#universe: static noise

[jupiterpilgrim]

Before the World Knew

Part 1

Yoo Jimin (Karina) x male reader

word count: 20K

The automatic glass doors hiss shut behind you, sealing you back into the humid chaos of a Seoul afternoon. You shove your hands deep into your pockets, shoulders slumped, the stiff collar of the button-down you wore specifically for this interview suddenly feeling like a noose. "Nailed it", you think. Yeah, right.

Nailed it like a coffin lid.

That interview was a fucking train wreck. Stuttering over standard questions, sweating through your shirt despite the blasting AC, pretty sure you called the interviewer by the wrong name at least once. You can practically feel the rejection email drafting itself in their system right now. Landing a decent PR job in this city is proving harder than cracking Fort Knox with a toothpick. You thought graduating with a Public Relations degree, even from a university abroad, would give you some kind of edge. Turns out, it just makes you another drop in an ocean teeming with overqualified, hyper-competitive graduates who probably know the right people (something you definitely lack).

It's been a few weeks since you touched down at Incheon, hauling two overweight suitcases and a boatload of naive optimism. Seoul. The big leagues. You figured, new city, new start, maybe finally shake off that aimless post-college dread. You found a shoebox apartment that costs a criminal amount of money and have been pounding the pavement, digitally and literally, trying to find something, anything, that doesn’t involve fetching coffee or making copies for peanuts. So far? Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Just a growing pile of polite "we'll keep your resume on file" emails and the soul-crushing realization that your savings account is evaporating faster than puddle water in August.

Only a divine miracle would be able to make you feel anything remotely close to happiness now.

You sigh, kicking at a loose pebble on the sidewalk. The city rushes around you, a blur of impeccably dressed office workers, delivery scooters weaving through traffic like suicidal insects, the distant thrum of k-pop blasting from a storefront. It’s overwhelming, vibrant, and right now, utterly indifferent to your dwindling prospects. You just want a decent meal and maybe to wallow in front of Netflix for twelve hours straight.

Lost in your pity party, you don't see the person turning the corner until it's too late. Thump. You stumble back, colliding shoulders hard enough to knock the phone clean out of their hand. It clatters onto the pavement with a sickening plastic crack.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, my bad!" you blurt out, scrambling to pick it up, praying the screen isn't spiderwebbed. You snatch the phone (miraculously intact) and look up to hand it back, apology ready on your lips.

And then your brain just… stops.

Everything stops. The noise of the city, the frantic rush, the self-pity spiral: it all evaporates. Because the person standing in front of you, rubbing their shoulder with a slight wince, eyes wide behind a pair of large, stylish sunglasses… No. It can't be.

She’s smaller than you remember, but the face… fuck, that face. The perfect, almost unreal symmetry, the sharp jawline softened by full cheeks, the distinctive curve of her lips, currently pressed into a thin line of surprise. Even with the sunglasses and a simple baseball cap pulled low, obscuring most of her hair, it's undeniably her. Years have passed, sure. She’s changed. She’s… Karina now, a name screamed by millions, plastered on billboards, dominating charts. But beneath the idol gloss, beneath the global fame, it’s still her.

It's still Jimin. Yoo Jimin. Your childhood best friend. The girl you haven't spoken to since she vanished into the K-Pop trainee vortex years ago.

She takes the phone, her fingers brushing yours for a split second, sending a jolt up your arm that has nothing to do with static electricity. Her gaze flicks up, meeting yours through the dark lenses. You see confusion flicker there, then a dawning recognition that mirrors your own shock.

Her lips part slightly. “No way…”

Her voice. It’s softer than you remember, maybe a bit huskier, but it’s still Jimin’s voice. Hearing her say your name after all this time feels like being struck by lightning. You just stare, dumbfounded, unable to form a coherent thought.

She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, revealing those large, dark eyes you used to get lost in during boring classes back home. They widen further as she really looks at you.

“Holy shit, it is you! Oh my god! What the hell are you doing here?”

The sheer, unadulterated surprise in her voice snaps you back to reality. You manage a shaky laugh, running a hand through your hair. “Jimin? Wow. Uh, hi.” Eloquent, very eloquent.

She laughs, a bright, musical sound that cuts through the city noise. It’s the same laugh you remember, the one that always made your stomach do stupid flips. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got after, what, six years? Seven?”

“Something like that,” you say, still reeling. “Damn. You, uh… you look…” Famous? Untouchable? Like a goddess who accidentally stumbled onto a mortal sidewalk? “…different.” Lame. You mentally kick yourself.

Jimin grins, the expression lighting up her whole face. It’s that specific grin, the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes. God, you missed that. “Yeah, well, a few things have happened since middle school.” She gestures vaguely, a hint of playful understatement in her tone.

“Yeah, no kidding,” you say, finally finding your footing. “Saw you… everywhere, basically. Aespa, huh? That’s insane, Jimin. Congratulations.”

Her smile softens slightly at the use of her real name. “Thanks. It’s… been wild.” She glances around quickly, lowering her voice a fraction. “But seriously, what are you doing in Seoul? Last I heard, you were going to college somewhere overseas?”

“Yeah, I was,” you explain, stuffing your hands back in your pockets. “Finished up my PR degree a few months back. Moved here a few weeks ago to, you know, try and find a job. Join the rat race.” You grimace, thinking of the disastrous interview. “Not going great so far, but hey, Seoul’s cool.”

Her eyes light up, genuine happiness flashing across her features. “You live here now? That’s amazing! Oh my god, I can’t believe it!” She bounces slightly on the balls of her feet, looking genuinely thrilled. The reaction warms something inside you that the job rejection had chilled.

“Yeah, it’s… definitely a change of pace,” you admit. It hits you again: you’re standing on a random street corner, catching up with Karina from Aespa. One of the biggest names in K-Pop. Your childhood friend, the one who disappeared into SM Entertainment and became someone else entirely. What are the actual, statistical chances of this happening? It feels like the universe is fucking with you, dangling a piece of your past right in front of your face when you least expect it. Fate? Maybe. Or just Seoul being a surprisingly small world sometimes.

“We have to catch up properly,” Jimin says immediately, her excitement palpable. “Like, actually talk. Are you busy right now?”

You glance down at your slightly rumpled interview clothes. “Uh, not exactly. Just finished bombing a job interview, so my schedule’s wide open for existential dread and instant noodles.”

She winces sympathetically, then pulls out her phone again (the one you nearly shattered). “Okay, first, give me your number. Is it still the same old one?” You rattle off your new Korean number, and she quickly taps it in, sending you a test message immediately. Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

It’s really you!!!

You look up, grinning. “Got it.”

“Good.” She slides her phone away, pulling her cap down a bit lower. “Look, I’m kind of on my way to practice right now, but are you free later this week? Or maybe this weekend? We could grab coffee? Drinks? Food? Whatever works.”

Hanging out with Jimin again. After all these years. After… everything.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah, definitely. Coffee sounds great. Or drinks. Whatever’s easier for you, I know you’re probably crazy busy.”

“Never too busy for you,” she says, and the way she smiles; warm, genuine, a flash of the girl you knew before the fame… makes your heart do that stupid flip again. “Seriously, text me when you’re free. We’ll figure it out. It’s… it’s really, really good to see you.”

“You too, Jimin,” you reply, meaning it more than you thought possible. “Like, really fucking good.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “Okay, I actually have to run before my manager sends out a search party.” She steps back, adjusting her cap and sunglasses, the idol persona clicking back into place. But just before she turns away, her eyes meet yours one last time, and there’s a spark there; something familiar, something you both thought was long buried.

“Text me!” she calls over her shoulder, before disappearing into the flow of the crowd, leaving you standing there, blinking in the afternoon sun, wondering if any of that actually just happened.

—

The days following that almost-too-surreal-to-be-true bump-in on the street are a weird blur of text messages and tentative plans. You’re talking to Yoo Jimin. Karina. Actually talking. Not just a polite exchange, but actual back-and-forth, interspersed with smiley faces and those little KakaoTalk character reactions she always overused, even back then. You finally manage to nail down a time to meet properly, a casual stroll through one of Seoul’s sprawling, meticulously landscaped parks. Her idea. Probably safer for her, less chance of being mobbed.

You tell yourself the knot in your stomach is just… nerves. Normal, run-of-the-mill nerves. Anyone would be a little keyed up about meeting a global superstar, right? Especially one you used to share juice boxes and secrets with in your dorky pre-teen years. Yeah, that’s it. It’s the Karina factor. Definitely not the Jimin factor, not the sudden, unwelcome resurgence of that colossal, all-consuming crush you thought you’d successfully buried under six years of distance and a different continent.

Nope. Not at all.

But your brain, the traitorous bastard, keeps replaying flashes of the past. Jimin, with her scraped knees and fierce determination during school sports days. Jimin, laughing so hard milk nearly shot out her nose in the cafeteria. Jimin, biting her lip in concentration while trying to teach you a ridiculously complicated handshake. These images, once faded and dusty, are now vivid, almost painfully sharp, overlaid with the equally mind-boggling reality of who she is now. It’s a strange cocktail, this potent nostalgia mixed with the sheer absurdity of her current life. You feel like you’re about to meet two people at once: the girl next door and the untouchable idol.

—

You spot her near the park entrance, leaning against a cherry tree that’s probably in full, glorious bloom (though you barely register the flowers). She’s wearing a dress today, something new, light, and airy that dances around her knees when the breeze catches it. It's a soft, pastel color that makes her skin look even more luminous. Simple, yet on her, it looks like it walked straight off a runway. Her hair is down, long and dark, catching the sunlight. Even from a distance, she’s ridiculously, effortlessly beautiful.

“Hey,” you say, trying for casual, hoping your voice doesn’t crack.

She turns, and that smile (the one that could probably power a small city) spreads across her face. “Hey yourself! You found it okay?”

“Yeah, a park. Pretty hard to miss,” you joke, falling into step beside her as you start down a wide, tree-lined path. It’s surprisingly uncrowded for a weekend afternoon.

The conversation flows easier than you expected, or maybe feared. You start with the safe stuff: how crazy it is to see each other after so long, the "what are the odds" of it all. She’s a natural in front of a camera, even if it’s just her phone. Every few minutes, she’ll stop, pointing. “Ooh, here! The light’s perfect.” And you, feeling like an unqualified, suddenly very sweaty personal photographer, do your best to capture her. She poses with an easy grace, a slight tilt of her head, a playful smile, a candid laugh as a gust of wind messes with her hair. Each shot is stunning. She’s just…photogenic doesn’t even begin to cover it. She makes a random park bench look like a high-fashion editorial.

“So,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear after a particularly enthusiastic mini-photoshoot by a koi pond, “tell me everything. College overseas must have been wild. Did you turn into some party animal I wouldn’t recognize?”

You laugh. “Hardly. Mostly just late-night study sessions fueled by questionable instant ramen and an unhealthy amount of caffeine. PR’s no joke. But it was good. Different. What about you? From quiet Jimin who was scared of the dark to… well, Karina, leader of Aespa, breaking records and being the it girl of this generation. How does that even happen?”

She chuckles, a soft, genuine sound. “It’s… a lot. Still feels unreal sometimes. The training was brutal, no lie. There were days I wanted to quit, thought I wasn’t good enough.” Her voice drops a little, a hint of vulnerability seeping through. “But then… we debuted, and suddenly everything changed. The fans, the music, performing… it’s a different kind of magic, you know?”

You nod, trying to imagine it. The Jimin you knew was fiercely talented, Always singing and dancing at school talent shows, but this level of fame? It’s on another planet. “I can’t even picture it. Standing on those huge stages, millions of people screaming your name.”

“It’s terrifying and amazing all at once,” she admits. “But enough about me. What about your job hunt? Any better luck since… the sidewalk incident?” She grins, and you groan.

“Marginally. Had a couple more interviews. One was for a junior PR role at a gaming company, actually sounded pretty cool, but I think I fumbled the ‘what’s your five-year plan?’ question. Said something about ‘not starving’ which, in hindsight, maybe wasn’t the power move I thought it was.”

Jimin laughs, bumping your shoulder playfully. “Hey, honesty is a virtue. Besides, gaming PR? You’d be great at that. You practically lived in arcades back in the day.”

“True. But ‘great at Street Fighter’ doesn’t exactly scream ‘hire me’ on a resume.” You sigh. “It’s tough out here, man. Competition’s insane.”

She nods, her expression turning more serious. “How are you managing? Like, financially? Seoul’s not cheap.”

You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Oh, you know. Freelance gigs here and there. Been doing some weekend shifts at a department store in Myeongdong, in the electronics section. Surprisingly good for people-watching. And it pays the bills. Barely.” You force a smile. “It’s fine. Temporary. Just until something in PR lands.”

Jimin stops walking, turning to face you properly. She’s biting her lip, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. “Send me your resume.”

“What?”

“Your resume,” she repeats, more firmly this time. “And your portfolio, if you have one. Anything that shows off your PR skills. I’ll send it to the team at SM.”

You can’t help it; a laugh bursts out of you, loud and incredulous. “Jimin, no. Come on.” You even raise your hands in a placating gesture. “I appreciate it, seriously, that’s incredibly sweet of you, but… SM Entertainment? They’re not going to hire some random, inexperienced guy who just rolled into the country. Especially not for their PR team. They probably have a waiting list a mile long of geniuses with connections.”

Her expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it becomes more determined. “Don’t doubt me. And don’t doubt yourself. You’re smart, you’re good with people, you get how things work. Just send it to me. What’s the worst that can happen? They say no? Big deal. You’re already getting that.”

There’s a conviction in her voice that’s hard to argue with, even though every rational part of your brain is screaming that this is a pipe dream. “I… I don’t want you to go out on a limb for me, Jimin. Especially if it’s for nothing.”

“It’s not for nothing if I believe in you, is it?” she says softly, and damn her, that hits you right in the feelings. “Just promise me you’ll send it. Please?”

You let out a long breath, rubbing the back of your neck. She’s looking at you with that earnest, hopeful expression, and you know you’re going to cave. “Okay, okay. I promise. I’ll send it tonight.” You still think it’s a snowball’s chance in hell, but for her? You’ll try.

She beams, her good mood instantly restored. “Good! It would be so crazy if we ended up working at the same place, wouldn’t it? Like fate, again!”

“Yeah,” you agree, a small, hesitant smile on your own face. “Completely insane.” But the thought, as outlandish as it seems, sparks a tiny, traitorous flicker of hope. It’s nice, you realize, to have someone in your corner. Someone who, despite the years and the fame, still seems to genuinely care.

“Ice cream break?” she suggests, pointing towards a small vendor cart surrounded by happy kids. “My treat. To celebrate your future employment at SM.”

“Don’t jinx it,” you groan, but you’re already following her, the weight on your shoulders feeling a little lighter than it did before.

The ice cream is sweet, cold, and a welcome distraction. You talk about lighter things: terrible movies you’ve both seen, the weirdest food trends in Seoul, the time you both tried to dye your hair with Kool-Aid in eighth grade and ended up looking like deranged parrots. It’s easy, comfortable, like no time has passed at all.

As the sun begins to dip lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you find yourselves back near the park entrance.

“This was… really great, Jimin,” you say, meaning it. “Thanks for today.”

“I had fun too,” she replies, her smile soft. “We definitely need to do this again. And sooner than another six years, okay?”

“Deal.”

She pulls out her phone. “Okay, one more photo. But this time, you have to be in it.”

You instinctively start to protest. “Oh, no, I’m good. I’ll just–”

“Nope! Non-negotiable,” she says, already switching to the front-facing camera. She grabs your arm, pulling you closer until your shoulders are pressed together. You’re acutely aware of her warmth, the faint scent of her perfume, the way her hair tickles your cheek. She holds the phone up, angling it for the perfect shot. “Okay, smile! Or… try not to look like you’re being held hostage.”

You manage a slightly stiff, awkward smile as she snaps a few pictures. She scrolls through them, a pleased expression on her face. “Cute! See? Not so bad.” She shows you one where you’re both actually smiling, the city lights just starting to twinkle in the background. It is cute. This crazy, unexpected reunion, now captured in a small digital frame.

She sends the photo to you, and as you look at it on your own screen, a feeling of… something warm, something hopeful, settles in your chest. Okay, maybe this move to Seoul wasn't a complete disaster after all. Maybe fate really does have a weird sense of humor. And maybe that spark you both felt isn't just a relic of the past.

—

You’re elbow-deep in a tangled mess of headphones and Bluetooth speakers at your soul-crushing electronics store job a few days later, trying to explain to a very persistent customer why his twenty-year-old MP3 player probably isn’t compatible with the latest Bose noise-cancelling monstrosities, when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You almost ignore it (probably another scam likely call) but the insistent vibration continues. Excusing yourself with a strained smile, you fish it out.

Unknown number.

You almost swipe it away, but something makes you answer. “Hello?”

A clear female voice speaks your name.

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you reply, already bracing for a sales pitch.

“This is Kim Hana from SM Entertainment’s Human Resources department. We received your resume regarding a potential opening in our Artist Relations team, specifically working with Aespa. Are you available for an interview later this week?”

Your brain short-circuits. SM Entertainment? Aespa? You almost swallow your tongue. The headphones in your hand slip, clattering onto the counter. The customer gives you a weird look. You try to speak, but only a strangled squeak comes out. Clearing your throat violently, you manage, “Excuse me? SM… Entertainment?”

“Yes,” Ms. Kim says, her voice betraying no hint of surprise at your shock. “Yoo Jimin forwarded your details. She spoke very highly of you. We have an opening for a Junior PR and Communications liaison for Aespa’s team. It involves assisting with press releases, social media coordination, and general support for the group's public-facing activities. Would Thursday at 2 PM work for you?”

Yoo Jimin. Holy shit. She actually did it. Your head is spinning. This has to be a prank. But the voice on the other end sounds far too official, far too… SM.

“Uh, yes! Yes, Thursday at 2 PM is… perfect,” you stammer, your mind racing a mile a minute. Junior PR liaison. For aespa. Working with Jimin. This is insane.

