wasn’t a line. Bob didn’t do lines. He said it like it was a scientific observation. And maybe that’s why you let the corner of your mouth twitch upward, just for a second, before going back to your own list.

Bob tapped his pen against his thigh, hesitating a beat. “I was also wondering…” he began, voice low, “did you ever finish that book you brought on deployment? The one with the red cover. Looked like poetry.”

You blinked. No one ever asked about the books. Rooster always called them your “silent weapons” and then launched into his usual running bit about how your “resting murder face” should be studied by psychologists.

But Bob? Bob noticed the cover color.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Finished it last week. It was better than I expected. Kind of hurt, but in a good way.”

He nodded. “I like those kinds of stories. The ones that don’t try to heal you, just… sit with you in the dark for a while.”

That made you pause.

No one ever talked like that to you. At least, not without trying to attach a tracking device and propose marriage in the same breath.

“Yeah,” you said again, softer this time. “Exactly that.”

Bob smiled. Then, surprisingly, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, dog-eared paperback, holding it out like a peace offering. “This one’s like that. If you’re interested.”

You took it, carefully flipping through a few of the worn pages. The lines were underlined. Notes in the margins. A few faint coffee rings on the corner.

He read this. He lived in it.

Your fingers brushed the cover as you turned it over. “Thanks, Bob.”

That’s when you heard it.

The sound of a very specific, dramatic throat-clear. The kind that belonged to someone who absolutely could not stand being left out of a conversation for longer than two consecutive minutes.

“Wow,” Rooster said, standing behind you both with his arms crossed and his eyebrows fighting for dominance. “It’s, uh… real book club hours over here, huh?”

You didn’t turn around. “Go away, Bradley.”

“Funny,” he muttered, walking around to insert himself directly into your line of sight. “I leave for two seconds and suddenly Bob’s got you talking like you’re not legally required to ignore everyone on this base.”

“She talks to me all the time,” Bob said gently, still not picking up the battlefield tension radiating off Rooster.

“Oh I’m sure she does,” Rooster bit back, plastering on a grin that was two shades too bright. “Sharing books, huh? That’s cute. Real deep. Real emotional. I should’ve known it was the poetry that would finally crack her.”

You turned a page in Bob’s book. “It wasn't poetry. It was the silence.”

Rooster’s smile faltered. Just a flicker. Just a heartbeat. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels like a sulking toddler denied dessert.

Bob, bless his soul, remained oblivious. “I just thought she might like it,” he offered. “It’s kind of slow-paced. Thoughtful.”

“Oh yeah?” Rooster said, voice climbing an octave. “That’s cool. I’ve got a book too. It’s a graphic novel. About a fighter jet that turns into a robot. Very thoughtful.”

You looked up slowly. “Are you… jealous of Bob?”

He gasped. “What? No! Jealous? Me? Of Bob? Pfft.”

Bob tilted his head. “You sound kind of jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re pouting,” you said plainly.

“I don’t pout.”

You stared at him. He pouted harder. It was like watching a Labrador lose a game of fetch to a cat.

There was a long silence. Rooster shifted again, clearly realizing this wasn’t going the way he planned.

“I brought you jerky,” he tried weakly, holding up a sad little plastic bag like it was a peace treaty. “Peppercorn. Your favorite.”

Bob blinked. “She doesn’t like peppercorn. She likes teriyaki.”

Rooster’s mouth dropped open like he’d just been stabbed.

You took the jerky without comment and handed it to Bob, who pocketed it politely.

Rooster stared at you. “Et tu, Sunbeam?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Stop using Latin. You don’t know what that means.”

“I know betrayal when I see it.”

You stood, tucking the book under your arm. “You gonna cry?”

Rooster opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, he opened it again.

Then, with the grace of a truly defeated man, he muttered, “Maybe a little.”

And as you walked away with Bob, calmly discussing character development and sentence structure, Bradley Bradshaw stood behind you like a kicked puppy, arms crossed, muttering to himself about how the real emotional literature was found in comic books.

The book was only the beginning.

After that day, Bob started showing up more. Not in a clingy, leech-on-your-soul kind of way. Just… consistently. Quietly. He had a rhythm to him, like good jazz. Never pushed. Never demanded. Just offered something—an observation, a book, a coffee—and let the silence hold space instead of filling it with noise.

You liked that. And Rooster hated it.

You and Bob sat together in the ready room during briefings now. It wasn’t a planned thing. You just always seemed to pick the same seats. And when you talked—God forbid—he listened. Actually listened. Rooster, three seats over, always looked like he was trying to solve calculus in his head. Eyebrows furrowed, fingers twitching against his notepad, occasionally glancing over with the tragic longing of a romcom protagonist who’d just realized the girl next door was on a date with someone normal.

You caught him staring during debrief once. You didn’t say anything.

Bob noticed, though. Because of course he did.

“He okay?” he asked under his breath.

You didn’t look up from your checklist. “He’ll survive.”

“You sure?”