“Excellent. We’ll send a confirmation email with the details and address. Please bring a physical copy of your resume. We look forward to meeting you.”

“Thank you! I mean, yes, looking forward to it too!”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone, then at the annoyed customer, then back at your phone. Your first instinct is to call Jimin. You dial her number before you even consciously decide to, heart hammering against your ribs.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hey! What’s up?” Her voice is bright, cheerful.

“Jimin! You… you actually sent my resume to SM?” you blurt out, pacing behind the counter.

She laughs, that easy, musical sound. “Of course, I did. I told you I would, didn’t I? So, did they call you?” There’s a playful, knowing tone in her voice. She knew.

“They just called! I have an interview on Thursday! For a PR liaison role with Aespa! Jimin, this is… I don’t even know what to say. Thank you isn’t enough.”

“Hey, no need to thank me,” she says, her voice warm. “You’re qualified. You just needed a foot in the door. Now go ace that interview. I know you can.”

“But… SM? And working with your team? That’s… that’s insane.”

“Is it?” she teases. “Or is it fate? Again?” You can practically hear her smiling. “Just be yourself. They’ll love you. And hey,” her voice drops a little, becoming softer, more personal, “it would be pretty cool to see you around the office.”

“Yeah,” you manage, your voice a little breathless. “Yeah, it really would.”

—

Two days later, you’re standing in front of the imposing SM Entertainment building, dressed in your only decent suit, clutching your resume like they’re religious relics. The place is even more intimidating from the inside. Sleek, modern, buzzing with an undercurrent of focused energy. You see trainees rushing by, staff members with headsets, snippets of music drifting from behind closed doors. It’s a whole other world.

The interview itself is a blur. You meet with Ms. Kim from HR and a stern-faced senior manager from the Artist Relations department. They grill you on your PR experience (minimal, aside from college projects), your knowledge of the K-Pop industry (decent, from a fan perspective), and your ability to handle pressure (questionable, judging by the sweat currently soaking your palms). You try your best, channeling every ounce of professionalism you can muster, talking about your degree, your adaptability, your passion for creative communication. You highlight your international college experience, hoping it sounds impressive. You don’t mention Jimin, not directly, but you talk about your admiration for Aespa’s innovative concepts and global appeal.

When it’s over, you’re convinced you’ve blown it. You thank them, shake their hands, and walk out feeling a familiar wave of disappointment. Well, at least you got to see the inside of SM. That’s something, right?

You’re about to head for the exit, already composing a ‘thanks anyway’ text to Jimin, when you spot her. She’s further down the hallway, talking to someone who looks like a choreographer, dressed in stylish dance practice gear. Your heart does a nervous leap. You almost don’t approach her, but then she turns, her eyes meeting yours. A bright smile instantly lights up her face.

“Hey! How did it go?” she asks, excusing herself from the choreographer and walking towards you.

You can’t help but smile back, despite the lingering anxiety. “Hey. It was… an experience.”

She tilts her head, searching your face. “That doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.”

You sigh. “Honestly, Jimin, I think I tanked it. I was a nervous wreck. Pretty sure I forgot my own name at one point.”

Jimin just laughs, lightly punching your arm. “Oh, stop it. I’m sure you were great.” Then, her eyes sparkling with mischief, she asks, “So, did they offer you the job on the spot? Did they weep with joy at finding such a PR prodigy?”

“Hardly. They said they’d be in touch. Which is corporate speak for ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you, and by ‘we’ll call you,’ we mean never.’”

Just as you say it, your phone buzzes. You glance down. It’s Ms. Kim from SM. Your blood runs cold. Jimin peers at your screen, her eyes widening. “Well? Answer it!”

With trembling fingers, you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

“Hello,” Ms. Kim’s voice says. “We were very impressed with your interview. The team feels your background and enthusiasm would be a great asset. We’d like to offer you the Junior PR and Communications Liaison position for Aespa. Congratulations.”

You actually sway on your feet. Jimin grabs your arm, her eyes wide and questioning. You just stare at her, speechless, a slow, disbelieving grin spreading across your face. You manage to stammer out a “Thank you, I accept!” to Ms. Kim, who tells you HR will be in touch with the contract and start date details.

As soon as you hang up, Jimin is practically bouncing. “You got it?! You actually got the job?!”

You nod, still in shock, then burst out laughing. “I got the job! Holy shit, Jimin, I actually got the job!”

“I told you!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around you in a spontaneous, ecstatic hug. You hug her back, lifting her off the ground slightly, both of you laughing like idiots in the middle of an SM Entertainment hallway. When you finally set her down, you look at her, your heart full. “Thank you, Jimin. Seriously. This… this is because of you. I owe you big time.”

She waves her hand dismissively, but her smile is radiant. “You owed me for that time I covered for you when you broke Mrs. Lee’s prize-winning bonsai tree in fifth grade. Now we’re even.” She winks. “Besides, it’s going to be awesome having you here. Just try not to be too starstruck all the time, okay?”

“No promises,” you say, still grinning like a fool. Working at SM. With Jimin. This is actually happening.

—

Your first day is a whirlwind. You’re officially part of Aespa’s core PR team. The office is a hive of activity, a stark contrast to the quiet desperation of your job hunt. You meet your direct supervisor, a sharp, no-nonsense woman named Ms. Park, who walks you through your responsibilities: drafting social media posts, liaising with journalists (under strict supervision, of course), helping coordinate schedules for interviews and appearances, and generally being an all-hands-on-deck support for the group’s public image. It’s a lot to take in, but it’s exciting. You’re actually doing PR, not just theorizing about it in a classroom. And the best part? Your desk is in the same wing as Aespa’s dedicated team rooms. You can hear snippets of their music, see them occasionally passing in the hallways. It’s surreal.

During a much-needed lunch break, you’re trying to decipher the SM cafeteria menu when Jimin appears at your elbow, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Lost, newbie?” she teases.

“Completely,” you admit. “This place is a maze. And I think I accidentally ordered fermented skate for lunch.”

Jimin laughs, shaking her head. “Rookie mistake. Come on, I’ll show you the good stuff. And then there are some people I want you to meet.”

She leads you through the bustling cafeteria to a slightly quieter corner where three other girls are already seated, chatting animatedly. Your breath catches. Ningning. Giselle. Winter. The Aespa. In the flesh. Eating bibimbap.

Jimin grins, pulling you forward. “Girls, here he is. He’s the new PR liaison for our team. And also my super old, super dorky childhood friend.”

All three of them look up, their expressions ranging from curious to friendly.

Ningning, with bright, expressive eyes, offers a wide smile. “Oh, you’re the friend Jimin’s been talking about! Welcome to the chaos! I’m Ning Yizhuo.” Her energy is infectious.

Giselle, looking effortlessly chic even in casual clothes, gives you a cool, appraising nod. “Hey. Aeri Uchinaga. Or Giselle, whichever you prefer. Nice to finally meet you. Jimin’s been… enthusiastic about you joining.”

Winter, with her softer, almost ethereal beauty, offers a shy smile. “Hi. I’m Kim Minjeong. It’s nice to have you on the team.”

You manage to stammer out hellos, feeling completely out of your depth. You’re shaking hands with idols, people you’ve seen on giant screens and in glossy magazines. And they’re just… eating lunch. Talking. Laughing. It’s the most normal, yet utterly abnormal, situation you’ve ever been in.

The conversation is surprisingly easy. They ask you about yourself, where you’re from, how you know Jimin. You keep your answers vague about the ‘how you know Jimin’ part, sticking to the ‘childhood friends’ line. They talk about their upcoming schedule, a new music video concept, the usual idol banter. They’re all incredibly nice, welcoming, and you find yourself relaxing, actually enjoying their company. It’s still hard to reconcile these friendly, down-to-earth girls with the powerhouse performers they are on stage.

After lunch, as you’re heading back to your desk, Jimin falls into step beside you.

“So? What did you think?” she asks. “They’re pretty cool, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, still a little dazed. “They’re… amazing. And this whole thing is still kind of blowing my mind, to be honest. Working here, meeting them, seeing you…”

She bumps your shoulder playfully. “See? Told you it would be fun. It’s really good to have you here. Like, really good.” There’s an undercurrent to her words, a warmth that makes your chest feel tight.

“It’s good to be here, Jimin,” you reply. You look at her, and her presence so close to you makes you feel a mix of strange sensations; your childhood friend, now a global superstar, who somehow pulled strings to get you a job at one of the biggest entertainment companies in the world, just so you could be close. The thought is overwhelming, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once.

The dynamic between you is already shifting, the old, forgotten feelings bubbling closer to the surface now that you’re in her orbit again. And as you walk back to your new desk, you wonder if she is also feeling the same way as you.

—

It’s been a couple of weeks since you officially became Junior PR and Communications Liaison for Aespa, and that initial feeling (the one that hit you walking back to your desk after Jimin’s introduction to her members, that premonition of everything changing) hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s intensified.

You try to shove it down, to compartmentalize. You’re here to work, to prove Ms. Park, your sharp-as-a-tack supervisor, right for hiring you (even if Jimin’s recommendation was the battering ram that got your resume through the door). You spend your days buried in spreadsheets tracking social media engagement, drafting press release snippets that get dissected and reassembled ten times over, and fetching coffee more often than you’d care to admit. It’s grunt work, mostly, the bottom rung of the PR ladder, but it’s real. You’re in the game. And every so often, you catch a glimpse of the glittering prize: a quick, positive comment from Ms. Park on a draft, a nod of approval from the senior team members, the quiet satisfaction of a task completed efficiently.

Your attempts to maintain an air of cool professionalism around Jimin are… a work in progress. A fucking daily battle, if you’re being honest with yourself. She, on the other hand, seems to have no such internal conflict. Jimin is clearly, unequivocally, incandescently happy you’re there. It’s in the way her eyes light up when she spots you across the bustling open-plan office, the way she makes a beeline for your desk pretending to need a paperclip or ask about a non-existent email, her shoulder brushing yours a little too long as she leans in. It’s in the extra-bright "Morning!" that cuts through the general office murmur, often accompanied by a smuggled pastry from some high-end bakery she “just happened to pass.”

You try to reciprocate with a polite, colleague-appropriate smile and a "Morning, Jimin-ssi," emphasizing the honorific, a subtle reminder of the professional context. Sometimes. Other times, when she winks, or her smile is just for you, that old, familiar warmth floods your chest, and "Jimin-ah" slips out before you can catch it, a relic from a time before honorifics and idol personas mattered between you two. Her answering grin on those occasions is like a shot of pure sunshine, potent and dangerously addictive.

The other Aespa members are great. Ningning often swings by your desk to ask about some new Western slang she’s heard or to show you funny videos on her phone. She’s easy to talk to, her curiosity genuine, and you find yourself quickly falling into a comfortable banter with her. Giselle is cooler, more reserved initially, but possesses a dry wit that catches you off guard and makes you laugh out loud. She’s sharp, observant, and you get the feeling not much gets past her. Winter is quieter, often observing with a gentle smile, but when she does speak, it’s thoughtful and kind. You make a point of being equally friendly and professional with all of them, mindful of your role. You’re part of their team, here to support them, not to be a distraction or play favorites.

It's during one of these interactions with Ningning, about a week into your third week, that you notice it for the first time. You’re both hunched over your monitor, Ningning giggling as you try to explain the nuances of a particularly baffling English meme that’s gone viral. You’re leaning back in your chair, pointing at the screen, and she’s close, peering over your shoulder, her hair tickling your ear. It's an innocent, work-adjacent moment.

"Ah! So that's what it means!" Ningning exclaims, clapping her hands together. "Okay, okay, I get it now. You have a future as an official idol translator."

You chuckle. "Modesty aside, I am really well versed in the nuances of the English language, especially when it comes to memes."

"Apparently!”

The weeks bleed into a month, then two. You’re no longer the wide-eyed newbie fumbling with the coffee machine or getting lost on the way to the third-floor dance studios. You’ve found your rhythm in the relentless pulse of SM Entertainment. Your PR drafts for Aespa are getting fewer red marks from Ms. Park, you’ve memorized the building’s labyrinthine layout (mostly), and you actually feel like you’re contributing something more than just an extra body in meetings. You’ve even started to differentiate between the dozen slightly different shades of black that seem to constitute 90% of the staff’s wardrobe.

The other members of Aespa have become familiar, friendly faces. You’re careful, always. Professionalism is your mantra. You’re staff. They’re idols. But in those stolen moments, the casual chats in the quieter corners of the building, a genuine camaraderie is forming.

Jimin, though… Jimin is another story. She’s undeniably, overtly thrilled to have you around. Her smiles are brighter when directed at you, her laughter louder. She seeks you out for “work-related questions” that could have easily been answered by anyone else, her hand lingering a fraction too long on your arm when she makes a point. She brings you your favorite coffee "just because she was passing by the good place." While a part of you, the part that still remembers sweaty palms and a racing heart from your teenage years, basks in that focused attention, the professional, adult part of you is on high alert.

You’ve seen the glances. The whispers that die down when you approach a group of staff members. The subtle, almost imperceptible raising of eyebrows from some of the senior managers when Jimin’s interactions with you are a little too familiar, a little too warm for a global superstar and a junior PR guy. Idols, especially female idols at the top of their game, aren’t supposed to be this close, this visibly chummy, with male staff. It’s a dangerous line, and you’re terrified she’s either blissfully unaware of it or, worse, doesn't care. You try to dial back your own responses, keeping things friendly but more reserved, adding the honorific "Jimin-ssi" more consistently, hoping she’ll take the hint. Sometimes she does, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before her professional mask slips on. Other times, she just bulldozes past it with that radiant grin, leaving you feeling like you’re walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers.

Her thing with the other members… that’s new. And it’s weird, kinda unsettling if you’re being honest with yourself. It’s never anything, like, obvious. She never says anything. But you see it.

Or you think you do.

It’s in the little things. Like when you’re cracking up with Ningning, sharing some stupid meme, and you catch a glimpse of Karina out of the corner of your eye. There’s a flicker of something in her expression, a barely-there tightening around her mouth before it smooths out into a small, polite smile. It’s so fast you question if you even saw it.

Or when Giselle gets all close, leaning into your space to show you a video on her phone, and Karina’s eyes just seem to… stick. They linger on you for a beat too long, her gaze heavy in a way you can’t quite decipher before she blinks and looks away, suddenly engrossed in her own phone.

Maybe you’re just making it up, projecting or something. But then she’ll walk over when you and Winter are in the middle of a conversation, laughing and vibing, and it’s like the temperature drops a few degrees. Her posture shifts, just a fraction, but she seems

One late afternoon, you find yourself in one of the smaller, less-used lounges on Aespa’s floor. It’s a comfortable space, rarely occupied, with a couple of plush sofas, a low table littered with old magazines, and a window overlooking a surprisingly green courtyard. You’d ducked in to escape the main office buzz for a few minutes, intending to just scroll through your phone and decompress. Ningning had found you first, plopping down beside you to complain good-naturedly about a particularly grueling choreography session. Soon after, Giselle and Winter had wandered in, drawn by Ningning’s animated voice, and the three of them were now comfortably arrayed on the sofas opposite you.

You’re in the middle of recounting a truly disastrous blind date your college roommate had dragged you on years ago (a story involving a mistaken identity, an escaped ferret, and a very public argument with a mime). You’re hamming it up, using voices, expansive gestures, and the girls are in stitches. Ningning is practically falling off the sofa, tears of laughter streaming down her face. Giselle, usually so composed, is clutching her stomach, her shoulders shaking. Even Winter keeps asking you for more details about the story, and for a moment, you forget the pressures of the job, the complexities of your situation with Jimin, everything. You’re just a guy, shooting the shit with friends.

"...so then the mime starts gesturing wildly, right? And my roommate, bless his clueless heart, thinks the ferret belongs to the mime and is trying to give it back!" you say, trying to catch your breath between laughs. "And the mime is getting more and more agitated because, apparently, he's deathly afraid of rodents..."

Ningning lets out another shriek of laughter. "No! Oh my god, a mime afraid of ferrets! That’s too much!"

Giselle wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. "Okay, that’s actually the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. Poor ferret, though. And poor mime!"

"The ferret was fine!" you assure them, grinning. "Made a clean getaway into a nearby bakery. The mime needed therapy, probably."

Winter shakes her head, still chuckling softly. "You always have the craziest stories."

"It's a gift," you say with a mock bow, eliciting another round of giggles. "Or a curse. Depends on whether you're the one living through it or just hearing about it."

It’s at this moment, surrounded by their genuine laughter, that the door to the lounge creaks open. You don’t even register it at first, too caught up in the shared mirth. But then a shadow falls across the room, and a new voice, cool and distinct, cuts through the air.

"Having fun?"

Your laughter catches in your throat. The shift in atmosphere is instantaneous, like a cold front rolling in. Ningning, Giselle, and Winter all visibly react; their smiles falter, their postures subtly stiffen. You turn, your heart giving a sudden, uncomfortable thump against your ribs.

Jimin is standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorframe. She’s dressed in sleek black leggings and an oversized hoodie, her practice gear, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Her expression is unreadable, a carefully blank mask, but her eyes… her eyes are fixed on you, sharp and intense. There’s no smile, no warmth, just that unwavering, assessing stare.

You scramble to your feet, a little too quickly. "Oh, hey, Jimin-ssi. We were just, uh..."

Ningning, recovering first, offers a slightly strained smile. "Jimin-unnie! We were just listening to his hilarious story."

"Yeah, unnie," Giselle adds, her voice a little less effusive than it was moments before. "He was telling us about his old roommate’s disastrous date."

Jimin’s gaze doesn’t leave yours. She takes a slow step into the room, her presence suddenly dominating the small space.

"A disastrous date?" Jimin repeats, her voice still devoid of any discernible emotion. Her eyes finally flick towards the other girls, then back to you. "Sounds captivating. You seem to have them quite entertained."

There’s an edge to her words, a subtle accusation. You can feel a prickle of sweat on your palms. This is exactly the kind of situation you’ve been dreading, her finding you in a moment of unguarded ease with her members, their laughter clearly for you, excluding her.