You shrugged. “He survived four years without me. He’ll manage four feet.”

Bob smiled faintly and passed you his pen when yours ran out of ink. You accepted it with a nod. Meanwhile, Rooster watched from across the room, gnawing on his highlighter like it had personally wronged him.

It only got worse from there.

You started spending breaks with Bob in the hangar’s quiet corner, the one where the breeze came through just enough to keep things cool, where the light slanted perfectly across the concrete and made everything feel a little less like a military base and a little more like… a place.

Bob brought crossword puzzles sometimes. Sometimes you filled them out together in companionable silence. Other times, you talked—about nothing important. Music. Stories. Flight technique. The exact point at which caffeine became counterproductive for mental clarity. Bob had theories.

One afternoon, you were halfway through filling in the word equilibrium when Rooster walked by with two coffees in hand and a bounce in his step that deflated immediately when he saw who you were sitting with.

“Oh,” he said loudly, pausing mid-stride. “You guys are here. Together. Again. That’s… great.”

You didn’t even look up.

Bob did, offering his usual warm little nod. “Hey, Bradley.”

“Bob,” Rooster said, voice tight as he dramatically sipped from one of the coffees. “Hey. You want one of these, Sunbeam? I brought options. Vanilla cold brew or, uh… hazelnut.”

“I already got her one,” Bob replied, lifting the cup next to you. “Plain black. No sugar.”

Rooster blinked. His whole world shattered in a single moment. “…She drinks it black?”

You finally glanced up. “Since college.”

“I—okay.” Rooster sat down on the bench beside you like he’d just been told Santa wasn’t real. “I’ve been putting cinnamon syrup in your drinks for years.”

“I’ve been pouring them out for years,” you replied evenly.

Bob choked on a laugh and turned it into a cough. Rooster looked devastated.

“You could’ve said something.”

“You don’t listen.”

“Yes I do!”

You leveled him with a look. “What’s my favorite author?”

“Uhhh…” He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Bob in betrayal. “Okay, that’s not fair, he’s a librarian in human form—”

“He’s a WSO.”

“And a book nerd. You’re emotionally cheating on me.”

“I was never emotionally dating you.”

“You’re emotionally something-ing me.”

You ignored him and went back to the crossword. Bob leaned closer, scanning the half-filled boxes.

“‘Eight-letter word for a balanced state of opposing forces,’” he murmured. “You already nailed it.”

“Equilibrium,” you said at the same time, writing the last few letters in.

Rooster slumped. “You guys even finish each other’s crosswords now?”

You didn’t answer. Bob smiled.

Rooster pouted so hard he could’ve powered a wind turbine off the force of his sigh.

“Fine,” he said, dragging himself up off the bench like gravity had it out for him personally. “I’ll just… go polish my plane alone. Like a sad, betrayed, caffeinated man.”

“Bye,” you said without inflection.

He paused mid-walk.

“…Love you too.”

Bradley was glaring.

Not just watching. Not idly observing or casually monitoring or curiously glancing.

No. He was full-on, arms-crossed, mouth-twisted, jaw-tight glare mode, posted up at the end of the Hard Deck bar like a tragic movie villain who’d been double-crossed by love and was now plotting world domination… or, at the very least, someone’s mild emotional inconvenience.

Because there you were. Again. With Bob.

Sitting in a corner booth with those damn low lights softening your edges, like the universe was putting a spotlight on how not miserable you looked without him. You were leaning in slightly, listening to Bob say something—something no doubt devastatingly intelligent and weirdly charming in that quiet way Bob had—and then, you laughed.

Bradley’s stomach sank like an aircraft carrier hitting a minefield.

“She’s laughing,” he muttered into his beer.

“She’s allowed to laugh,” Phoenix said beside him, not looking up from her pool cue.

“Yeah, but not like that.” He gestured vaguely, eyes locked on the way your shoulders shook with amusement. “That’s her real laugh. The one with the nose scrunch. I haven’t seen that laugh in weeks.”

Coyote leaned in on the other side, nursing his drink. “Dude. They’re just talking.”

“They’re bonding.”

“They’ve been bonding for months,” Fanboy added from across the table. “We all see it. You’re the only one acting like it’s a crime.”

Bradley groaned and thunked his forehead against the bar. “Why Bob, though? I mean, Bob? I’ve been trying to get her to laugh for like a decade and all it took was one poetry book and a crossword?”

“Bob listens,” Phoenix said.

“I listen!”

“No, you monologue,” she replied. “There’s a difference.”

He sat up, eyes wide. “Are you saying I talk too much?!”

Everyone just looked at him.

He deflated. “Okay, fine, yes, I know. I get excited. I have thoughts. And feelings. And deep emotional convictions about her, alright?! Is that a crime?”

“Bradshaw,” Hangman drawled as he approached with his beer, “I say this with love. You look like a golden retriever who just watched their owner adopt a cat.”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Bradley muttered, dramatically dropping his head into his hands. “She hates me now. I ruined it. I should’ve played it cool, should’ve just been normal, but noooo, I had to follow her around like a lost duckling for the past ten years, and now she’s emotionally defected to Bob.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Bob said calmly, appearing out of nowhere with an empty glass in hand.

Bradley shrieked. “JESUS CHRIST—how long were you standing there?!”

“Long enough,” Bob said, unfazed, as he slid the glass onto the bar and nodded politely at Penny.

Everyone stared.

“Where’s—where’s she?” Bradley asked, panic rising in his voice like a kettle about to blow.

“She went to the jukebox.”

Bradley practically jumped off the barstool. “She likes music.”

Bob nodded. “Yes. Most people do.”

“I could’ve picked her song,” Bradley said, borderline hysterical. “I have playlists. Playlists, Bob. For her. One’s called ‘Sunbeam Vibes’. It’s acoustic. It has themes.”

“That’s… a lot,” Bob offered carefully.

Bradley slumped back down, burying his face into his crossed arms. “She’s never gonna choose me,” he said, voice muffled. “Not like this. I’m just a background character in the Bob Show now.”

Phoenix patted him on the back. “You’re not a background character.”

“Really?” he sniffled.

“No. You’re like… the comic relief that accidentally makes people cry near the end.”

“I don’t want to be the comic relief! I want to be her main character!”

“You’re pouting,” Bob observed gently.

“I know!” Bradley groaned. “I hate it! But I miss her and she’s right there and she looks so happy without me and she laughed at your joke, which isn’t fair because I’m the funny one.”

“She didn’t laugh at my joke,” Bob said softly. “She laughed at yours.”

Bradley’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I just reminded her of something you said during a mission years ago,” Bob replied, casual, kind. “The one where you told the tower that ‘Sunbeam’s got it handled and I’m just here for moral support.’ She remembered it. Thought it was cute.”

The whole squad went quiet.

Bradley blinked. “She remembered that?”

“She remembers a lot more than you think.”

And then Bob turned, grabbed his refill from Penny, and headed back toward you—no rush, no smugness, just that Bob energy. Steady. Present. Unshakable.

Bradley watched him go. Watched you look up as Bob slid back into the booth. Watched the small smile you gave him. It wasn’t the one you gave Bradley, no—but it was real. It was warm.

He sighed and let his forehead fall back to the bar. “God,” he whispered. “I should’ve been quieter.”

Phoenix handed him a napkin. “You still can be.”

He stared at it. “It’s too late. She’s in Bob’s book club now. I don’t even know how to read emotions, let alone poetry. I’m a golden retriever in a library.”

“No,” Coyote said, finally breaking into a grin. “You’re a rooster in love.”

And for the first time that night, Bradley didn’t argue.

He just sighed.

And pouted.

And whispered, “Do you think she still wears that hoodie I gave her back in college? The one with the chicken on it?”

“Absolutely not,” Phoenix said. “Burned it.”

Bradley groaned again. But then—barely, faintly—he heard your laugh ring out again from across the bar. And he smiled. Just a little. Even if it hurts.

Rooster woke up that morning with a feeling.

Not a bad one. Not a gut-clenching we’re-about-to-fly-into-a-hurricane kind of feeling. More like a warm, fluttery, I’m-about-to-see-my-person-and-remind-them-we’re-destined kind of feeling. He even did his hair extra nice. Perfect swoop. Subtle cologne. Crisp undershirt. His callsign patch had been ironed the night before.

Because today? Today was training flights.

And historically—historically—Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw had always been paired with you.

It was a known fact. A sacred tradition. A celestial bond. Sunbeam and Rooster: light and feathers. Grit and chaos. Sugar and salt. He talked, you blinked. It worked. The whole damn Navy knew it.

So when Maverick started calling out the pairings for the day, Rooster stood tall with all the pride of a man seconds away from hearing his name next to yours.

“Sunbeam,” Mav said, scanning the list.

Bradley straightened his back. Smiled.

“You’re with Hangman.”

Rooster’s face broke.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Tilted his head slightly like maybe his ears malfunctioned. “Excuse me?” he squeaked.

Hangman, already walking toward you, shot Rooster a wink over his shoulder. “Try not to miss me too much, partner.”

You didn’t react. Didn’t even look at Rooster. You just nodded, grabbed your helmet, and walked toward your temporary jet like this wasn’t the biggest betrayal since Brutus took a dagger to Caesar’s spine.

Rooster stood frozen. Still waiting. Still hoping. Still trying to comprehend what parallel universe he had just been dropped into.

“Rooster,” Mav said.

“Yes, sir,” he replied tightly.

“You’re with Coyote.”

Bradley nodded. Then turned directly into a wall.

Not on purpose. He just… misjudged. That’s how scrambled he was. That’s how personally wounded he felt. He ricocheted off the wall with a muttered “I’m fine,” and stomped after Coyote like a sulky six-year-old being told he couldn’t sit next to his crush on the bus.

The flight was fine.