Winter shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, her earlier smile completely gone. Ningning is fiddling with the drawstrings of her hoodie, avoiding eye contact. Giselle maintains a neutral expression, but her eyes dart between you and Jimin. You feel like you're under a fucking microscope, and Jimin is the one holding the lens, her gaze burning into you, searching for… something.

"Well," you begin, clearing your throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. You force a casualness you don't feel, gesturing vaguely towards the door. "I should probably, uh, get going. Got that report Ms. Park wanted… needs finishing." It’s a flimsy excuse; the report isn’t due until tomorrow afternoon, but escape is paramount.

You offer a quick, slightly strained smile to the other girls, who are still looking like they wish the floor would swallow them. "Was fun chatting, though. See you guys later."

Ningning manages a small, "Bye." Giselle gives a curt nod, her eyes still flickering towards Jimin. Winter offers a tiny, almost imperceptible wave.

As you turn to leave, Jimin’s voice stops you again. "I'll walk with you."

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Your mind screams No, absolutely fucking not, bad idea, abort mission! but your mouth, like a traitor, says, "Oh. Uh, sure. Okay." Because what else can you say? Arguing would only make it worse, draw more attention, confirm whatever suspicions are brewing in her mind.

The walk from the lounge down the hallway towards the main office area feels like miles. The silence stretches between you, taut and uncomfortable. You can feel her presence beside you, a subtle tension in the air that wasn't there before. You risk a quick glance at her. Her expression is still set, jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead. You can practically hear the gears turning in her head. You brace yourself.

Finally, as you round a corner into a less populated corridor, she speaks, her voice low.

"You and the others seem to be getting along really well."

It’s a neutral observation on the surface, but you hear the undercurrent. You try to keep your own tone light, even. "Yeah, they’re great. Easy to talk to." You pause, then add, trying to steer the conversation onto safer ground, "Isn't that good? They're your members, your friends. I'm your friend, working with your team. It’s good that we all… you know, get along."

Jimin doesn’t look at you. Her gaze remains fixed on some indeterminate point down the hallway. "It depends."

"Depends on what?" you ask, afraid of what will come next.

"Depends if you start ditching me for them," she says. "Because lately, it feels like you’re avoiding me."

Your step falters for a split second. "Avoiding you? Jimin, that’s… that’s not true." The denial is automatic, but even as you say it, a flash of guilt hits you. You have been more reserved, more careful.

She finally turns her head, her eyes, dark and intense, meeting yours. There’s a flicker of hurt in them that makes your chest ache. "Isn't it? What about yesterday, in the cafeteria? I waved, you just nodded and hurried off with your tray. And Monday, when I asked if you wanted to grab a coffee after that marketing meeting, you said you were swamped. I saw you five minutes later scrolling through your phone at your desk." Her voice isn't accusatory now; it's quieter, tinged with a genuine bewilderment and that raw hurt. She remembers specific instances, and fuck, she’s not wrong. You were being short, deliberately creating distance.

Your throat feels tight. You glance quickly up and down the corridor. It’s relatively empty, just a couple of junior staffers disappearing around a distant corner. This isn't a conversation for public consumption. You stop, turning to face her more directly, lowering your own voice.

"Okay, look," you begin, trying to choose your words carefully. "Can we just… can we be real for a second?"

She watches you, waiting, her arms crossed over her chest now, a defensive posture.

"Jimin," you say, your voice earnest, "you know I’m happy to be here. And I’m happy you’re here, obviously. But you have to understand… this isn't like before. You’re Karina. You’re one of the biggest idols in the world. I’m… just a guy who works for the company. Your PR guy, technically."

Her brow furrows slightly, a hint of confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with it," you insist. "Don’t you see how it looks? How we look? You being so… openly friendly with me, all the time? The little extra things, the way you seek me out? People notice that stuff, Jimin. Staff talk. Hell, fans would lose their minds if they saw half of it. This industry… it’s brutal. One wrong rumor, one misinterpreted photo, and it could be disastrous. For you, especially. For Aespa."

You run a hand through your hair, feeling the stress of it all. "I haven’t been avoiding you, Jimin. I’ve been trying to be careful. Trying to protect you. Trying to protect us from… from that. From the bullshit that could come from it. When I seem distant, or 'short' as you put it, it's not because I want to be. It's because I’m trying to keep a professional boundary in public, for both our sakes. I’m worried about your career, about you getting dragged into some stupid scandal because people misunderstand."

You let out a breath, the words tumbling out, a weight lifting slightly now that it’s said. You search her face, hoping she understands, hoping she doesn’t see it as a rejection.

Jimin stares at you, her expression slowly shifting as your words sink in. The defensiveness in her posture softens. The intensity in her eyes dims, then something akin to… embarrassment. Her gaze drops from yours to the floor, a faint blush creeping up her neck, painting the apples of her cheeks. She uncrosses her arms, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie.

When she finally looks up, her eyes are wide, a little watery, and full of a vulnerability that punches you right in the gut.

"Oh," she says. "Oh my god. You’re… you’re right." She winces, biting her lip. "I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking about it like that. At all." She shakes her head, looking genuinely mortified. "I'm so sorry. I’ve been… God, I’ve been acting like such an idiot. Paranoid." She lets out a shaky little laugh that has no humor in it. "I don’t even know why I’ve been like this. So… clingy or weird. It’s just…" She trails off, looking lost.

Seeing her like this, so exposed and contrite, melts away any lingering frustration you felt. All you want to do is reassure her.

"Hey," you say softly, taking a hesitant step closer. "It’s okay. Seriously. Don't beat yourself up about it." You offer a small, gentle smile. "It’s a weird situation for both of us, right? We’re figuring it out."

You pause, then add, you add, your tone surprisingly gentle, imbued with all the sincerity you feel, "And for what it’s worth, Jimin… you know how much I like having you around. How much I like you. Being near you, talking to you… it’s the best part of this whole crazy thing. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you. I haven’t forgotten that. Not for a second."

Her eyes, still glistening, meet yours. The blush on her cheeks deepens, but there’s a flicker of relief, of gratitude, in her gaze now. "Thank you," she murmurs. "For… for saying that. And for being honest. And for, you know, looking out for me even when I’m being a dumbass."

"Always," you say, and the word feels solid, true.

A comfortable silence settles between you for a moment. "So," you say, breaking the quiet gently, "how about this? To make up for my perceived avoidance, and your… non-dumbass-ness…" You grin, and she lets out a small, watery chuckle. "Later this week, or whenever you’re free from practice and schedules, we do something. Properly. Just you and me. No work, no office, no other members. Like old times, but… new times."

Her face lights up, a genuine, brilliant smile chasing away the last of her embarrassment. It’s the Jimin you remember, the one whose happiness is infectious. "Just us?"

"Just us," you confirm, your own heart feeling a little lighter, a hopeful anticipation bubbling up.

"I’d really like that," she says. "A lot." She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes sparkling again, this time not with suspicion, but with something that looks a lot like the excitement you’re suddenly feeling too.

—

The relief that flooded you after that honest, vulnerable conversation with Jimin in the hallway lingers for days. It’s like a heavy weight you didn’t even realize you were carrying has been lifted. There’s a new lightness in your interactions, a shared understanding that makes the stolen glances and brief smiles across the busy office feel less fraught with anxiety and more like thrilling little secrets.

True to her word, before you part ways that day, Jimin’s eyes sparkle with that familiar mischief.

"So, about that 'just us' time," she says, leaning against the wall, a playful smirk on her lips. "My place. Dinner. I’ll cook. Don’t look so surprised, I can actually make more than instant ramen."

You raise an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. "Oh really? Color me intrigued. Are we talking a five-star gourmet experience or something that might involve a fire extinguisher?"

She swats your arm playfully. "Hey! I’ll have you know my kimchi jjigae is legendary. Or, at least, edible. You in?"

The thought of it: Jimin, cooking for you, in her apartment, away from the relentless scrutiny of SM, it feels intimate, a significant step. "Absolutely in," you say. "When?"

She pulls out her phone, already scrolling through her calendar app, a frown of concentration on her face. "Hmm, schedule’s insane next week… What about… Friday? A week from today? I think I have that evening clear. For now, anyway."

"Friday it is," you confirm, a grin spreading across your face. "I’ll even bring dessert. To, you know, potentially counteract the legendary kimchi jjigae."

"You wound me! But deal." She winks, then with a quick, "Gotta run, practice!" she’s off, leaving you feeling a ridiculous sense of anticipation for a dinner that’s still a full week away.

The following days pass in a blur of work, punctuated by those small, shared moments with Jimin. A quick coffee break where you actually sit together for ten minutes, talking about nothing and everything. Her dropping by your desk with a new song recommendation, leaning in close so you can share an earbud, her hair brushing your cheek. The professional boundaries are still there, especially when others are around, but the fear and awkwardness have been replaced by a conspiratorial warmth. You’re both more careful, more aware, but the connection feels stronger, deeper.

Friday arrives, and you spend most of the day in a state of low-level excitement, replaying your outfit choices in your head, wondering what her apartment is like, what it will feel like to just be with her, without the roles of "idol" and "staff." You even bought an expensive cake from that fancy bakery she likes.

Then, around 3 PM, your work phone buzzes with a message from Jimin:

NOOOO! I’m SOOOO sorry! Next week's photoshoot was brought forward to today. I'll be tied up until late. They just told us. I was really looking forward to it. Stupid schedules. Can we reschedule? Please say yes!

Disappointment settles in your chest, but you push it down. This is idol life. This is what you signed up for, being in her orbit.

You text: Of course. No worries at all, totally understand. We’ll find another night. Good luck with the shoot! You’ll kill it.

You’re the best. Raincheck for sure!!! Next week? I’ll make it up to you!

But "next week" turns into a series of near misses. An unexpected variety show filming crops up for her. A last-minute fan sign event gets added. You have a late night at the office handling a minor PR flare-up for another group. The universe, it seems, is conspiring against your private dinner. The expensive cake sits in your fridge, a sad, delicious monument to your thwarted plans.

And as the days turn into another week, something else starts to creep into your awareness, a subtle, unwelcome shift in your own internal landscape. You’re part of aespa’s PR team, which means you’re privy to schedules, collaborations, and the general buzz around them. You see Jimin interacting with other people in the company, naturally. She’s the leader, charismatic and friendly. It’s her job, her personality.

But it’s her interactions with some of the male idols that start to… prickle.

It begins subtly. You’re in a meeting discussing upcoming cross-promotional content, and one of the senior members from a popular SM boy group, a guy known for his sharp looks and easy charm, casually mentions how he and Jimin were just laughing about a shared embarrassing trainee story the other day in the practice rooms. A tiny, almost imperceptible muscle tightens in your jaw. They just happened to be in the practice rooms? Laughing? You tell yourself it’s nothing. Colleagues. Friends.

Then, a few days later, you’re walking past one of the recording studios and you see Jimin through the soundproof glass, headphones on, talking animatedly with a well-known producer, also male, also handsome. He leans in close to adjust something on the mixing board, his hand brushing hers. She throws her head back and laughs at something he says, a bright, unrestrained sound. The knot in your stomach tightens a little more. You find yourself lingering a second too long, watching them, a sour taste creeping into your mouth. You force yourself to walk away, chiding yourself internally. She’s working. He’s a producer. This is normal. Get a grip.

The worst is when you’re scrolling through internal staff memos or even semi-public social media feeds from other idols. A candid behind-the-scenes shot from a music show, and there’s Jimin in the background, deep in conversation with a member of a rival boy group, both of them smiling. A congratulatory post from another male idol for am Aespa’s latest achievement, with a throwback photo of him and Jimin making silly faces from some past event. Each instance is like a small papercut, insignificant on its own, but collectively, they start to bleed.

You start to question yourself, this ugly feeling coiling in your gut. Am I actually… jealous? The thought is mortifying. You have no right. You’re her friend, her colleague. You buried that teenage crush years ago, didn’t you? This is different. This is… possessiveness. It’s irrational, and you hate it. You tell yourself it’s just protectiveness, the same kind you talked to her about, you’re worried about her image. But who are you kidding? That’s bullshit. This isn’t about her image. This is about that tight, angry clench in your chest when you see another guy make her laugh that specific way, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners. The way she only laughs with you. Or so you thought.

You try to subdue it, to crush the feeling down with logic. She’s an idol. Her circle is full of other idols, producers, industry people. Male, female, it doesn’t matter. She’s allowed to have friends. You are being a fucking psycho. You try to focus on your work, burying yourself in spreadsheets and press drafts, but your gaze keeps drifting, your ears straining for any mention of her name, your mind replaying those brief, observed moments, dissecting them, looking for… you don’t even know what. Reassurance? Confirmation of your fears?

This slow burn of jealousy is exhausting. It simmers beneath the surface of your carefully constructed professionalism, a toxic undercurrent poisoning your thoughts. You haven’t said anything to Jimin. You haven’t changed your outward behavior towards her, not in any way she’d notice, you hope. You’re still friendly, still supportive, still the guy she relies on. But inside, you’re a mess, increasingly tangled in a knot of feelings you don’t want and can’t seem to shake, this unwelcome, undeniable jealousy taking root, growing stronger with each passing day, with each shared smile she gives to someone who isn’t you.

—

Most of the nine-to-fivers have already made their escape, and even the usual thrum of idol activity has quieted to a muted pulse. You’re tucked away in a small, blessedly empty meeting room on one of the upper floors, nursing a lukewarm cup of instant coffee. You’re supposed to be reviewing social media analytics (riveting stuff, truly) but mostly you’re just staring out the window at the sprawling grey expanse of Seoul, lost in the delightful internal monologue of your own burgeoning, and entirely irrational, jealousy. It’s becoming quite the hobby, this mental self-flagellation.

The click of the door opening barely registers until a familiar, melodic voice cuts through your brooding.

"Hiding out?"

You nearly jump out of your skin, sloshing coffee onto a stack of decidedly unimportant papers. Turning, you see Jimin leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile playing on her lips. And just like that, the carefully constructed wall of your professional cynicism crumbles into pathetic, lovestruck dust.

She’s not in practice gear today. She’s wearing a simple, cream-colored knit sweater that looks ridiculously soft and some dark, well-fitted jeans. Her hair is down, cascading over her shoulders in those perfect, effortless waves that probably take a team of stylists two hours to achieve. Her makeup is minimal, making her look younger, softer, more like the Jimin you knew before she became Karina, global phenomenon and recurring star of your anxiety dreams.

"Hey," you manage, trying for nonchalant and probably landing somewhere near 'startled chipmunk.' "Didn't hear you come in."

She pushes off the doorframe and ambles further into the room, her presence instantly making the generic corporate space feel… smaller, somehow. More charged. "Sorry to interrupt your very important… paper-staring session."

"It's a critical part of my process," you say, attempting a dry wit that she, thankfully, seems to appreciate with a small laugh. "Deep contemplation of spreadsheet ergonomics."

"Right." She perches on the edge of the ridiculously oversized conference table, her legs crossed casually. "Look, I just wanted to say sorry if I’ve been a bit MIA the last few days. Schedules have been… well, you know. Insane."

"Ah, the glamorous life," you quip, though the relief at her explanation is a palpable thing easing the tension in your shoulders. So, it wasn’t you. Or, not just you. Probably. "No worries. Figured you were off conquering another continent or something equally mundane."

She smiles, a genuine, tired-around-the-edges smile. "Something like that. Endless meetings about tour logistics, new endorsement shoots, trying to learn choreography when every muscle in your body screams for rest." She sighs, then her gaze softens as it meets yours. "It’s just… been a lot. Haven't had much chance to just… breathe. Or talk."

"I get it," you say, and you do. The pace here is relentless. "You look…" You pause, searching for the right word, because 'good' feels like an insult to whatever cosmic alignment is happening with her features right now. "You look beautiful today, Jimin." The words are out before you can second-guess them, honest and a little too raw. You quickly try to backtrack, to lessen the impact, lest you sound like a complete lovesick fool (which, of course, you are). "I mean, you always look beautiful, obviously. It’s kind of your brand. But today… there’s something. Extra. You’re glowing. Or maybe it’s just the cheap office lighting playing tricks on my caffeine-addled eyes."

A delicate blush, the color of a summer peach, rises on her cheeks. She ducks her head for a moment, a shy gesture that feels impossibly endearing. "Thank you," she says softly, looking up at you through her lashes. The directness of her gaze, coupled with that blush. "That’s… really nice to hear. Especially today."

You should probably say something about those analytics. Or the weather. Anything but stare at her like she’s the only source of oxygen in the room.

Then, her expression shifts. A wistful, almost faraway look enters her eyes. "Hey," she says, her tone quieter now, thoughtful. "Do you remember… do you remember that time, we must have been, what, thirteen? When we biked all the way out to old Haeundae beach, even though our parents would have skinned us alive if they knew?"

The question catches you off guard. The sudden shift to such a specific, distant memory throws you. But of course, you remember. How could you forget? Your mind immediately conjures the scene: the reckless thrill of that forbidden adventure, the salty spray on your faces, the cheap, borrowed bikes threatening to fall apart beneath you.

"Yeah," you say, a slow smile spreading across your face as the details flood back. "With those ridiculously ancient bikes we 'borrowed' from your uncle’s shed? The ones where the brakes only worked if you prayed really, really hard?"

Her answering smile is luminous. "Exactly! And then that insane storm blew in out of nowhere. One minute it was sunny, the next it was like the sky just… cracked open."

"Torrential," you agree, a chuckle escaping you. "We were soaked to the bone in about ten seconds. I thought my sneakers would never dry out."

"And we found that tiny, busted-up old bus stop shelter way up on the coastal road," she continues, her eyes sparkling with the recollection, lost in the memory with you. "It was leaking, there were probably spiders the size of my fist in there, but it felt like a palace."

"We were freezing," you remember, "shivering like crazy. And all we had to eat was that one squashed packet of stale crackers I’d forgotten in my backpack."

Jimin laughs. "And we split it, didn’t we? Crouched in that damp, smelly shelter, rain hammering down outside, sharing those awful crackers like it was a feast." She looks at you then. "We talked for hours, waiting for it to stop. About everything. Stupid stuff, serious stuff."

"Our grand plans to escape our boring town," you supply, the memory so vivid now it feels like you could reach out and touch it. "Your dreams of being famous, my dreams of… well, probably something equally ridiculous I’ve thankfully forgotten."

"It wasn't ridiculous," she says softly, her gaze holding yours. "It was just… us. Just talking. It felt like we were the only two people in the world for a few hours."

You know what she means. It was more than just getting caught in the rain. It was a moment of unvarnished connection, of shared vulnerability, of feeling utterly, completely understood by another person, a feeling so rare and precious, especially at that tumultuous age. You remember the damp chill, yes, but more clearly, you remember the warmth of her shoulder pressed against yours as you huddled together, the easy rhythm of your conversation, the feeling that, for a little while, all the complexities of the world had fallen away, leaving just the two of you and the roaring storm.

"I still think about that day sometimes," Jimin says, her eyes still locked on yours, searching, questioning. "A lot, actually."

Your carefully constructed composure, already teetering, threatens to shatter. All the air seems to have been sucked out of the small room. The irony isn't lost on you; here you are, a grown man, unraveled by a shared memory of stale crackers and a rainstorm from over a decade ago. Pathetic, really.

"Why?" The question slips out, hushed, almost involuntary. Your mind is racing. Why now? Why bring this up? What does it mean?

Jimin holds your gaze for another long moment, and you can see a universe of unspoken emotions swirling in the depths of her dark eyes. Then, she looks away, her gaze drifting towards the window, towards the distant, indifferent city. A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips.

"Actually, I don't know," she says, so quietly you almost miss it. "I really don't know."

It's an answer that's not an answer, a perfectly crafted piece of ambiguity designed, it seems, to send your already overthinking brain into a full-blown spiral. You watch her, this enigma you’ve known your whole life, and feel a familiar, frustrating helplessness. All those years, all that shared history, and she can still reduce you to a state of dumbfounded confusion with three little words.

She pushes herself off the conference table, the movement fluid and graceful. "Well," she says, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual brightness, though her eyes still hold that distant, thoughtful quality. "Maybe it’s better if I go. Don’t want to keep bothering you with… ancient history. And I actually do have that choreography meeting. Can't keep the dance monster waiting."

She turns and walks towards the door, each step feeling like a countdown timer on your chance to say something, anything, to pierce through this sudden, unbearable tension.

She reaches the door, her hand on the knob. It’s now or never, brainiac.

"Jimin," you call out.

She pauses, her back still to you, hand frozen on the doorknob. This is it. Your moment to say something profound, something that clarifies everything, something that bridges the gap of years and fame and unspoken feelings. Your mind races, a frantic slideshow of possibilities. 'What did you mean?' 'Do you feel it too?' 'That day meant something to me too, you know.'

And then, like a cold splash of reality, the internal killjoy (the one that pays the bills and reminds you of your precarious position) pipes up: She’s an idol, you idiot. Global superstar. You’re staff. This is how you lose your job and become a cautionary tale. Don’t be a walking, talking HR violation.

The grand, sweeping declaration dies on your lips, replaced by a pathetic little puff of air. When she finally turns her head slightly, looking back at you with a questioning gaze, all that comes out is a lame, "It's… uh… nothing. Never mind.”

A small, enigmatic smile plays on her lips. It’s impossible to tell if it’s knowing, amused, or just polite. With Jimin, it could be all three. "Okay," she says softly. "See you around."

And then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her with a gentle finality, leaving you alone once more with your lukewarm coffee, your useless analytics, and the fresh, agonizing weight of all the things you didn't say.

Hours later, the office has thinned out almost completely. You’re packing up your bag, ready to call it a day and go home to stare meaningfully at your ceiling, when Ningning bounces over to your desk.

"Heading out?" she asks, perching on the corner of your desk like an overgrown, incredibly cheerful pixie.

"Yep. Day is done. My brain feels like overcooked jjigae."

She giggles. "Mine too! We had vocal training for three hours straight. My throat is screaming." She leans in a little. "So, work stuff aside… how are things?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Things? Vague. But… okay, I guess? Survived another day in the K-Pop trenches. You?"

"Good, good!" she says, then her eyes get that tell-tale sparkle of curiosity you’re beginning to recognize all too well. "Actually… I was wondering. About, you know…" She gestures vaguely between herself and an imaginary Jimin. "You two."

Ah. Here we go. The subtle interrogation phase. You try to keep your expression neutral, a Herculean effort. "Us two? Do you mean Jimin? We’re… old friends. Colleagues. As previously established in multiple official and unofficial briefings."

Ningning tilts her head, her smile a little too knowing. "Riiight. Old friends. But, like… how old? What’s the real story there? Unnie can be… a little selective with details sometimes."

Before you can even begin to formulate a suitably evasive yet charmingly informative answer, footsteps approach. Giselle and Winter appear, looking equally ready to bolt for the day.

"What are you two whispering about over here?" Giselle asks. Winter offers a quiet smile from beside her.

Ningning beams at them. "Perfect timing! I was just asking about him," she points a thumb at you, "and our dear leader. The true story."

Giselle’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches. "Oh? The origin story? Spill it. We’ve only heard Jimin-unnie’s version, which, let's be honest, is probably heavily romanticized."

Winter chuckles softly. "She did mention something about a very dramatic rainstorm once."

Now all three of them are looking at you, expectant and clearly ready for some prime gossip, or at least, your side of the folklore. You’re surrounded. There’s no escape.

"Okay, okay," you say, raising your hands in mock surrender, trying to buy yourself some thinking time. "There’s nothing really interesting in our story. Mostly just a lot of questionable teenage fashion choices and an unhealthy obsession with the same five boy bands."

"Details, details!" Ningning urges, leaning forward. "What were you like in school? Was she always… Karina-like? Or was she a secret dork?"

"Definitely a secret dork," you say, a genuine smile touching your lips as you think back.

This gets a laugh from all of them.

"And you?" Giselle prompts. "What was your role in this dynamic duo?"

"Chief instigator of dumb ideas, probably," you admit. "And expert in procuring illicit snacks for movie marathons. We spent a ridiculous amount of time watching terrible action movies and critiquing them like we were seasoned film critics." You share a few more harmless anecdotes: the time you both tried to bake a cake that ended up looking like a volcanic eruption, the disastrous school play where you both forgot your lines, the endless summers spent biking around the city, dreaming of bigger things. It’s easy to talk about the past, the safe, sepia-toned memories. It makes the present, with all its unspoken tensions and Jimin’s idol status, feel momentarily distant.

As you’re talking, weaving these tales of your shared youth, you see your opening. It’s a long shot, and your attempt at casualness will probably be about as convincing as a politician's promise, but you have to try.

"Speaking of Jimin," you say, aiming for a nonchalant tone that you’re pretty sure misses the mark by a country mile, "she’s, you know, so busy and in the public eye all the time. Must be tough to… have a personal life. Is she… seeing anyone? Or, you know, hanging out with anyone in particular? Just curious, as a friend. Worried about her, you know. Safety, happiness, all that good stuff."

You try to make it sound like a casual afterthought, a fleeting concern from a dear old platonic pal. You think you almost pulled it off, right up until you see the looks on their faces.

Ningning’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and she exchanges a lightning-fast glance with Giselle. Giselle’s lips twitch, a smirk threatening to break free. Winter just smiles like she knows what's going on in your head. Oh, you are so transparent. They see right through your flimsy "concerned friend" charade.

"Hmm, 'seeing anyone'?" Giselle repeats slowly, drawing out the words. "Nope. Can't say that she is. Unnie's pretty much married to her work these days. And us, of course."

"Yeah," Ningning chimes in, a little too brightly. "No mysterious romantic entanglements that we know of! Our leader is a free agent!"

"Why do you ask?" Winter asks her gaze lifting to meet yours.

"Oh, you know," you say, waving a dismissive hand, trying to project an air of breezy indifference. "Just… she’s an old friend. You worry about your friends, right? Want them to be happy, not get mixed up with… undesirables. Standard friend protocol."

The three of them share another look. This one is longer, more laden with unspoken understanding. It’s the kind of look that says, “Oh, honey, you are so delightfully screwed.”

"Right," Giselle says. "Undesirables. Of course."

Ningning nods vigorously. "Totally. Friend protocol. We get it."

"So," Giselle starts, "all these shared memories, the dorky school days… was there ever, you know, anything more? Between you two back then?"

You can feel the heat rising up your neck. Your brain is frantically sifting through a thousand possible deflections, each one more unconvincing than the last. This is where your PR training truly shines, in the art of saying absolutely nothing while appearing to consider something deeply. A true masterclass in verbal evasion is about to unfold, you can just feel it.

"I mean, the bond between you two is… remarkable," Ningning adds, helpfully twisting the knife. "Unnie was so, so excited when she found out you were coming to work here. Like, beyond normal 'old friend joining the company' excited. More like 'rare Pokémon spotted in the wild' excited."

Giselle snorts delicately. "Eloquent, Ningning. But she’s right. There’s definitely… a vibe."

Just as you’re about to launch into what would undoubtedly be a completely disastrous attempt at a nonchalant denial, a voice cuts through the charged atmosphere.

"There you guys are! I’ve been looking all over for you."

Jimin. Of course. Her timing is, as always, impeccably dramatic. She steps into the lounge, her gaze sweeping over her members, then landing on you, a slight question in her eyes. She’s still in her practice clothes, a light sheen of perspiration on her forehead, making her look both ethereal and remarkably real. The girls, bless their meddling, gossipy hearts, snap into action with the practiced ease of seasoned operatives.

"Oh, hey, Unnie!" Ningning chirps. "We were just… talking."

"About what?" Jimin asks, stepping further into the room, her gaze lingering on you for a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary. Or maybe you’re just imagining that part. Your imagination has been working overtime lately, particularly where she’s concerned.

"Nothing major," Giselle says smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. "Silly things. Random office gossip. You know how it is." She stands, stretching languidly. "Actually, we should probably head out. It’s getting seriously late.”

"Yeah, same," Ningning agrees, bouncing to her feet. Winter nods, already halfway to the door. "My everything aches."

You seize the opportunity, a drowning man grasping at a life raft made of convenient excuses. "Me too, actually. Long day. Lots of… spreadsheets." You try for a weary, put-upon sigh. You’re not sure it lands.

The girls offer quick goodbyes, a chorus of "See ya!" and "Night, Unnie!" and then they’re gone, leaving you and Jimin standing in the sudden quiet of the empty lounge. She turns to you. "They keeping you entertained?"

"They’re… a force of nature," you admit. "Never a dull moment."

"Tell me about it," she says with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand schedules. "Well, I guess I should let you escape too." She gestures towards the door. "I’m heading out as well. Want to walk?"

And just like that, you’re accompanying her again, the two of you falling into step as you navigate the increasingly deserted corridors of SM Entertainment. You find yourself acutely aware of the space between you, of the subtle scent of her perfume, of the way her hair catches the low evening light filtering through the hallway windows. It’s all terribly poetic and deeply unhelpful for your already addled state of mind.

As you approach the main lobby, her voice, soft and a little melancholic, breaks the quiet. "Have you ever wondered," she begins, not looking at you, her gaze fixed on the gleaming marble floor, "what might have happened? If… if things had been different? If I hadn’t gone into training when I did, if you hadn’t gone off to study in another country? If we hadn't… you know, gone our separate ways back then?"

The question, so similar to the one that started your recent emotional tailspin with her, catches you off guard. It’s a "what if" laden with years of distance and change, a path untaken, a story unwritten. You glance at her profile, the perfect line of her jaw, the slight furrow in her brow. She looks so much like the fierce, determined girl you knew, yet also like someone entirely new, someone shaped by experiences you can only guess at.

"I don't know," you say honestly, the words feeling inadequate but true. It’s your go-to answer for her profound, soul-searching question, apparently. "It’s… hard to predict those kinds of things, isn’t it? One tiny change back then could have led to a million different todays." You try for a philosophical shrug, as if you ponder alternate timelines on a regular basis. You mostly ponder what to have for dinner.

She nods slowly, still not meeting your eyes. "You’re right. It’s impossible to know." A beat of silence, then she adds, almost to herself, "Still. Sometimes I wonder."

Before you can overthink it, before your internal HR department can issue a cease-and-desist, you find yourself saying, "But, Jimin… whatever those other million todays might have looked like, this one? This is the one where we’re both here. You, me, in this crazy building, against some pretty insane odds when you think about it." You meet her gaze then, hoping she sees the sincerity in yours. "That’s got to be worth something, right?"

A slow smile spreads across her face, a genuine, heart-stoppingly beautiful smile that reaches her eyes and chases away some of the weariness you saw there earlier. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I think it is." She finally looks directly at you, and there's a warmth there, a shared acknowledgement of the strange, unlikely thread that still connects you.

"Thank you for saying that."

"Just stating the facts," you reply, though your heart is doing a fair impression of a hummingbird’s wings. You pause, then, emboldened by the moment, you ask, "Are you okay, though? You seem… a little tired." A masterful understatement, considering the grueling life she leads.

She lets out a soft sigh. "Yeah, I’m okay. Just… tired is my default setting these days, I think." She manages a wry smile. "This week has been particularly brutal. But it’s okay. It’s part of it."

"I’ve been seeing it up close, you know," you say, your tone earnest. "You, the girls… the amount of work you all put in, the sheer dedication… it’s actually insane. I had no idea, not really, before I started working here. It’s… genuinely incredible. You’re all amazing." You hesitate, then add, "Just… don’t overdo it, okay? Take care of yourself. Seriously."

Her smile widens, softens. The appreciation in her eyes is unmistakable, and it makes you feel ridiculously warm inside. "Thank you," she says again. "That means a lot. I will. I promise."

You reach the main exit, the cool night air of Seoul beckoning from beyond the glass doors. This feels like another one of those moments, a pause before the story shifts again.

"Well," you say, "my chariot awaits. Or, you know, the subway."

She laughs, a light, easy sound. "Same here. My manager’s probably already sent out a search party." She turns to you, and for a moment, it feels like there’s something more she wants to say, something hovering on the edge of her words. But then she just smiles that enigmatic smile again. "Good night. And… thanks. For the walk. And the concern."

"Anytime," you reply. "Goodnight, Jimin."

And with that, she’s gone, disappearing into the waiting black van that always seems to materialize out of nowhere. You watch her go, a strange mix of hope and confusion and that ever-present, damnably persistent affection swirling inside you.

—

The weekend arrives with all the fanfare of a damp squib. You spend Saturday mostly alternating between staring blankly at your laptop screen, pretending to job-hunt for something that isn’t your current, emotionally hazardous employment, and replaying every single micro-expression Jimin has made in your vicinity for the past two weeks. It’s a productive, well-adjusted way to live, you tell yourself with a hefty dose of irony. You’re bored, tired of your own internal monologue, and a little bit adrift.

You’re cleaning your room, contemplating mentally the profound existential question of whether to order jjajangmyeon or just eat cereal for dinner for the third night in a row, when your phone buzzes on the coffee table. You almost ignore it, expecting another spam text about a crypto scam or a discount on air fryers. But then it buzzes again, insistent. With a groan, you reach for it.

It’s a message. From Jimin.

Hey! Are you by any chance, miraculously, incredibly, unbelievably… free tonight? My schedule just cleared up like magic (don’t ask, it’s a K-Pop miracle). That dinner we talked about… still interested? My legendary kimchi jjigae awaits its challenger! Let me know! Fingers crossed! ✨🍜🤞

You stare at the message, reading it once, twice, a third time just to make sure your sleep-deprived brain isn’t hallucinating. Her schedule cleared? She’s asking tonight? After all the cancellations, all the near-misses? A slow grin, a genuine, uncomplicated, shit-eating grin, spreads across your face. All the weariness, the boredom, the overthinking from the past few days, evaporates like morning mist.

You type back, your thumbs flying across the screen, a surge of adrenaline making your hands shake slightly.

Tonight? Miracles do happen! Yes, absolutely, 100% still interested. My taste buds are primed and ready for legendary status. Send me the address. I’ll even brave rush hour for this.

Her reply is almost instantaneous. A string of happy emojis, followed by her address and a time.

It’s set. It’s actually, finally, set.

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, loud and unrestrained in the quiet of your small apartment. Suddenly, your weekend isn’t looking so bleak. Suddenly, you’re not tired at all. Suddenly, the only thing that matters is that in a few short hours, you’re going to Jimin’s apartment for dinner. Just the two of you.

—

The hours leading up to your dinner with Jimin are a masterclass in controlled chaos, existing primarily within the confines of your own skull. You tell yourself, with the stern authority of someone trying to wrangle a particularly unruly toddler, not to overthink it. It’s just dinner. A casual meal between old friends. One of whom just happens to be a globally recognized K-Pop sensation who occupies a significant, and frankly unhealthy, amount of your daily thought processes.

Yes, perfectly normal.

Your attempt not to overthink manifests as a meticulous, hour-long deconstruction of your entire wardrobe, a frantic search for an outfit that screams "effortlessly cool and put-together" while simultaneously whispering "I definitely didn't try too hard, but please notice I tried a little." You settle on dark jeans that actually fit well and a soft, unassuming button-down shirt (casual, yet hinting at the possibility that you own an iron).

On your way to her neighborhood, a sudden pang of "don't show up empty-handed, you heathen" strikes you. You duck into a small, upscale market, ostensibly for a bottle of wine or some trendy artisanal sparkling water. As you’re Browse, your eyes snag on a particular brand of imported Swiss chocolate, a rich, dark hazelnut bar. It’s a lightning bolt from the past. Jimin used to be absolutely obsessed with this exact chocolate back in your school days. She’d save up her allowance for it, savoring each square like it was a precious jewel. It’s a ridiculous, sentimental impulse, but you grab it, along with a respectable bottle of white wine that looks like it knows what it’s doing. The chocolate feels like a small, secret handshake with the past, a nod to the girl she was… a girl you knew before the world did.