Which is to say, it was technically successful, but Rooster flew like a man emotionally concussed. Missed a cue. Forgot to say “copy” once. Got called out by Mav for radio silence.

And the whole time, you and Hangman were in the sky above him, probably outmaneuvering clouds and swapping war stories like a functional pair of professionals. Disgusting.

Back on the ground, Bradley ripped off his helmet and tossed it onto the bench like it had personally orchestrated his heartbreak.

“Everything okay?” Coyote asked carefully.

Rooster slumped down, legs splayed, arms limp at his sides. “She didn’t even look at me.”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Coyote blinked. “You mean your flight partner for life who was assigned someone else for literally one session?”

“It’s the principle,” Rooster said, voice raw with indignation. “We have history. We’ve got muscle memory. Telepathy. I look left—she’s already flying formation. I tap the stick—she knows I want to be evasive. I say ‘Hey, I saw this cool vinyl shop last week,’ she says nothing, but she hears me.”

Coyote snorted. “You need a nap.”

“I need her,” Rooster muttered, head falling back against the wall. “I need her flying with me. Not Jake ‘I-do-barrel-rolls-for-attention’ Seresin.”

Hangman chose that exact moment to stroll in, still in flight gear, grinning like a cat who just got adopted by a lactose-intolerant mouse.

“Gotta say,” Jake drawled, “Sunbeam? Hell of a wingwoman. Smooth, precise, unshakable. No unnecessary chatter. Dream partner.”

Rooster’s eye twitched.

Jake leaned in a little closer. “She even said my turns were ‘efficient.’ I almost cried.”

Bradley stood so fast the bench screeched. “She complimented you?”

“I mean,” Jake shrugged, “she didn’t say much, but I felt it. Like… spiritually.”

Rooster made a noise somewhere between a growl and a wounded gasp. “She’s never complimented me. Not once.”

“That’s because you never shut up long enough to earn one,” Phoenix called from the other end of the locker room.

“I’m expressive!” Rooster snapped.

“You’re emotionally codependent,” she said. “And clingy.”

“Sunbeam doesn’t mind.”

“She paired with Hangman without blinking.”

Rooster looked like someone had just stolen the sun.

“…You think she’s tired of me?” he asked, voice suddenly small. “Like, actually tired?”

Coyote raised an eyebrow. “Like, hypothetically?”

“No. Like, in reality. What if… what if all this time I’ve been this loud, flappy goose honking around her while she’s just quietly praying for Bob or Hangman or literally anyone else?”

No one answered. Which only made the silence worse.

Rooster slumped again, defeated. “I peaked in college. I was the golden retriever who imprinted on a stray cat, and she’s been tolerating me like a recurring allergic reaction ever since.”

Hangman patted his shoulder. “That’s the most self-aware thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’m gonna change,” Rooster whispered.

Phoenix raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“I’m gonna stop talking.”

“…For how long?”

“Forever.”

“You won’t make it twenty minutes.”

“I will if it means she misses me,” he said dramatically. “I’m gonna be mysterious. Brooding. Emotionally distant. Like Bob, but with better sunglasses.”

They all stared.

“Watch,” Rooster said, dragging a hand down his face. “Next time she walks into the room, I won’t even look up.”

He turned and faced the wall. Silence.

And then the door creaked open, you walked in.

The room went still.

Rooster clenched his jaw. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

You walked right past him, looked at Coyote, and said, “Hey. You left your notes on the runway.”

Then, walked out.

Coyote blinked. “Thanks.”

Bradley slowly turned back to the group, face pale. “She didn’t even see me.”

“She did,” Bob said from behind a locker door. “She just didn’t acknowledge you.”

Rooster whimpered. 

Bradley was dying.

Not physically. No, he was in perfect health. Heart rate steady. Vitals fine.

Emotionally? Spiritually? Existentially?

Gone. Absolutely obliterated.

Because you—his Sunbeam, his ride-or-die, his emotional support stoic—were laughing.

With Jake Seresin. In public. In the middle of base. In broad daylight with witnesses and everything.

Bradley was crouched behind a Humvee, sunglasses askew, clutching a protein bar he no longer had the will to eat.

“What the hell are they even talking about?” he whispered to Bob, who had unfortunately been dragged into this surveillance operation against his will.

Bob squinted from behind his own sunglasses, arms crossed. “It looks like Hangman’s telling her a story.”

“A story? What kind of story?”

“I don’t know, man. A funny one?”

Bradley squinted harder. You were leaning against the fence, arms crossed, lips twitching as Jake animatedly gestured like he was reenacting a high-speed maneuver. You said something. Jake barked out a laugh. And then—

You smiled. A real one.

Not the forced, strained kind you gave Rooster when he followed you around quoting Top Gun lines in his best impression of “charm.” No—this was casual. Comfortable.

Like you enjoyed him. Bradley felt like he was going to throw up.

“I have to stop this,” he muttered, standing abruptly.