Her apartment building is sleek and modern, nestled in a quiet, affluent part of Seoul. You buzz her apartment number, your voice sounding surprisingly steady through the intercom when you announce your arrival. A moment later, the lock clicks, and you’re granted access to the inner sanctum. So far, so good. No alarms triggered.

Standing outside her actual apartment door, a fresh wave of nerves – oh, hello again, old friend – washes over you. You perform the sacred pre-door-knock ritual: a quick, surreptitious sniff of your own breath (minty, check), a frantic adjustment of your shirt cuffs, and a final, desperate smooth-down of your hair. You take a deep breath, then you knock.

The door swings open, and there she is. And just like that, your carefully constructed composure evaporates. Jimin. Even in simple, dark lounge pants and a ridiculously soft-looking, oversized grey sweater that swallows her frame, she looks… breathtaking. Her hair is tied up in a loose, messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face. Her makeup is so light it’s almost non-existent, just a hint of color on her lips and a subtle definition to her incredible eyes, making her appear more close to you, more vulnerable, more… Jimin. The effect is devastatingly beautiful, far more so than any stage costume or red-carpet glamour. This is her, unvarnished, in her own space.

You just sort of… stare for a beat, your brain temporarily short-circuiting. She offers a small, slightly shy smile. "Hey. You made it."

"Yeah," you manage. "Traffic was… surprisingly cooperative. For once." You then remember the social contract requires more than just grunting acknowledgment. "You, uh… you look amazing, Jimin. Really." There, you said it. Not as smooth as you’d hoped, but honest.

Her smile widens, a genuine, pleased crinkle around her eyes. "Thanks. You clean up pretty nice yourself." She steps back, holding the door open wider. "Come on in. Don’t mind the mess, I was literally in the middle of a creative explosion in the kitchen."

You step inside, and as you do, you present your offerings. "Brought some wine," you say, handing her the bottle. "And, uh, this." You pull out the chocolate bar. "Not sure if you still… but I remembered."

Her eyes widen when she sees the familiar wrapper, a gasp of pure, unadulterated delight escaping her. "Oh my god!" she exclaims, taking the chocolate from you with an almost reverent care. "This! I haven’t had this in ages! How did you even remember?" Her face is alight with genuine happiness. "This is… this is the best. Thank you." That she’s happier about the relatively cheap chocolate bar than the expensive wine says everything. It’s a direct hit to the heart, that shared memory made tangible.

"My memory retains crucial information," you say, trying for a light, teasing tone to cover the sudden thickness in your throat.

She laughs, clutching the chocolate bar like a long-lost treasure. "Apparently so." She gestures around. "Well, this is it. Karina's home. Or, you know, Jimin’s slightly-less-glamorous-than-you’d-expect-for-an-idol-but-still-pretty-nice apartment."

You take a proper look around as she leads you further in. It is beautiful. Definitely what you’d expect for someone of her status – spacious, with high ceilings, large windows offering a glittering panorama of the Seoul skyline. The furniture is modern and stylish, a palette of soft neutrals and rich textures. But threaded throughout the obvious expense are unmistakable touches of her. A shelf overflowing with books, a worn acoustic guitar propped in a corner, a collection of quirky art prints that are more charming than high-concept, a ridiculously fluffy throw blanket draped over a plush sofa that just begs for someone to curl up on it. It’s a home, not just a showpiece. It’s… Jimin. And you’re in it.

The aroma filling Jimin’s apartment is genuinely incredible, a rich, spicy, and deeply comforting scent that immediately makes your stomach rumble in anticipation. She’s bustling between the small, open-plan kitchen counter and the dining table as she places steaming bowls and an array of colourful banchan (pickled radish, seasoned spinach, glistening myeolchi bokkeum) onto the table. You try to offer help, a classic "can I do anything?" gesture, but she waves you off with a smile, directing you to simply take a seat.

"Guest of honor tonight," she declares, "your only job is to eat and, hopefully, not require medical attention afterwards." It's a joke, but there's a hint of nervous pride in her eyes as she surveys her culinary efforts. It's endearing, this glimpse of her outside the polished perfection of Karina, the idol. This is Jimin, hoping you like her cooking.

You settle into a chair at the intimate wooden table, which is perfectly sized for two and positioned to offer a breathtaking view of the city lights beginning to ignite the deepening twilight outside. She slides a bowl of rice in front of you, then the centerpiece: a bubbling, vibrant red earthenware pot of kimchi jjigae, the steam carrying its potent, delicious fragrance. She serves herself, then gestures for you to dig in. "Well," she says, a little breathlessly, "moment of truth."

You pick up your chopsticks, you take a careful spoonful of the jjigae, the rich broth warming your tongue, the tender pork and tangy kimchi a perfect balance. It’s not just edible; it’s genuinely, profoundly good. Your eyes widen in honest surprise.

"Jimin," you say, after a moment of appreciative silence, letting the warmth spread through you. "This is… seriously incredible. You weren't kidding about the legendary status. This is restaurant-quality stuff." You’re not just being polite; it’s the best kimchi jjigae you’ve had in a long, long time. Maybe ever.

A pleased, slightly flustered blush colors her cheeks. She ducks her head, stirring her own bowl a little too intently. "Oh, stop," she says, but her smile is radiant. "It’s just an old family recipe. My grandmother taught me. I don’t get to make it that often, so… I’m glad it turned out okay." She takes a tentative bite herself, then nods, a little surprised. "Huh. Not bad, if I do say so myself."

You both eat in a comfortable, almost reverent silence for a few minutes. You try some of the banchan she gestures towards, a crisp, spicy cucumber salad, some savory pan-fried tofu. Everything is meticulously prepared, bursting with flavor. It's clear she put a lot of effort into this, and that knowledge warms you even more than the jjigae.

It's as you’re both reaching for the water glasses at the same time, your fingers brushing for a fleeting, electric instant, that the full weight of the situation seems to properly land. You pull your hand back a little too quickly, a jolt going up your arm. You look up, and she’s looking at you, her eyes wide, a similar awareness dawning in them. Here you are. Alone. In her apartment, a space few outside her closest circle probably ever see. Sharing a home-cooked meal. It’s not uncomfortable, not exactly, but it’s undeniably there: a potent mix of history and the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of your lives having converged like this again.

A small, nervous chuckle escapes her lips, a delicate, airy sound. Almost instantly, a similar laugh bubbles up from your own chest; a little shaky, a little breathless, but a genuine release of the mounting tension. It’s a shared acknowledgment of the elephant.

"Okay," she says, setting down her chopsticks and picking up her water glass. "This is… this is a little bit weird, isn't it?" She takes a sip of water, her gaze still holding yours over the rim of the glass. "Not bad-weird," she clarifies quickly, perhaps sensing your own internal monologue already composing a list of polite escape routes, "definitely good-weird. But still… wonderfully, ridiculously weird."

"Good-weird is my favorite kind of weird," you manage. The shared laughter, the naming of the awkwardness, has somehow made it less… awkward. "And yes, 'wonderfully, ridiculously weird' pretty much sums up my entire existence since moving to Seoul and, you know," you gesture vaguely to encompass her, the apartment, the situation, "all of this." You take another mouthful of jjigae, savoring the spice, buying yourself a moment. "Honestly, if you’d told fourteen-year-old me, the one convinced that high fashion was wearing a band t-shirt without holes in it, that one day I'd be having homemade kimchi jjigae in global K-Pop superstar Karina's apartment…" You shake your head, a wry smile playing on your lips. "Well, let's just say his tiny, angst-ridden brain would have imploded. He probably would have assumed it was a very elaborate prank involving hidden cameras."

Jimin laughs, a bright, clear sound that seems to chase away some of the shadows in the room. "Oh, please. Fourteen-year-old you was far too cynical for hidden camera pranks. You’d have assumed it was a stress-induced hallucination brought on by too many all-night gaming sessions." She pauses, her smile softening into something more reflective as she looks around her living space, then back at you, her dinner guest, the boy from her past sitting so improbably in her present. "But look at us now, huh? Actually sitting here, eating dinner, in my own place. Talking about nothing relevant… and just being. Like two reasonably functioning adults who manage to feed themselves without burning the building down." She takes a slow, deliberate bite of rice, her gaze drifting towards the window, towards the vast, glittering expanse of Seoul spread out below them. "Who would have thought any of this was possible back then?" She turns back to you, a wistful, almost tender smile on her lips. "Time flies, doesn’t it? Feels like a lifetime ago, and yesterday, all at once.”

There's a shared melancholy in the air, a sweet ache for the irretrievable past, but it's also undercut by the sheer, vibrating improbability of your present. You nod slowly, swirling the last of the spicy jjigae broth in your bowl, the warmth of it seeping into you, mirroring the warmth spreading through your chest from just… being here, with her.

"It really does," you agree. "One minute you're plotting how to get out of gym class, the next you're… well, you're an international icon, and I'm marveling at your exceptional kimchi jjigae skills and wondering if adulting comes with a manual they forgot to give me." You offer a small, self-deprecating smile, which she returns with a knowing one of her own.

"Tell me about it," she sighs, pushing her empty bowl away slightly. "Sometimes I look in the mirror and I'm still half expecting to see that gangly teenager with the terrible bangs staring back, wondering how on earth I’m supposed to lead a group and remember lyrics in different languages." She pauses, then a playful spark ignites in her eyes, chasing away the momentary wistfulness. "Speaking of adulting… that wine you brought isn't going to drink itself, is it?”

"An excellent point."

"Yeah," she says, already rising from the table. "Let me just wash these dishes and then we can relocate. My couch is significantly more comfortable for serious wine contemplation than these dining chairs. And you haven't even seen my prized collection of questionable drama movies yet, a true adult indulgence."

She begins clearing the table with an efficient grace, and you quickly stand to help, gathering bowls and chopsticks. "Questionable dramas, huh? I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Oh, you should be. We're talking peak early 2000s angst."

While she rinses the dishes (a task you offer to do but are again cheerfully waved off from) you retrieve the bottle of white wine from the counter where you’d left it. You find a corkscrew in a drawer after a brief, the satisfying pop of the cork feels like a small, official commencement of the evening’s next, less formal, chapter. Jimin reappears with two elegant, long-stemmed wine glasses.

Soon, you're both settled on her ridiculously plush sofa. It’s U-shaped, large enough that you’re not exactly pressed against each other, but close enough that you’re acutely aware of her presence, the subtle scent of her shampoo, the way the soft lamplight catches the curve of her cheek. She curls her legs up beneath her, looking impossibly small and cozy, and takes a grateful sip from her wine glass.

"Mmm," she hums, her eyes closing for a moment. "Okay, this is good. Way better than the soju bombs from our trainee day survival kits, that’s for sure."

You take a sip yourself. The wine is crisp and cool, a pleasant counterpoint to the lingering spice of the jjigae. "Glad it meets the approval of your sophisticated palate," you tease, settling back into the cushions. The sofa really is incredibly comfortable. Dangerously so. "Though I have a feeling even drain cleaner would taste good after some of the trainee stories I’ve heard."

She laughs, a full, unrestrained sound this time, and the warmth of it, combined with the wine already beginning to hum pleasantly in your veins, makes you feel… good. Really good. Relaxed in a way you haven’t been in weeks, maybe months.

"You have no idea," she says, shaking her head, a smile still playing on her lips. "There was this one time, during our first evaluation prep, we were all so stressed and sleep-deprived, Ningning tried to microwave a banana. The whole banana. Peel and all."

You snort with laughter, nearly choking on your wine. "No! What happened?"

"Let’s just say the dorm smelled like radioactive fruit for a week, and we were banned from unsupervised microwave usage," Jimin recounts, her eyes sparkling with shared amusement. "Our manager almost had a conniption. Good times. Peak adulting, right there."

The wine flows easily, and with it, the conversation. You find yourselves reminiscing more about those "good old days," the stories becoming funnier, sillier, with each glass. You remind her of the time she tried to dye her own hair blue using a questionable internet tutorial and ended up with three distinctly different shades of swamp green. She counters with the story of your spectacularly failed attempt to build a skateboard ramp in your backyard, which resulted in more bruises than airtime. The laughter comes more frequently now, less self-conscious, more open. There's a comfortable intimacy in revisiting these shared embarrassments.

With the second glass of wine, a subtle shift occurs. The silliness is still there, but it’s becoming tinged with a more playful, flirtatious edge. Maybe it’s the alcohol lowering inhibitions, or maybe it’s the cozy proximity on the sofa, or maybe it’s just the inevitable result of two people with a mountain of buried feelings finally being in a private, relaxed space together. You find yourself watching the way her lips curve when she smiles, the way she gestures animatedly when she’s telling a particularly outrageous story, the way her eyes seem to catch and hold yours for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

"You know," she says, swirling the wine in her glass, her gaze a little unfocused, a little dreamy, "you were always surprisingly good at listening. Even when I was rambling about the most ridiculous, angsty teenage dramas. You’d just sit there and nod, like it was the most profound stuff you’d ever heard."

"Hey, your angst was top-tier," you reply. "It deserved a captive audience. Besides, someone had to make sure you didn't actually follow through on your threat to run away and join the circus after that disastrous school talent show audition." You lean a little closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "Though, for the record, I still think your interpretive dance to that heavy metal song was… creatively ambitious."

She throws her head back and laughs, a genuine, unrestrained peal that makes your chest ache with a strange, sweet tenderness. When she sobers, she lightly punches your arm. "Oh, shut up! That was performance art! You just didn't understand my vision!" Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed from the wine and the laughter, and she’s looking at you with an open, unguarded expression that makes your breath catch. "But seriously," she adds, "you were a good friend. Still are."

The compliment, simple as it is, lands with surprising weight. "You too, Jimin," you say, your voice equally soft, meeting her gaze. "Always."

Her eyes search yours, and you feel like she can see right through your carefully constructed facade, right down to the terrified, hopeful teenager still lurking somewhere inside. The wine has definitely done its job; the world feels a little softer around the edges, your inhibitions are pleasantly fuzzy, and the desire to just reach out, to bridge that small remaining distance on the couch, is becoming overwhelmingly, dangerously strong.

The wine, crisp and cool, continues its delightful work, unspooling the tightly wound threads of formality and apprehension that had clung to the early evening. Each sip seems to loosen your tongue a little more, and Jimin’s too. The comfortable U-shaped sofa, initially a vast expanse, feels like it’s subtly shrinking, or perhaps you’re both just… gravitating. Her laughter, when you recount another particularly embarrassing anecdote from your shared school days, is no longer just a polite chuckle. It’s a full-bodied, unrestrained peal of mirth that makes her lean back against the cushions, her eyes squeezed shut, one hand playfully batting at your arm.

You find yourself grinning like an idiot, the warmth spreading through your chest having very little to do with the alcohol content of the wine and everything to do with the sound of her unbridled joy.

"It’s funny, isn’t it? All those little things we obsessed over back then, thinking they were the most important things in the world." She swirls the wine in her glass, watching the pale liquid catch the light. "Who you sat with at lunch, whether you got picked for the team, if that one person looked at you in the hallway…"

Her voice trails off on that last phrase, and there’s a subtle shift in her tone, a new layer of something… emerging from beneath the playful banter. She takes a breath, then turns to you, her eyes, luminous in the dim light, searching yours. The playful glint is gone.

"Can I… can I tell you something? Something really stupid I used to think back then?"

Your heart gives a little thump. "Of course," you say. "My lips are sealed. And my capacity for judging stupid teenage thoughts is, believe me, at an all-time low, considering my own track record."

She offers a small, grateful smile, then her gaze drops to her wine glass, her fingers tracing the rim. "Okay, well… don’t laugh." A pause, then, so softly you almost miss it, "I… I used to have the biggest crush on you."

Your brain, already pleasantly fuzzy from the wine, seems to stall for a moment, trying to process. Jimin. Had a crush. On you. The fourteen-year-old version of you, the one with the questionable sense of humor and the complete inability to talk to girls he actually liked without sounding like a malfunctioning robot, would have spontaneously combusted from sheer disbelief and elation. Even now, the adult, slightly-more-composed version of you is struggling to keep his jaw from hitting the floor.

She peeks up at you through her lashes, a nervous blush creeping up her neck. "See? Stupid, right? I was so sure you just saw me as, like, your annoying little sister’s best friend, or just… Jimin, the dork who was always around. I used to spend hours overthinking every single thing you said to me, trying to decipher if there was some hidden meaning." She lets out a shaky little laugh. "God, it was exhausting."

You stare at her, a slow, incredulous smile starting to spread across your face. The irony, oh, the beautiful, painful irony of it all. All those years of your own silent, all-consuming crush, your own agonizing over every shared glance, every casual word, thinking she was completely oblivious, completely out of reach.

"Jimin," you begin. You clear your throat. "That’s… wow." You shake your head, a laugh bubbling up, a laugh of pure, unadulterated shock and a strange, retroactive relief. "The only thing 'stupid' about that is that I was doing the exact same goddamn thing."

Her head snaps up, her eyes widening, the blush on her cheeks deepening to a vibrant crimson.

"What?" she breathes. "You… you did? With… with me?"

"With you?" you echo, a wide, disbelieving grin plastered on your face. "Are you kidding? You were all I thought about. I was hopelessly, pathetically gone on you. I just… I figured you were way out of my league. That you only tolerated my presence because we were stuck in the same school and our families knew each other." The confession tumbles out, easy now, liberating, fueled by the wine and the sudden revelation of her own past feelings. It’s like a dam has broken, years of unspoken emotion finally finding their release.

She just stares at you, speechless for a long moment, her wine glass forgotten in her hand. Then, a tiny, incredulous laugh escapes her. "No. Way." She shakes her head slowly, as if trying to rearrange the entire narrative of her teenage years. "All that time? We were both…?"

"Apparently," you confirm, still grinning. "Two oblivious idiots, crushing on each other in silence. We could have written a really angsty, badly plotted teen drama."