Bob caught his arm. “What are you gonna do? Run over there and declare your eternal love? In front of Hangman?”

Bradley flinched. “No. I was just… gonna say hi. Casually. Like a guy who also exists in this general area.”

Bob didn’t let go. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I always sweat when I’m emotionally compromised!”

Bob sighed. “Bradley. Look. Maybe she’s just… being friendly.”

“Sunbeam doesn’t do friendly,” he hissed. “She does annoyed. And cold. And occasionally concerned when someone’s bleeding.”

“She was friendly with me.”

“That’s because you speak in whispers and smell like libraries!”

Bob blinked. “Thanks?”

Bradley ran a hand down his face and peeked again.

You were sitting now.

You were sitting with Hangman. Oh no.

Oh no.

Hangman said something else—probably something stupid and Texan—and you laughed. Not the nose-scrunch one, but a shoulder-shaking one.

Bradley staggered back like he’d been shot.

“She’s falling in love with him,” he whispered, clutching his chest. “I’m gonna die. I’m gonna be replaced by a man who wears cologne to flight training.”

Bob patted his shoulder. “She’s not falling in love with anyone. She probably just likes his stupid story.”

“What story could he possibly tell that’s better than the one where I saved her from a malfunctioning cockpit door and got a concussion?!”

“You also threw up on her boots that day.”

“That was months later! She knows that!”

Bob just gave him a look.

Bradley crumbled.

That night at the Hard Deck, Rooster didn’t sit with the squad.

He sat at the bar. Alone. Nursing a whiskey he didn’t even want, sulking like a man who just watched the love of his life be wooed by the human embodiment of a country song.

The worst part? You weren’t even doing it on purpose.

You weren’t leaning into Jake’s side. You weren’t flipping your hair or batting your lashes. No, you were just… listening. Occasionally giving him a rare smile. Saying a word here and there. Just existing.

And somehow that was worse. Because you never looked like that around him.

“Alright,” Hangman said, sliding up beside Bradley with that damn smug grin, “I gotta ask. You good?”

Rooster didn’t look at him. “Peachy.”

“Uh huh.” Jake signaled for a beer. “You’ve been glowering at me like a cartoon villain for the past hour.”

“I’m not glowering.”

“You look like you’re about to monologue about revenge.”

Bradley exhaled sharply. “What do you want, Seresin?”

Jake leaned on the bar. “Honestly? I just wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna, like, spontaneously combust. You’ve been watching her like a wounded Victorian husband whose wife dared to laugh at another man’s joke.”

Rooster side-eyed him. “So you are trying to steal her.”

Jake blinked. Then laughed. “What? No. Dude, I like her. Sure. She’s cool. Scary in that ‘emotionally unavailable assassin’ kind of way. But I’m not you.”

Bradley frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jake sipped his beer. “I mean you’re the one who knows what her favorite coffee is. You’re the one who follows her around like a love-sick puppy. And you’re the only person who’s ever made her roll her eyes and almost smile at the same time.”

Rooster blinked.

Jake leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. “She talks about you, you know.”

“What?” Bradley nearly dropped his glass.

“Nothing crazy. But she does. Usually when you’re not around. Usually like…” Jake shrugged. “Like she’s trying not to admit she misses you.”

Rooster stared at him, stunned.

Jake shrugged. “Anyway. Keep pouting if it helps. Just don’t let her walk away before you say something that matters.”

And then he was gone.

Later that night, Bradley sat alone outside the bar, legs stretched out, staring up at the stars.

He could still hear your laugh in his head. Still see the way you looked at Jake—open, relaxed, soft.

And for the first time, he wondered:

Maybe you weren’t drifting toward Jake.

Maybe you were just drifting away from him.

And if he didn’t speak soon—really speak—you might never drift back.

He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and whispered to the night:

“Please. Don’t pick him. Don’t pick anyone.”

And somewhere inside, he swore he heard your voice say:

Then stop waiting.

The next day, Rooster came back swinging.

Spirit fully revived, delusion fully reloaded.

Last night’s brooding on the patio? Over. Jake’s unsettling pep talk? Filed away for later trauma processing. This morning, he had a plan. A brilliant, foolproof, emotionally catastrophic plan:

Be normal.

Totally, perfectly normal.

Which for Rooster meant... being louder than ever.

So when you walked into the hangar, head down, clipboard in hand, face set to “resting war criminal,” Rooster popped up from literally nowhere with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever high on espresso.

“Hey, Sunbeam!” he called, jogging toward you like an idiot in aviators. “You’re five minutes early. I knew you were gonna be early. That’s so you. You’re always—y’know—early. Punctual. Military. Classic.”

You didn’t stop walking.

He kept pace beside you anyway.

“Anyway,” he continued, completely undeterred by your silence, “I was thinking, right, since we’ve got a break after drills today, we should go get food. You like food. I know you like food. Everybody likes food. Unless... do you not eat? Wait. Are you secretly a cryptid?”

You stopped.

Looked at him.

Expression flat. Voice monotone.

“Bradley. What do you want.”

His entire soul did a backflip at the sound of his name in your voice, even though you said it like it physically pained you to do so.

“I just—uh.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Wanted to see if you wanted to hang out. Like old times.”

“No.”

“Okay—cool—no’s valid,” he stammered. “But like, is it a no because you’re busy? Or a no because you’re emotionally allergic to me now? Because I can change—”

You blinked at him once. Twice. Then turned and walked away again.

He stood there.

Alone. Rejected. Spiraling.

“Okay,” Rooster announced to the squad at lunch, dramatically throwing his tray onto the table. “I am officially a burden.”

“No arguments here,” Hangman muttered, not even looking up from his sandwich.

“I’m trying, okay?” Rooster ranted, collapsing into his seat. “I’m being sweet. I’m showing up. I’m not even being clingy anymore—I gave her space. You saw it. I gave her like ten feet this morning.”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “And then immediately trailed her down the tarmac talking about cryptids and food.”

“I’m making conversation!”

“You’re monologuing again,” Bob said gently, sipping his water.

“She’s just—she’s so cold now,” Rooster whined, voice going full tragic lead in a sad rom-com. “She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t snark. She doesn’t even threaten to punch me anymore. I miss when she wanted to punch me. At least then I knew she felt something.”

Hangman rolled his eyes. “Maybe she’s just over it.”

Rooster looked like he’d been physically stabbed.

“Over it?” he choked. “She can’t be over it. We had a thing. A vibe. A deeply spiritual dynamic.”

“You mean the one where you followed her around for a decade and she occasionally acknowledged your existence?” Phoenix asked.

“Exactly! That one!”

Bob cleared his throat. “Maybe you just overwhelmed her.”

“I underwhelmed her,” Rooster moaned, banging his head gently against the table. “I took her for granted. And now she’s bonding with Hangman and laughing at his jokes and probably thinks I’m just some loud idiot who peaked emotionally in 2016.”

“I mean,” Hangman started.

“Not helping,” Phoenix cut in.

Rooster slumped. “I’m losing her.”

“You never had her,” Hangman said, then paused. “Wait. Is that why you asked Mav to reassign flight pairs?”

Everyone turned.

Rooster blinked. “I—what?”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “You asked Mav to pair you with her again.”

Rooster went red. “I—I didn’t—technically—”

“Oh my God,” Fanboy laughed. “You’re insane.”

“She flies better with me!” Rooster cried. “We have synergy! We have unspoken communication! And I missed her laugh! And her annoyed glare! And the way she corrects my jargon mid-flight like it’s a personal offense to naval protocol!”

“You need therapy,” Bob said calmly.

“I need her back,” Rooster replied, despondent. “She’s my Sunbeam.”

“And yet you treat her like she’s a houseplant you can scream compliments at until she grows toward you,” Phoenix deadpanned.

Rooster opened his mouth. Closed it. Sighed.

Back in the hangar, you were reviewing mission parameters on your tablet when the clomp-clomp of heavy boots approached again.

You didn’t even look up.

“Don’t.”

“I just—”

“No.”

“But—”

You lifted your eyes slowly. Your glare could’ve frozen the sun.

Rooster flinched. “You’re really not vibing with me right now, huh?”

“Nope.”

He ran a hand down his face. “Is it the talking?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the constant attempts to insert myself into your personal schedule?”

“Also yes.”

“Is it—”

“Bradley.”

He froze.

You lowered your voice, calm, sharp, quiet like a blade in the dark. “You talk too much. You try too hard. You act like we’re still in college. I’ve changed. You haven’t. And whatever we had—if we ever had anything—you need to let it go.”

The words hit like a missile strike.

He actually staggered back a little.

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just turned back to your tablet like it didn’t cost you anything to say it.

But it cost him everything.

And for the first time in forever, Rooster Bradshaw didn’t know what to say.

Rooster was lying on top of his plane.

Face to the sky, arms folded beneath his head, boots crossed like he was sunbathing on a yacht instead of brooding on cold metal in the middle of an aircraft hangar.

He hadn’t moved in over an hour.

No music. No phone. Just him, his self-loathing, and the sound of other people moving on with their lives without him.

He’d tried everything. The casual good-morning chats. The coffee deliveries. The dramatic Hard Deck monologues. The tragic, emotionally vulnerable pout.

And still—you treated him like he was background noise.

No, correction: you treated him like static.

And worst of all?

You were right to.

Because somewhere between college and now, Rooster had convinced himself that just being there for you was enough. That his love was this constant, obvious thing. That you’d just know.

But you didn’t want someone who hovered. You wanted someone who saw you.

And Bradley had been too busy chasing your orbit to realize he never learned your language.

He exhaled loudly.

“This is pathetic,” he muttered.

“I’ve seen worse,” a voice said below.

He flinched. Propped himself up. Squinted into the sun.

Maverick stood at the base of the ladder, aviators on, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Oh,” Bradley groaned, flopping back down. “Great. A pep talk. Just what I need.”