She finally lets out a full laugh, leaning back against the sofa, looking utterly flabbergasted but also… lighter. "This is insane. I can’t believe it." Her eyes are shining, and not just from the wine anymore. "You know," she says, her voice regaining some of its earlier playful lilt, though it’s softer now, more intimate, "I used to get so jealous. Back then. If I saw you talking to… to other girls. Especially if they were, you know, prettier, or cooler." She makes a face, a little embarrassed. "It sounds so silly now, but it was true. I’d be all smiles on the outside, but inside, I’d be like, 'How dare she laugh at his stupid jokes? I’m the one who’s supposed to laugh at his stupid jokes!'"

You reach out, without really thinking, and gently touch her arm. "Hey. It wasn't silly. Or if it was, then I was just as silly."

Her gaze meets yours, and there's a warmth, a connection in that look that feels more real, more profound, than anything you've shared in years. She holds your gaze for a long moment, then a shadow crosses her face, her voice drops again, hesitant. "It’s funny… or, not funny, but… I kind of felt that way again. Recently." She looks down at her lap, tracing patterns on her pants with a fingertip. "When I saw you talking with Ning and the others that day in the lounge."

Your heart clenches. You remember that day, her sudden appearance, the tension.

"You all looked like you were having so much fun," she continues, "And they’re all so… bright, and funny, and talented. And for a second, this stupid thought just popped into my head, like… what if you ditch me for them? What if they’re more entertaining, or cooler to be around now? What if… what if I’m not that interesting anymore, compared to them?" She lets out a little, self-deprecating huff of air. "It sounds even dumber saying it out loud."

You gently cup her chin, tilting her face up so she has to look at you.

"Jimin," you say. "Listen to me. There is no one, no one, who could ever make me ditch you. And there is absolutely no one, not Ning, not Giselle, not Winter, not anyone on this entire planet, who is 'cooler' or 'more entertaining' or 'more interesting' than you are to me." You search her eyes, willing her to believe you. "And no one," you add, "no one makes me feel the way I feel when I’m with you. Not then. And definitely not now."

Her eyes search yours, wide and luminous, and you can see the emotions warring within them: surprise, disbelief, and then, slowly, a dawning, fragile hope. A single tear escapes and traces a path down her cheek, and you reach up, your thumb gently brushing it away, your touch lingering on her soft skin for just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

"When… when we met again," she begins, so fragile you have to lean in slightly to catch it. "That day on the street? All those… those old feelings…" She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to her hands, now twisting in her lap. "They just… they came rushing back. All of them. And I thought… I really thought I was over it. Over you." She attempts a small, shaky laugh that doesn't quite land. "So stupid. I’m a grown woman, a K-Pop idol, for crying out loud. I shouldn’t be… I shouldn’t be feeling like a confused teenager all over again just because my childhood crush reappeared."

She tries to continue, her lips parting, but the words seem to catch in her throat. Her brow furrows in frustration, and she shakes her head, a gesture of helpless self-reproach. "I… I can’t even…" Another aborted attempt. She looks up at you, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, a look of utter bewilderment on her face. "I'm sorry," she blurts out. "I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. It must be the wine. It’s making me all… emotional and stupid." She gestures vaguely, a hand fluttering near her chest. "I’m probably ruining everything, aren't I? Just… ignore me. I’m being ridiculous." She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, as if trying to physically block out her own chaotic emotions.

And in that instant, watching her so raw, so vulnerable, so utterly terrified of her own feelings (feelings that mirror your own chaotic internal landscape so perfectly) something inside you just… snaps. All the overthinking, all the caution, all the years of unspoken longing, converge into a single, undeniable impulse. The wine, the dim lights, the confessions, her tear-streaked face so close to yours… it’s a perfect storm, and you’re right in the eye of it. To hell with professionalism, to hell with the risks, to hell with everything but the raw, undeniable truth thrumming between you.

Before you can second-guess it, before your internal HR department can scream bloody murder, you lean forward and kiss her.

It’s not a gentle, tentative kiss. It’s clumsy, desperate, fueled by years of pent-up emotion and too much wine. Your lips meet hers, and for a split second, she’s completely still, a statue beneath your sudden onslaught. Her eyes fly open, wide and startled, pupils blown huge in the dim light, reflecting a pure, unadulterated shock. You feel the soft, unexpected give of her lips, the faint taste of wine and something uniquely Jimin, a taste you realize, with a jolt, you’ve been subconsciously craving for more than half your life.

For a horrifying moment, you think you’ve made a monumental mistake. Idiot! You absolute, unmitigated idiot! your brain screams. You’ve broken her! You’ve ruined everything! The irony of her exact words now applying to your actions is not lost on you, even in your panic.

But then, just as you’re about to pull away, to stammer out a mortified apology, something shifts. Her eyelids flutter closed. A tiny, almost inaudible sigh escapes her, a breath she seems to have been holding for a lifetime. And then, slowly, tentatively, she gives in. Her lips soften against yours, responding with a hesitant pressure that builds, her body relaxing slightly against the sofa cushions. The kiss deepens, still a little clumsy, still a little desperate, but now with an undeniable mutuality, a shared exploration of a boundary crossed together.

When you finally, breathlessly, pull apart, the silence in the room is deafening. You stare at her, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Her eyes are still closed for a moment, her lashes dark against her flushed cheeks. Then they slowly open, and she just… stares back at you, her expression unreadable, dazed, her lips slightly swollen and glistening. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can only watch her, bracing for the fallout.

And then, her face crumples. Her lower lip trembles, and her carefully constructed composure shatters completely. A choked sob escapes her, and fat, silent tears begin to stream down her cheeks, unheeded. It’s not the reaction you were hoping for. It’s definitely not the reaction you were hoping for.

"Oh, god, Jimin, I…" Panic, cold and sharp, seizes you. You have ruined it. "I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have… I just… I’m an idiot. Please, don’t cry. I’m so, so sorry." The words tumble out, a frantic, jumbled apology.

She shakes her head, swiping at her tears with the back of her hand, though more quickly follow. "No," she whispers. "No, it’s… it’s okay." And then, to your utter astonishment, she launches herself at you, her arms wrapping around your neck, burying her face in your shoulder, her body trembling with silent sobs. You instinctively wrap your arms around her, holding her close, your mind reeling.

"I… I liked it," she mumbles into your shirt, her voice muffled but audible. "I really did." She pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes red-rimmed but shining with a confusing mix of emotions. "It’s just… it’s all… it’s a lot. Everything. All at once. Coming back. I feel… I feel kind of weird." She lets out another shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Overwhelmed, I guess."

Fuck. She liked it. She actually liked it. You haven't irrevocably destroyed your friendship, your job, and your chances of ever experiencing joy again. Small victories. You gently shift on the plush sofa, pulling her more fully into your embrace until she’s settled somewhat in your lap, her side tucked against your chest. It feels incredibly intimate, yet also profoundly comforting. You rest your cheek against the top of her head, her hair soft against your skin, smelling faintly of her shampoo. After a few long minutes, her trembling stops. She lets out a deep, shuddering sigh and slowly lifts her head from your shoulder. Her eyes are still puffy, her cheeks tear-stained, but there’s a new calmness in her expression, a fragile sort of peace. She looks at you, her gaze soft and searching.

Then, a small, watery smile touches her lips. She reaches up, her hand, so small and delicate, coming to rest on your cheek. Her thumb gently strokes your skin.

"You know," she whispers. "for someone who claims to be an idiot…" Her smile widens, a genuine, almost dazzling Jimin-smile breaking through the tear-stained landscape of her face. "You’re not always wrong."

And then, before you can even process that, before you can form a coherent thought or even remember how to breathe properly, she leans in, her eyes fluttering closed, and kisses you.

This time, there’s no surprise, no hesitation. It’s a kiss that is both a question and an answer, a culmination and a beginning. It’s soft, tender, yet filled with an undercurrent of all those years of unspoken feelings, of rediscovered emotions, of the undeniable, terrifying, exhilarating truth that is thrumming between you. It’s a kiss that tastes of wine, and tears, and a hope so potent it makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her eyes are galaxies, dark and swirling with emotion, a universe you’re only just beginning to navigate. A delighted, slightly breathless giggle escapes her, then you’re laughing too, a shared, giddy sound that bounces off the walls of her apartment.

"Wow," she whispers, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "This… this really happened, didn't it?" Her eyes search yours, looking for confirmation in a world that suddenly feels wonderfully, terrifyingly new.

"It really, really did," you affirm. The air between you is no longer just charged; it’s practically incandescent, thrumming with a potent energy that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. The earlier nervousness hasn’t vanished, but it’s been transmuted into something else. She leans her forehead against yours for a moment, just breathing, then pulls back slightly, her eyes alight.

Her fingers, still feather-light against your skin, drift down from your jaw to the collar of your shirt. She toys with the fabric, a slow, deliberate movement, her gaze fixed on yours. The city lights outside paint her in hues of gold and shadow, making her look even more ethereal, more achingly beautiful.

"You know," she says, "you haven't, uh… you haven't seen my room yet." Her eyes flick towards a hallway leading off the main living area, then back to yours.

Your own breath hitches. You try to swallow, your throat suddenly dry. "No, I haven't," you manage. You search her eyes, needing to be absolutely sure. "Would you… would you like to show me?"

A slow, devastatingly beautiful smile spreads across her face. It’s a smile of pure, unadulterated desire, mixed with a touch of that endearing shyness that still clings to her, even now. "Yes," she breathes. "Yes, I really would."

That’s all the confirmation you need. In one fluid movement you lean forward, sliding one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back. You lift her effortlessly from the sofa, her gasp of surprise quickly turning into a delighted laugh as she instinctively wraps her arms around your neck, her legs around your waist. She feels impossibly light, yet incredibly solid in your arms, a perfect, intoxicating weight. And then you’re kissing her again, deeply, hungrily, the earlier tenderness now ignited with a fiercer, more demanding passion.

"Which way?" you murmur against her mouth, your lips still brushing hers.

"That way," she whispers, gesturing with a slight tilt of her head down the hallway, never breaking the kiss, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer.

You carry her through the apartment, your steps sure and steady despite the roaring in your ears and the way your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. Each step feels monumental, a journey into uncharted territory. She guides you with soft murmurs and the pressure of her body against yours, her kisses becoming more urgent, more demanding, her breath coming in soft, quick gasps against your skin.

Her bedroom is at the end of the hall. She reaches out a hand, fumbling for the doorknob, then pushes it open. You step inside, and the world seems to tilt again. The room is bathed in a soft, ambient glow from the city outside, filtered through sheer curtains, creating an atmosphere that is both intimate and dreamlike. It’s perfect.

You carry her over to the bed, your lips still locked with hers, a desperate, continuous kiss that speaks of years of unspoken longing. Gently, reverently, you lower her onto the soft duvet, following her down, bracing yourself on your hands on either side of her head. You break the kiss, just for a moment, to gaze down at her. Her eyes are dark and dilated, her lips swollen and flushed from your kisses, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

"God, Jimin," you breathe. You lower your head, burying your face in the soft skin of her neck, inhaling her scent, feeling the frantic pulse throbbing beneath your lips. "You are so unbelievably beautiful." You kiss the delicate curve where her neck meets her shoulder, then trail a line of slow, deliberate kisses up towards her ear. "The most beautiful girl in the world," you whisper, your lips brushing her earlobe. "You always have been. Always."

A soft, shuddering moan escapes her as you continue your exploration, your lips and tongue tracing patterns on her sensitive skin, tasting the salt and sweetness of her. Her breathing becomes more irregular, deeper, her fingers tightening in your hair, her hips starting to shift restlessly beneath you. You feel her arch into your touch, a silent plea for more.

Your hands, which have been resting on the bed beside her, begin their own exploration. They find the hem of her soft, oversized sweater, your fingers brushing against the warm, pale skin of her stomach beneath it. Her skin is like silk, radiating a heat that sets your own nerves on fire. You tug at the sweater gently, slowly, agonizingly, your eyes locked on hers, watching her reaction. Her eyelids are heavy, her lips parted, a look of pure, unadulterated anticipation on her face. With a final, deliberate pull, you slide the sweater up and over her head, tossing it carelessly aside.

And there they are.

Her breasts, even constrained by the delicate lace of her bra, are undeniably magnificent. Full, heavy, spilling slightly from the cups, their pale, creamy expanse a stark, breathtaking contrast to the dark fabric. You can see the gentle slope, the promise of their weight. Your own breath hitches in your throat. This is the reality of Karina, of Jimin, laid bare before you, a sight you’ve only dared to dream of in your most secret, most forbidden fantasies.

You take off your shoes, kicking them aside, never taking your eyes off her. As you reach for the hem of your own shirt, your fingers fumbling with the buttons in your haste, you see her hands move to her back. With a deft, practiced movement, she unhooks her bra. She holds it in place for a moment longer, her gaze locking with yours, a shy, almost vulnerable smile playing on her lips.

"I… I hope you like them," she whispers.

Then, with a deep breath, she lets the bra fall away.

Your world stops. Absolutely, irrevocably stops. Her breasts are… perfect. More than perfect. They are everything you've ever imagined, and so much more. They are large, gloriously full, spilling into her hands as she cups them for a moment, as if presenting a sacred offering. The skin is so pale it seems almost luminous in the dim light, smooth and flawless, save for the faint blue veins tracing delicate patterns just beneath the surface, hinting at the life and warmth within. Her areolas are a dusky rose, wide and perfectly formed, and at their centers, her nipples, a deeper, more insistent pink, are already hard and erect, puckered tight, practically begging for your touch, for your mouth. They look so incredibly soft, so utterly… juicy, for lack of a better, more reverent word.

You’re mesmerized, completely transfixed, your throat dry, your mind blissfully, wonderfully blank save for the overwhelming, primal need to touch, to taste, to worship. After what feels like an eternity, but is probably only a few seconds, you slowly reach out a trembling hand. Your fingers make contact with the warm, yielding softness of her right breast. She gasps softly as you cup its weight, your thumb brushing over the taut, sensitive peak of her nipple. So warm. So unbelievably soft. You gently squeeze, a possessive, reverent pressure, and a low moan rumbles in her chest, vibrating against your palm.

She lies back fully on the bed then, her arms stretching above her head, her body an open, trusting invitation. You quickly shed your shirt, your movements urgent, driven by a desire that is rapidly consuming every last shred of your self-control. You climb onto the bed, positioning yourself above her, your knees on either side of her hips, your gaze still fixed on the breathtaking sight of her bare, beautiful breasts.

And then, you lower your head and take one of those perfect, pink nipples into your mouth.

She cries out, a sharp, breathless sound that is pure, unadulterated pleasure, her back arching off the bed, her fingers digging into your shoulders. Her breast fills your mouth, the taste of her skin, salty and sweet, intoxicating. You suck gently at first, then more strongly, your tongue laving, teasing, drawing the hardened peak deeper. She is melting beneath you, writhing, her hips starting to buck a little, a silent plea for more.

"Oh, god," she gasps. "Yes… fuck, yes… right there… they’re so… so sensitive…" Her words are broken, punctuated by moans and sharp intakes of breath. "Please… don’t stop… keep going… it’s… it’s making me so fucking horny…"

You shift your attention to her other breast, giving it the same devoted worship, laving, sucking, gently nipping, while your hand continues to squeeze and caress the one you just abandoned, ensuring both are bathed in sensation. You can feel the frantic thrumming of her heart against your chest, the heat radiating from her skin, the way her entire body is trembling, on the verge of completely unraveling. You lift your head for a moment, just to look at her, at the sight of her, utterly consumed by lust, her eyes half-closed, her lips parted, her beautiful breasts flushed and glistening from your attention. This is Jimin. This is Karina. And she is yours, in this moment, completely and utterly yours to worship, to pleasure, to drive absolutely insane.

You continue your worship of her breasts, alternating between them, lavishing each with an equal, fervent devotion. One hand cradles the breast you’re not currently feasting on, your thumb flicking, teasing the already hard nipple, while your mouth works its magic on its twin. You suck strongly, drawing the peak deep, feeling the responsive tug in her body, the way her hips tilt upwards, seeking a friction that isn’t there yet.

"Fuck, yes," she pants, her fingers still tangled in your hair, now gripping, almost painfully tight, but you welcome the anchor in the storm of sensation you’re both caught in. "They’re so… oh god… so good… your mouth…"

You lift your head for a moment, your lips slick, your gaze devouring the sight of her: her chest flushed a deep rose, her nipples impossibly tight, glistening with your saliva, already looking delightfully, beautifully ravaged.

"Yours are the best, Jimin," you growl. "Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. I could suck on these gorgeous tits all night."

A choked laugh, half sob, half pure ecstasy, bubbles from her throat. "Please do… God, yes… you suck so fucking well…"

You dive back in, attacking her nipples with renewed ferocity, sucking, licking, nipping gently with your teeth, drawing out her moans. You leave your marks, faint red circles blooming on her pale skin where your lips have been. Her breasts are indeed glistening, slick with your drool and her own faint sheen of sweat. She’s thrashing beneath you now, no longer trying to control her reactions, her head tossing from side to side on the pillows, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. Each pull of your mouth seems to send shivers racking through her entire frame.

Slowly, reluctantly, you drag your mouth away from her sensitive breasts, leaving them flushed, swollen, and thoroughly worshipped. Her soft whimper of protest is cut short as you begin to trail a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down the center of her torso, over the subtle curve of her ribcage, across the quivering expanse of her flat, pale stomach. Each kiss is deliberate, lingering, your tongue flicking out to taste her skin. You feel the muscles in her abdomen clench and flutter beneath your lips.

"Don’t stop," she whispers, her hands now gripping the bedsheets on either side of her. "Please… whatever you’re doing… just… more."

You continue your downward pilgrimage, your lips brushing against the waistband of her lounge pants. They’re soft, loose-fitting, and offer little resistance as your fingers find the drawstring. With a deft tug, you loosen it, then slowly, agonizingly slowly, begin to slide the fabric down her hips, revealing the delicate curve of her hipbone, the smooth, pale skin of her thighs. Your hands skim down her legs, pushing the pants further, until they’re pooled around her ankles. You kick them impatiently off the end of the bed, your gaze fixed on the prize they were concealing.