“Not a pep talk,” Mav said, starting to climb. “More of a… course correction.”

Rooster didn’t respond.

Maverick climbed up and sat beside him, swinging one leg over the wing.

They were quiet for a minute. Just metal, and heat, and that heavy silence between two men too stubborn to say what they actually felt.

Finally, Maverick spoke.

“So,” he said slowly. “She shut you down.”

“Like a government program with bad press,” Rooster mumbled.

Maverick huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Heard about that.”

“Of course you did. Everyone knows. I’ve been publicly humiliated at least three times this week. She barely looks at me, Mav. She talks to Jake now.”

Mav raised a brow. “You mean the same Jake she once threatened to kill mid-flight?”

“People change.”

“So do relationships.”

Rooster sighed. “Yeah. She changed. She’s... not the girl I knew.”

“No,” Maverick said. “She’s the woman you didn’t bother to get to know.”

Rooster sat up sharply. “Excuse me?”

Mav turned toward him, calm but firm. “Bradley. You’ve been so wrapped up in chasing her that you didn’t stop to see her. You think you’re in love with who she was ten years ago. Are you even paying attention to who she is now?”

“I—of course I am—” he started, then paused. “…I mean. Kinda.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Rooster’s jaw tensed. “She was my best friend.”

“Was,” Mav echoed. “You want her back? Stop being the version of yourself that needed her in college. Be the version she might respect now.”

Bradley looked away, throat tight. “She said I haven’t changed.”

“Have you?”

That one hit like a punch.

Because no—he hadn’t. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered.

He still talked too much. Still covered fear with jokes. Still loved loudly and clumsily and expected the people he loved to just get it.

But you were calm. Quiet. Sharp. You didn’t need a cheerleader.

You needed a partner.

“I just thought,” he said finally, voice quieter, “that being there for her all these years would be enough.”

Maverick’s voice softened. “Being there isn’t the same as being with someone. She’s not a planet you orbit, Bradshaw. She’s not gravity. She’s a pilot. You want to be in formation? Match her altitude.”

Rooster blinked, stunned. “That was... almost poetic.”

“I’ve had therapy.”

Bradley barked a broken laugh and stared up at the sky again. “It hurts.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“What if I already lost her?”

Mav was quiet for a second. Then said, “Then stop losing yourself too.”

Later that day, Rooster sat on the hood of his truck in the back lot, chewing the inside of his cheek, staring at nothing.

He wasn’t gonna follow you.

Not this time.

He wasn’t gonna corner you with twenty questions or drop some poorly disguised compliment bomb or ask if you wanted to “vibe.”

He was gonna sit there, for once, in silence.

And hope that maybe—just maybe—you’d notice the absence.

That maybe you’d feel the space where he used to be.

Because if Maverick was right—and damn it, he probably was—then it wasn’t about chasing you anymore.

It was about showing up right.

Being still.

And waiting to see if you ever looked back.

It started with the coffee.

Bradley always brought two.

One for himself—black, hot, usually with a dumb doodle Sharpied onto the cup. And one for you—how you liked it, never wrong, always on time.

You never asked him to bring it.

He just... did.

But one morning, it wasn’t there.

Your locker bench was empty. No cup. No sticky note with a sun drawn on it. No annoying rooster-shaped heart beside it.

Just the sterile scent of detergent and jet fuel and silence.

You didn’t say anything. Not out loud.

But it was the first thing you noticed.

The squad noticed, too.

Not right away. At first, it felt like peace. Like a blessing.

No Rooster singing “Highway to the Danger Zone” at full volume in the locker room. No long-winded stories about gas station burritos and near-death dogfights. No sunflower metaphors or rants about vintage vinyl.

The silence was strange.

Nice, maybe. For a day.

But then it kept going.

“Okay,” Phoenix said flatly, hands on her hips. “Who killed Rooster?”

They were all sitting around the Hard Deck’s usual corner table, and Bradley was nowhere to be seen.

Coyote raised a brow. “He said he was gonna skip tonight.”

“Skip?” Fanboy echoed. “Since when does he skip?”

“He’s probably tired,” Bob offered gently.

“He’s always tired,” Phoenix snapped. “He still shows up. He shows up with jokes and weird trivia and unsolicited karaoke. He’s Rooster. He doesn’t just... go quiet.”

Hangman leaned back in his chair, swirling his beer. “Maybe someone finally broke the golden retriever.”

Everyone looked at you.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

Just took a sip of your drink and kept looking out at the water like their suspicions didn’t hang in the air like jet exhaust.

The next day, Bradley flew like a ghost.

Sharp. Efficient. Silent.

He didn’t crack a joke over comms. Didn’t comment on your turns. Didn’t say “Nice flying, Sunbeam,” when you touched down on the tarmac.

He just parked his bird and walked past you without so much as a glance.

And still—you didn’t say a word.

“Okay, seriously,” Phoenix hissed, cornering you in the locker room later. “What the hell is going on with Bradshaw?”

You shrugged, pulling off your gloves. “I don’t know. Ask him.”

“I did. He just gave me a polite nod and walked away like we’re strangers at a dinner party.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like it!” she snapped. “It’s creepy. It’s not normal. He’s not normal. He’s not supposed to be—mellow. I saw him reading alone yesterday.”

“He reads.”

“He was reading in silence. Like a divorced English professor. And he didn’t even look up when I passed!”

You sighed. “Maybe he’s just growing up.”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “No. This is something else.”

You didn’t reply.

At briefing the next morning, Bradley sat at the far end of the table. Not beside you. Not diagonally where he could pass you dumb sketches. He didn’t look over. Didn’t make a single sound.

When Mav called for flight assignments, Bradley just nodded and took his orders with no protest, no rerouting, no desperate plea to be paired with you.

And when you turned your head—just a little—expecting to catch his eye, maybe out of habit—

He was already looking away.

“Dude’s in withdrawal,” Hangman said later, not even trying to whisper. “You see him? He’s like a sad country song in a flight suit.”

Bob glanced at you. “He hasn’t smiled in three days.”

“He hasn’t talked to me in three days,” Phoenix added, insulted.

“Do you think he’s broken?” Fanboy asked.

“Or maybe he’s just... tired,” Coyote offered gently. “Y’know. Of trying.”

The silence that followed was a little too loud.

You stood. Walked out. Didn’t say a word.

That night at the Hard Deck, Bradley showed up late.

Alone. Quiet.

He didn’t go to the jukebox. Didn’t talk to Penny. Didn’t find the squad.

He just sat at the bar, ordered a water, and sipped it slowly, like it tasted the same as every regret he hadn’t said out loud.

Phoenix watched him from across the room, arms crossed. “This is weird.”

“He looks like someone stole his dog,” Fanboy said.

“He looks like someone stole his person,” Coyote corrected softly.

Hangman leaned back in his chair. “I give it a week. Tops. Then he either snaps or confesses or flies straight into the sun.”

They all looked at you.

Again.

You said nothing.

But for the first time in a long time, you glanced toward the bar.

And you saw him there.

Still.

Quiet.

Distant.

And for some strange reason, it didn’t feel like peace anymore.

It felt like something you didn’t know how to name.

You didn’t notice it at first.

Not really.

Because silence had always been your armor. Your shield. Your sanctuary. You were good at ignoring things. Better at pretending you didn’t notice them. A masterclass in indifference. Eyes forward. Orders clear. Emotions compartmentalized into labeled folders, each locked tight and shoved to the back of your mind.

So when Rooster stopped talking to you, it was easy to keep your face neutral.

No change. No flicker.

Easy.

Except—

It wasn’t.

Not for long.

Because silence wasn’t supposed to be his thing.

It crept in like a shadow, slow and subtle, soft at first—like background music fading into white noise. But over time, the quiet grew teeth. It sat beside you during briefings. It hung in the air during flights. It clung to your skin like sweat in the summer, thick and uncomfortable and hard to wipe off.

And you started to miss him.

Not that you’d ever say it out loud.

God, no.

You still remembered what you told him. The sharpness in your voice. The finality in your words. “Whatever we had—if we ever had anything—you need to let it go.”

And he had.

He’d let go.

So cleanly, so completely, it stunned you.

No last-ditch effort. No arguments. No begging for one more chance.

Just—absence.

At first, it was peaceful.

You could move through hallways without hearing your name echo off the walls. You could sit through debriefings without a hand-drawn sunbeam doodle sliding toward you on a napkin. You could drink your coffee without seeing another cup next to yours, steaming and silent.

You told yourself you liked it.

You told yourself this was what you wanted.

But then—

Then the questions started.

Subtle things. Quiet realizations.

Like: when did the hangar start feeling so empty, even when it was full?

Why did your coffee taste blander, like something was missing, even though the recipe hadn’t changed?

When did the air feel heavier?

When did you start missing the sound of your name said in that stupid, smug, affectionate tone of his?

Sunbeam.

God, that nickname used to annoy you. Made you feel too bright. Too soft. Like he saw something in you you didn’t believe existed.

Now, no one said it.

And the silence in its place was unbearable.

You didn’t admit it at first.

Not when he walked past you without a glance.

Not when you caught him on the runway, talking quietly to Bob—quietly, not performing, not grinning, not telling stories—just nodding, listening.

Not when he sat across the room at the Hard Deck, not even bothering to try for your attention anymore.

It hit worst during flight drills.

You were paired with Hangman again. He was efficient. Skilled. He never overstepped.

But it wasn’t the same.

There was no rhythm. No instinctive trust. No push and pull that kept your pulse alive. No corny commentary over the comms. No soft-spoken “you good?” after a sharp turn. No whisper of “nice flying” when your boots hit the ground.

Just Hangman.

Just silence.

And the empty echo of someone who used to be in sync with you without even trying.