Her panties. A tiny scrap of pale pink lace, stretched taut across the apex of her thighs, already dark with her wetness. Her thighs, usually so strong and toned from years of dancing, are trembling uncontrollably now, a fine sheen of moisture glistening on their pale inner surfaces. The musky scent of her arousal is stronger here. You can practically feel the heat radiating from between her legs.

"Look at you," you murmur as you trail your fingers along the damp lace, feeling the heat and moisture seeping through. "So wet for me already, aren’t you, babe? Fucking dripping."

A broken sob escapes her. "Yes… oh god, yes… please… I need…" She can’t even finish the sentence, her body arching, her hips instinctively grinding against the mattress.

You pull the panties down, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, revealing her to your hungry gaze.

And she is, as you knew she would be, perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. Her shaved pussy is nestled between her thighs, a delicate, swollen mound. The outer lips are plump, flushed a deep, inviting pink, already glistening with her slick, arousal-heavy dew. They part slightly as you watch, revealing the even pinker, more tender flesh within, and the glint of her clit, a tiny, perfect pearl peeking out, already engorged and throbbing. This is the core of her, the secret, hidden place you’ve only ever dreamed of, now laid bare for your worship.

You shift your position, moving from beside her to kneel between her parted thighs. They tremble slightly as you settle there, and she lets out a shaky breath, her eyes, dark and wide, fixed on yours. There’s a beautiful, terrifying vulnerability in her gaze, a silent plea that makes your cock ache with an almost painful intensity. But you’re not going to rush this. Oh no. This moment, this offering, is too precious, too long-awaited. She needs to feel every second of this descent into pleasure, every nuance of her own burgeoning, desperate need. You’re going to make her burn for it. You’re going to make her beg.

"You are so fucking beautiful, Jimin," you murmur. Your gaze drops from her eyes to the glistening treasure nestled between her thighs, then deliberately, slowly, travels to the pale, trembling skin of her inner thigh. "So incredibly, exquisitely responsive."

Instead of diving straight for her pussy, as every instinct screams at you to do, you lean down and press a soft, lingering kiss to the delicate skin high on her inner left thigh, just inches from that wet, waiting heat. She gasps, her whole body jerking, her thighs instinctively trying to clench together, but you gently hold them apart, your hands firm but gentle on her hips.

"Easy now," you whisper against her skin, your breath hot. "Don't want to miss any of this, do we?"

You trail another kiss, then another, working your way in a slow, agonizing circle around that central, beckoning core, never quite touching it, but always promising it. Your tongue darts out, tasting the faint saltiness of her skin, the faintest hint of her arousal that has already slicked even this far out. With each kiss, each lick against her thigh, you feel her tremors intensify. Her fingers are fisted in the bedsheets, her knuckles white.

"What… what are you doing?" she pants. "Please… you’re… you’re driving me crazy."

"Am I, babe?" you purr, your lips brushing the impossibly soft skin just beside one of her swollen, pink outer lips. You can smell her now, that rich, musky, uniquely feminine scent of pure, unadulterated horniness, and it’s making you lightheaded, drunk on her desire. "Driving you crazy how? Tell me." You dip your tongue out again, this time lapping up a stray droplet of her slick wetness that has trickled onto her thigh. Her taste… fuck, it’s even better than you imagined. Sweet, tangy, utterly addictive. You groan softly into her skin. "Oh, you taste so fucking good right here… just a hint of what’s waiting for me."

"Please…" she begs. "Don’t… don’t tease me like this. I can’t… I can’t take it." Her hips are starting to move now, a small, involuntary rocking motion, trying to seek out the pressure of your mouth.

"Can't take what, Jimin?" you ask. You drag your open mouth slowly up her inner thigh, leaving a wet trail, then switch to the other, lavishing it with the same agonizingly slow attention. You can feel the heat pouring off her in waves. "You need to tell me what you want. Use your words, baby. You want me to stop?" You deliberately pull back a fraction of an inch, letting the cool air hit her heated skin, and she whimpers, a raw, frustrated sound.

"No! No, don’t stop, please, whatever you do, don’t stop," she cries. "I want… I want your mouth. There. Please. I need it. I’m so wet for you, can’t you feel it? Can’t you taste it?" Her words are a torrent now, the carefully constructed composure of Karina completely shattered, leaving only the raw, needy core of Jimin. "I’m aching… I’m fucking aching for your tongue, please… just… just eat me out. Suck my clit. Please, I’m begging you."

Her plea is music to your ears. She’s so close, so desperate. But you’re not quite done with her yet. You want her utterly, completely undone.

"Beg me how, sweet girl?" you murmur, your lips now hovering directly over her glistening, swollen clit, your hot breath fanning the sensitive nub. She gasps, her whole body seizing. "Tell me how badly you need it. Tell me what a good girl you’ll be if I finally give you what you’re craving. Convince me." The strategic irony here is that you're already convinced, already harder than you've ever been in your life, but the game, the sight of her unraveling at your command, It's the best feeling in the world.

"I’ll be so good," she sobs, her thighs trembling violently now, threatening to clamp shut around your head. "So fucking good for you. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Just please… please put your mouth on me. I’m dying here. I need to feel your tongue… I need you to make me cum… I’m so close… Please, babe, suck me… suck me like you mean it…"

Her words, that broken, desperate plea to be eaten out, are the only permission you need. You lower your head, your hair brushing against the pale skin of her inner thighs, and finally, finally, you give in. You press your mouth fully against her, parting her slick, swollen lips with your own, and your tongue finds her clit. A sound is torn from her throat, a high, sharp keen that’s half shock and half pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her entire body jolts as if struck by lightning, her hips slamming upwards into your face in a single, convulsive movement. The taste of her floods your senses, and it's everything. It’s not just the sweet, tangy flavor of her arousal you'd already sampled from her thighs; it's deeper, muskier, the very essence of her, and it's intoxicating.

You're instantly, hopelessly addicted. You begin slowly, a reverent worship. Your tongue is soft, exploratory, lapping at her gently, learning the landscape of her. You trace the delicate shape of her outer lips, then dip inside to swirl around the plump, sensitive inner folds before focusing on that hardened pearl of her clit.

"Oh, god..." she breathes, her hands flying up to tangle in your hair, not pulling, just holding on as if she might float away. "Yes... that's..."

You hum against her, a low, deep vibration that you feel travel through her entire body. She lets out another soft cry. Her muscles are still coiled with tension, but it's the tension of overwhelming sensation, not desperation. She is melting, and you are the cause.

"Just relax for me, baby," you murmur against her slick flesh. "Just let me taste you. You're so perfect."

You settle in, continuing the slow, deliberate worship. For long minutes, this is all that exists: the sound of your mouth against her, her soft, breathy moans, and the rich, intoxicating taste of her on your tongue. Her hips are no longer bucking but have settled into a slow, swaying rhythm, rocking against your mouth in time with the gentle lapping of your tongue. She has given you control, and you intend to savor it. You can feel the change when her body becomes fully accustomed to the pleasure, when the slow worship is no longer enough. Her gentle sways become more insistent, her breath hitches with a new need, and her fingers tighten in your hair, this time with a subtle, pleading tug. She wants more. And you are going to make her beg for it.

You shift your technique, beginning the torture. You pull your mouth away from her clit, trailing your tongue down along the slick valley between her labia. She whimpers in protest, her hips pushing up, seeking the focused pressure you just denied her.

"Shhh," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to one of her swollen inner lips. "So much to taste here. Can't rush."

You proceed to lavish attention on every other part of her, everywhere but the one place she is dying for you to be. You lick the plump flesh of her lips, suck gently on the inner folds, your tongue darting out to trace the rim of her opening, dipping just the very tip inside before pulling away. With every near-miss, a frustrated cry is torn from her throat.

"Please..." she pants, her hips rocking more frantically now. "Please... you're... you're driving me crazy. My clit... I need you there."

"Here?" you ask. You flick your tongue directly over the sensitive nub one time, fast and hard. She yelps, her whole body convulsing. Then you pull away again, moving to trace lazy circles on the sensitive skin around her. "You liked that, didn't you? Tell me how much you liked it."

"Yes! Fuck, yes, I loved it," she sobs. "Please, do it again. Don't tease me... I can't take it. Just... just suck it, please."

"Beg me," you command softly, your hot breath ghosting over her clit, making her shiver. "Tell me exactly what you want my mouth to do to you. I want to hear how desperate you are for it."

She’s a mess, completely undone by your teasing. "I'm so desperate for you," she cries, her words tumbling over each other. "I need your tongue on my clit. I need you to suck on it, hard. Lick me until I can't think. Please, I'm begging you. I'll do anything. Just go back there. I feel like I'm going to die if you don't."

Her plea is everything you wanted. You slide your mouth back over her, but instead of the hard pressure she's begging for, you give her the opposite. You open your mouth wide, your tongue flat, and you just... lick. Long, slow, deliberate strokes from the base of her mound, up over her clit, all the way to her perineum, and back down again. It’s a broad, wet, agonizingly gentle sensation.

"No..." she groans, a sound of pure frustration. "Harder... please, you have to do it harder."

"I don't have to do anything, baby," you murmur, continuing the slow, torturous laps. "I'm in control here. You'll take it how I give it to you. And right now, I want to feel you squirm."

She thrashes beneath you, so close to the edge but held back by your deliberate restraint. Her nails are digging into your scalp now, not painfully, but with a frantic urgency. It’s time to escalate. It's time to break her completely. While continuing the slow, steady rhythm of your tongue, you slide one hand down between her thighs. Her skin is flushed and hot to the touch. Your fingers find her entrance, already slick and gaping, practically weeping with need. You slide one finger inside her.

She screams, a raw, ragged sound, as the new sensation of being filled sends a fresh shockwave through her system. She’s so tight, so hot, clenching around your finger instantly. You push your finger deeper, feeling the texture of her inner walls, the way she convulses around you.

"That's it, Jimin," you praise, your voice muffled against her. "Take my finger. Feel how wet you are? Fucking dripping for me."

Now you change the rhythm of your tongue, finally giving her the focused attention she craved. You suck her clit into your mouth, your tongue working fast and hard, while your finger inside her establishes a steady in-and-out rhythm. The dual sensations are too much. She is completely lost.

"Fuck! Yes, both..." she gasps. "It's… it's too much… I'm going to…"

You add a second finger, stretching her, filling her more completely. She cries out again, her back arching so high off the bed it's a perfect, strained bow. Her pussy milks your fingers, slick and greedy. You can feel the muscles deep inside her starting to flutter, the tell-tale sign that her orgasm is gathering strength.

"You feel that, baby?" you ask, curling your fingers inside her, rubbing them against the nub of her g-spot. "My tongue on your clit, my fingers deep in your cunt. Does that feel good?"

"So good!" she screams. "It feels so fucking good! I'm so close, don't stop, please, please don't stop!"

You are her entire world now. She is aware of nothing but your mouth and your fingers, driving her towards the abyss. You increase the pace of everything. Your tongue is a frantic engine on her clit, sucking, flicking, laving. Your fingers pump in and out of her relentlessly. You can feel the final tension coiling in her body, a string stretched to its breaking point. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and her moans have become a single, continuous, high-pitched keen.

"I'm going to make you come so hard, Jimin," you growl into her. "You're going to scream my name. Get ready."

You feel it start, the first deep, internal clench around your fingers. Her entire body goes rigid.

"I'm cumming! Oh fuck, I'm cumming! I'm cummmmming!"

Her scream is primal as her orgasm rips through her, a violent, world-shattering release. Her body convulses, her hips slamming up against your mouth in a desperate, uncontrollable rhythm. Her juices gush out of her, hot and thick, flooding your mouth with the sweet, musky taste of her release. You swallow greedily, catching every single drop as her body is wracked by wave after wave of intense pleasure. You don't stop your ministrations, gentling your touch now, your tongue soothing her hypersensitive clit, your fingers massaging her inner walls as the aftershocks ripple through her.

Slowly, her body goes limp, collapsing back onto the mattress. She’s trembling from head to toe, her chest rising and falling in deep, ragged pants. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners, her face flushed a deep crimson. You finally lift your head, your chin and lips slick with her, and look at the masterpiece of your work.

You lean down, capturing her mouth in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s a stark contrast to the hungry, desperate kisses you shared before. This one is tender. She moans softly into your mouth, and you taste it: the lingering, musky sweetness of her own climax. She tastes it too, a jolt going through her body as she recognizes herself on your tongue. A faint blush rises on her already flushed cheeks, a mix of shy embarrassment and burgeoning arousal.

You pull back just enough to gaze down at her. Her hair is a wild halo around her head, her lips are swollen, her eyes are still dazed and beautifully unfocused. She is the most magnificent thing you have ever seen.

"You look so beautiful like this," you say. "Completely undone for me."

"You're an asshole," she whispers, but there’s no heat in it, only a deep, lingering pleasure. "Don't you ever tease me like that again." As she says it, she shifts, leaning up just enough to press her teeth against the side of your neck in a playful, possessive bite. It’s not hard, just a firm pressure.

You chuckle, then pepper her cheeks with soft kisses. "I'm sorry," you say, not sounding sorry at all. "I couldn't help it." You lean in close, your lips brushing her ear. "Hearing you beg for me, Jimin… hearing you lose control and tell me how much you needed it… it makes me fucking crazy. It’s addictive. I don't think I'll ever get enough of it."

Her breath hitches. Your words, your confession that her submission drives you wild, are exactly what she needs to hear. As you pull back, her eyes, now clear and focused, glitter with a new, dangerous kind of light. Her hand slides from your cheek, down your chest, over your stomach, coming to rest directly on the hard ridge of your cock through the denim of your jeans. Her fingers close around you, a firm, knowing grip that makes you hiss through your teeth. She squeezes, feeling the full, thick length of your cock straining against the fabric.

A slow, devastatingly confident smile spreads across her face. "Addictive, huh?" she purrs, her voice regaining its strength. "I can beg for a lot more than that." Her gaze drops from your eyes to your crotch, then back up, her expression pure, unadulterated hunger. "And right now," she says, her grip tightening, "I really, really want your cock."

Her words are a command and a plea all in one. Without another word, you pull away from her, getting off the bed. Her eyes are wide, tracking your every move as you reach for the button on your jeans. You undo it, the sound loud in the quiet room, then slowly pull down the zipper. You never break eye contact. You hook your thumbs into the waistband and push the jeans down over your hips, kicking them off impatiently.

Now you stand before her in just your dark boxer briefs. The fabric does little to hide the truth, straining to contain the thick, heavy bulge of your erection. You see her eyes fixate on it, her lips parting slightly. A sharp intake of breath is the only sound she makes. She is, as you suspected, absolutely captivated.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. "You wanted this, remember?" you ask. You drag the fabric down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until your cock springs free, heavy and thick in the dim light.

Jimin lets out a long, shuddering sigh. It’s a sound of pure awe. Your cock is fully hard, glistening with a bead of clear, slick precum. It’s big, bigger than she probably imagined, and her eyes trace its length, from the heavy weight of your balls to the thick shaft and the promising, wet tip.

You don't give her too long to just look. You move back to the bed, climbing on and positioning yourself between her parted legs. They tremble slightly as you settle in, her thighs falling open to grant you full access. She's still so beautifully wrecked, so open and waiting for you. You take your cock in your hand, stroking it slowly, the pre-cum making your skin slick. You want her to watch. You want her to see exactly what is about to fill that empty, aching space inside her.

"Wait," you say. The thought hits you, a brief flash of real-world responsibility in this haze of lust. "Condoms. We should..."

"No," she says immediately, her voice firm, cutting you off. She shakes her head, her eyes blazing with a fierce, undeniable need. "No. I don't care about that right now. I need to feel you. All of you. I just want to feel your dick inside me. Now."

You hesitate, searching her face. "Jimin, are you sure?"

"Yes," she moans. Her hips arch off the bed, a desperate, silent invitation. "Please. I'm on birth control. Just… please, I need it. Don't make me wait anymore."

That's all you need. Her certainty, her raw need, erases any doubt. But you’re not going to let her off that easy. The teasing isn't over yet. You lean forward, bracing your hands on either side of her head, and lower your body until the tip of your cock is pressed against her. She gasps as the heat of you makes contact with her slick, swollen folds. She is unbelievably wet, her juices from her earlier orgasm making a perfect lubricant.

"So wet for me," you murmur, grinding the head of your cock against her clit. "You want this cock so badly, don't you?"

"Yes! Please, just put it in," she begs, her hands fisted in the bedsheets.

You ignore her plea, continuing the agonizing tease. You slide the head of your cock up and down her slit, gliding through her slickness, letting her feel your thickness, your hardness, but denying her the entry she craves. With every pass, she whimpers, her body straining, trying to force you inside her.

"Look at you," you whisper. "Trying to impale yourself on my cock. You can't wait, can you?"

"I can't," she sobs. "It feels so good… just the tip… please, I need to feel all of it. I need you to stretch me. Fill me up."

"Then you know what you have to do," you say, pausing your movements, holding the head of your cock right at her entrance, a promise and a threat. "Beg for it. Beg me to fuck your tight, wet pussy. Tell me how much you need this cock inside you."

"Please," she cries. "Please fuck me. I'm begging you. I need your cock. I need it inside my pussy right now. Please, I'll be so good for you, just fuck me!"

Her desperate, broken plea is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. "Good girl," you praise.

And then you give her what she's begged for. You shift your hips, aiming the thick head of your cock at her entrance.

You push.

The feeling is indescribable. You stop, buried deep inside her, and the world just… ceases to exist. There is only this. The sensation is overwhelming, a sensory overload that shorts out every coherent thought in your brain. Her pussy is a revelation. It’s impossibly tight, a velvet clench around your entire length, gripping you with an intimate pressure that’s both demanding and welcoming. It’s slick, her juices coating your cock in a hot, wet sheen that makes every tiny shift an act of pure friction and pleasure. And it’s so, so hot, a deep, internal heat that feels like it’s seeping right into your bones.

Jimin lets out a choked, shuddering gasp, her eyes squeezed shut as her body tries to process the feeling of being so completely and utterly filled like this. Her inner walls pulse and clench around you, an involuntary, welcoming spasm that nearly makes you come right then and there. You have to clench every muscle in your body to hold back.

"Fuck, Jimin..." you groan. "You feel... I don't even have words. You feel so fucking perfect."

"You're so big," she whispers, her voice trembling. Her hands come up to rest on your chest, her fingers pressing into your skin. "You... you fill me up completely. I can feel you all the way inside me."

"I want to feel every inch of you," you say. You begin to move, but not in the hard, fast way you're both craving. Not yet. You pull back, agonizingly slowly, until just the thick head of your cock is inside her. She whimpers, a raw sound of protest at the loss, her hips lifting instinctively to follow you. Then, just as slowly, you push back in, letting her feel the full length of you sliding home once more.

"Oh, god," she moans, her head tossing on the pillows. "That... that feels..."

"I know," you say, continuing the slow, torturous rhythm. In and out. A deep, deliberate friction that is designed to let both of you savor every millimeter of contact. "I want you to feel all of it. Every time I slide into your tight, wet pussy. I want you to remember this feeling forever."

You do this for what feels like an eternity, just fucking her slowly, deeply, letting the tension build to a fever pitch. Her initial awe begins to melt away, replaced by a raw, hungry lust. Her hips are no longer just receiving you; she’s starting to push back, meeting your slow thrusts with an eagerness that makes your blood run hot. She’s ready.

"Okay, baby," you rasp, grabbing her hips firmly, your thumbs digging into the soft flesh above her hipbones. "You wanted this. Now you're going to get it."

You change the rhythm. Your thrusts become hard, deep, and punishing. You slam into her, your cock slapping against her wet folds, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing in the quiet room. You fuck her with a desperate, pent-up energy, each thrust driving you deeper, stretching her, filling her completely.

And she loves it. She cries out with every powerful slam of your hips, her legs wrapping around your waist to pull you even deeper. Her head is thrown back, her neck arched, a long, continuous moan spilling from her parted lips. This is what you’ve both been waiting for.

You watch her as you fuck her, your gaze devouring the sight of her. And her breasts… fuck, her breasts are perfect. With every hard thrust, they bounce, a heavy, hypnotic jiggle that mesmerizes you. They are large and full, their weight made obvious by the way they sway and tremble with the force of your fucking. Her nipples, still hard and puckered from your earlier attention, are a deep, flushed pink, pointing right at you as if in offering.

"Look at them," you pant, your voice strained with effort and lust. "Look at your perfect tits bouncing for me. Every time I fuck you."

She glances down, a dazed, lust-filled smile spreading across her face as she watches the motion. "Fuck..." she breathes. "They're… they're so heavy…"

"I love how they move," you say, never breaking your rhythm. "I want to see them bounce harder."

You increase your pace, pounding into her with a relentless, frantic energy. You’re lost in it now, lost in the feeling of her tight, wet heat, the sight of her beautiful body taking you, the sound of her cries filling the air.

"More!" she screams. "Please, don't stop! Fuck me harder! I need it harder!"

"Like this, baby?" you growl, slamming into her with as much force as you can muster. "You want your pussy fucked like this?"

"Yes! Oh god, yes!" she cries, her nails digging into your back, leaving fiery trails on your skin. "Your cock… it feels so fucking good inside me! It's hitting everything! Please… don't ever stop!"

You are both drenched in sweat, your bodies slick, moving together as one. You lean down, fucking her senseless, and she is taking every inch, begging for more. You press her deeper into the soft mattress, your combined weight creating a perfect hollow of heat and friction. You are buried inside her, a seamless join of wet, hot flesh, and yet you crave more. You need to consume her, to taste her, to feel her surrender in every way possible. You capture her lips, crashing your mouth against hers again. It’s not a tender kiss; it’s a rough, hungry claiming. It’s the kiss of two people who have starved for years and just found a feast.

She kisses you back with an equal, startling fervor. This isn’t a passive acceptance; it’s a demand. Her tongue pushes against yours, her hands leaving your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your mouth harder against hers. You are both lost in it, fucking and kissing, a closed circuit of overwhelming sensation. The deep, rhythmic plunge of your cock into her pussy is punctuated by the wet slap of your mouths, the soft, desperate moans she makes when you deepen the kiss, the guttural groans you can’t hold back when she sucks your tongue into her mouth. It’s filthy, it’s perfect, and it’s driving you both insane.

But it’s still not enough. You break the kiss, leaving her panting and breathless, her lips swollen and glistening. You look down at her, at the magnificent sight of her breasts, flushed and trembling with each powerful thrust of your hips. You need to taste them again. While maintaining the relentless, pounding rhythm of your fucking, you lower your head. Her skin is slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and it tastes salty and sweet as you lick a path from her collarbone down to the valley between her breasts.

"God, you're so beautiful," you rasp, your lips moving against her skin. "So fucking perfect."

You reach the peak of her right breast and take the nipple into your mouth. She screams, a high, sharp sound of pure ecstasy. The dual stimulation; the deep, stretching fullness of your cock filling her pussy while your mouth works its magic on her sensitive nipple: is too much for her nervous system to handle. Her back arches violently off the bed, trying to push herself deeper onto your cock and, somehow, press her breast harder into your mouth at the same time. You suck strongly, laving the hardened peak with your tongue, nipping gently with your teeth. Her moans change, deepening from pleasured cries into long, keening wails.

"Fuck! Oh, fuck, yes!" she gashes. "That… your mouth… while you're… inside me… it's too much! I can't…"

You switch to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, refusing to let either feel neglected. You feel the frantic thrumming of her heart against your chest, the way her entire body is trembling on the verge of completely unraveling. You continue to fuck her hard and fast, your hips a relentless engine of pleasure, your mouth a vortex of sensation on her breast. She is being attacked from all sides, besieged by a pleasure so intense it’s a breath away from pain.

"Please," she sobs. "Please, I need to… I need to cum. You have to let me."

You lift your head from her breast, your lips slick, and look her in the eyes. Her gaze is wild, unfocused, pupils blown wide. "You want to cum for me, baby?" you ask, not slowing your pace for a second. You drive into her, hard, and she cries out. "You want to feel my cock deep inside your pussy when you come?"

"Yes! Yes, please, I'm begging you!" she cries, her hips bucking wildly, trying to match your frantic rhythm. "I can't hold on anymore. It's so good… it's too good. Please, make me cum. Fuck me until I cum."

This is it. This is the surrender you crave, the sound you are addicted to. Her begging is the sweetest music you’ve ever heard. You lean in close, your mouth right next to her ear, your hot breath ghosting over her skin. You can feel the fine hairs on her neck stand on end.

"You're so close, aren't you?" you whisper. You feel her shiver violently. "I can feel your pussy clenching around my cock. It's getting tighter. You're about to fall apart for me."

"I am," she whimpers, turning her head, trying to capture your mouth with hers, but you deny her, wanting her to focus on your words, on your cock filling her. "Please… let me. Let me go."

"Then go," you command, grabbing her hips, lifting them slightly to change the angle, driving your cock into a spot deep inside her that makes her see stars. She lets out a sound you’ve never heard before, a raw, animalistic cry of pure sensation. "Let go for me, Jimin. Come for me. I want to feel you come all over my cock. I want to feel your pussy milk me while you scream my name. Cum for me now!"

The command, the raw filth of your words, combined with the relentless, punishing fucking, is what finally does it. You feel the first tremor deep inside her, the unmistakable sign that she's tipping over the edge.

"I'm gonna cum!” she screams, the sound exploding right next to your ear, a hot, vibrating wave of pure ecstasy. "OH FUCK, I’M CUMMING!!”

Her orgasm is a violent, beautiful storm. Her body convulses around you, her inner walls clenching and pulsing on your cock in a frantic, unstoppable rhythm. She throws her head back and screams, a long, ragged sound of pure, untethered release. Her hips slam against you, no longer in rhythm, just wild, spasmodic movements as the pleasure rips through her. You don't stop fucking her; you match her intensity, pounding into her as she comes, driving her deeper into her climax. You feel her hot juices flood her cunt, coating your cock in her release.

After what feels like an eternity, the violent convulsions begin to subside, replaced by deep, shuddering tremors. She collapses back onto the mattress, completely spent, a string of breathless, broken sobs escaping her lips. You slow your thrusts, moving in and out of her gently now, letting her ride the last waves of her pleasure. You pull out slowly, your cock slick and dripping with her essence, and collapse beside her, pulling her sweat-drenched body against yours. You are both trembling, both breathless, both utterly, completely undone.

You hold her, your bodies slick with sweat, tangled together in the rumpled sheets. You can feel the frantic, rabbit-fast beat of her heart starting to slow against your chest, her ragged pants gradually deepening into something more controlled. For a long moment, you just lie there, listening to the sound of your own breathing mingling with hers, feeling the aftershocks of her powerful orgasm tremble through her body. You press a soft kiss to her damp forehead, your thumb gently stroking her back.

After a few minutes, she stirs, letting out a long, contented sigh. She lifts her head from your chest, her hair a wild, beautiful mess, her face flushed and glowing.

"Hey," you whisper. "How are you feeling?"

She looks at you, her eyes still a little dazed, but shining with a bright, clear light. A slow, languid smile spreads across her face. "Great," she pants, the word a soft puff of air. She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at you. "No, that's… that's not the right word." She shakes her head, as if searching for a better one. "I've never… ever felt that good in my entire life. I feel… obliterated. In the best possible way." She reaches out, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "You made me cum so hard. I think my soul left my body for a minute."

"Good. That's what I was going for." You love seeing her like this, so completely sated, so open and unguarded. "So, I guess that answers my next question," you tease, your hand sliding down her back to cup her ass, squeezing gently. "Or do you think you can take any more?"

You expect her to laugh, to say she needs a break, to maybe curl up and fall asleep. But the look in her eye changes.

"More?" she says. She lets out a soft, throaty laugh. "Of course I can."

Before you can react, she moves with a sudden, surprising strength. She grabs your shoulders, pushing you firmly onto your back. You go willingly, sinking into the mattress, intrigued by this sudden shift in energy. She straddles your chest, her knees on either side of your head, and leans down, her face just inches from yours.

"But," she whispers, her hair falling around you like a dark curtain, "it's my turn now."

She pulls you up by your hands, maneuvering you until you're sitting up, then pushes you back down again until you're lying flat on your back in the center of the bed. She crawls over you, her movements fluid and deliberate. She settles over your hips, straddling you, her knees planted firmly on the mattress on either side of your body. The view is breathtaking. You look up at her, at the perfect, heavy swell of her breasts, the soft curve of her stomach, her pink, swollen pussy still slick with her juices.

She reaches down, her fingers wrapping around your still-hard cock. You hiss as her cool fingers touch your hot, sensitive skin. She strokes you slowly, once, twice, watching your reaction, her eyes glittering with newfound power.

"You liked making me beg, didn't you?" she asks. "You liked hearing how much I needed you." She leans down, her lips brushing against yours. "Well, now it's your turn to feel what it's like. To just lie there and take it."

She positions herself, guiding the thick, slick head of your cock to her entrance. You can see the muscles in her thighs tense as she prepares to take you. She lowers herself with agonizing slowness, her eyes locked on yours. You watch her face as she takes you in, her expression a mixture of intense concentration and dawning pleasure. Her lips part, a soft hiss escaping as the head of your cock slides past her wet folds. She sinks down, inch by excruciating inch, her tight, hot pussy swallowing you whole.

The feeling of her taking you, of her being in complete control, is a whole new kind of ecstasy. When she has taken your entire length, she sits still for a moment, letting you both get used to the feeling of being joined again in this new configuration.

Then, she begins to move. It’s not the hard, frantic fucking from before. This is different. This is pure, sensual control. She starts with a slow, deep grind, her hips rolling in a lazy, circular motion. You groan, your hands coming up to grip her hips, but she just smiles, placing her hands on top of yours, stilling them. "No," she whispers. "My turn, remember? Just lie back and enjoy the ride."

She moves with an innate, hypnotic rhythm, her hips swaying, rotating, grinding your cock against all of her most sensitive inner walls. You can do nothing but lie there, completely at her mercy, as she plays your body like an instrument. She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, her breasts dangling just inches from your face. She picks up the pace slightly, her slow grinds transitioning into a steady, sensual bounce. She rises up on your shaft, then sinks back down, her movements fluid and graceful. With every downward slide, she lets out a soft, contented sigh, her head falling back, her eyes closing in bliss. This is Jimin in her element, a performer, a dancer, and right now, you are her stage, and she is giving the performance of a lifetime, her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles, grinding your cock against her deepest, most sensitive walls.

Each rotation sends a wave of exquisite friction through you, a pleasure so profound it’s almost agonizing. You can do nothing but lie there, a willing captive to her rhythm, your hands gripping the sheets at your sides to keep from grabbing her, from disrupting the perfect, hypnotic control she has established. Her head is thrown back, her eyes closed, a single, continuous, breathy moan spilling from her lips. She is completely lost in the sensation of filling herself with you, of being in total command.

It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing you have ever witnessed. The soft light from the window traces the elegant curve of her spine, the subtle flex of the muscles in her back and stomach as she moves. Her breasts, full and heavy, sway with each languid motion, their own mesmerizing dance. You watch, transfixed, as she smiles, a slow, secret smile of pure, selfish pleasure.

You can’t resist any longer. Your hands leave the sheets and come up to her, not to her hips to control her, but to her breasts. You cup their weight, your thumbs finding her still-puckered nipples. Her flesh is soft and warm, yielding to your touch. You squeeze gently, and her eyes fly open, locking with yours. Her moan deepens, becoming a throaty, guttural sound, and her hips grind down on you harder, a clear, unmistakable response. She likes it. She likes you touching her, worshiping her, even as she controls the fucking.

You continue to knead her breasts gently as she rides you, your thumbs flicking over her nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through her that you can feel in the way her pussy clenches around your cock. The combination of watching her, touching her, and feeling her move on you is an intoxicating cocktail of sensations.

She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, bringing her face close to yours. Her eyes are dark, swirling with a mixture of lust, power, and something else, something playful.

"Have you ever," she whispers as she continues her slow, steady bounce on your cock, "imagined this? Fucking a K-Pop idol? Having Karina from Aespa ride your dick like this?"

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound half disbelief, half pure awe. "Never," you say. "Not in my wildest, most fucked-up dreams, Jimin. I never thought I'd even speak to you again, let alone… this." You gesture vaguely to the impossible reality of your bodies being joined. "This is… beyond anything I could have ever imagined." You reach up, your hand leaving her breast to cup her cheek. "You are so unbelievably beautiful right now. On top of me. Taking my cock. I can't… I can't even process how beautiful you are."

She leans into your touch, her hips never ceasing their hypnotic, sensual movement.

"I think…" she says, so soft you have to strain to hear it over the wet sounds of your fucking. "I think this is where I belong." She searches your eyes, a desperate need for validation in her gaze. "On your cock. Like this. It feels… right."

"You do," you say. "You're right. This is exactly where you belong, Jimin. You're mine."

Your words are the final permission she needs. It’s as if you’ve unlocked the last cage, unleashing the wild, untamed creature she keeps hidden from the world. The shift is instantaneous. The slow, sensual grind vanishes. She picks up the pace, her hips slamming down on your cock with a force that drives you deep into the mattress. She starts riding you with a frantic, desperate energy, no longer teasing or exploring, but fucking. She is fucking you with everything she has.

Her hair whips around her face, her body is drenched in sweat, and a stream of filthy, broken moans pours from her lips. She moves with a startling, intuitive skill, her hips tilting, rotating, grinding in a way that she knows, that her body inherently understands, will maximize your pleasure. She’s hitting hard with every downward slam, dragging the head of your cock along all the right walls. Her breasts are no longer swaying gently; they are bouncing wildly, a beautiful, chaotic jiggle that mirrors the abandoned rhythm of her hips. You are completely at her mercy, pinned beneath her, as she rides you with a single-minded goal: to drive you absolutely insane.

"Fuck, you're so hot," she pants. "Your body… I can't believe this is real. I can't believe I'm actually doing this, that I'm riding you." She shakes her head, a look of genuine, wondrous disbelief on her face. "I feel like I'm going to wake up."

You want to anchor her to this reality, to prove to her that this is not a dream. You lift your hands from her tits and reach for hers, the one still braced on your chest and the other tangled in the sheets beside you. You capture them, your fingers intertwining with hers, your grip firm and steady. She gasps, her eyes locking with yours. You squeeze her hands, a silent message passing between you. I'm real. This is real. We are real.

The gesture works. A new wave of confidence washes over her, the last vestiges of her disbelief burned away by the simple, grounding touch of your hands locked with hers. A fierce, determined look enters her eyes. She picks up the pace again, her bounces becoming higher, harder, each downward slam of her hips punctuated by a shared grunt of effort and pleasure. You can feel the tension coiling in your own body, the familiar pressure building deep in your balls. You’re getting close, and she can feel it too. The way your hips have started to buck up to meet her thrusts, the way your breath is catching in your throat—she knows.

She leans down, her face close to yours, her expression a perfect mixture of seductive confidence and genuine curiosity. "You're close, aren't you?" she asks. "I can feel you twitching inside me. You're going to come for me soon." She grinds her hips down, a slow, deliberate circle that makes you groan her name. "Tell me where you want it. Where do you want to cum?"

The question is so direct, so filthy, so utterly her in this new, empowered state, that a raw laugh escapes you. "Guess," you manage to rasp.

A wicked, knowing giggle bubbles from her lips. She doesn't even have to think about it. "On my breasts," she says immediately, full of certainty. "You want to cover my tits with your cum, don't you?"

"Is it that obvious?" you ask, your hips thrusting up involuntarily.

"A little," she teases, a wide, beautiful smile lighting up her face. "You're such a pervert."

"Can you blame me?" you groan, your gaze dropping to her magnificent, bouncing breasts. "They're perfect. I've been thinking about doing this since the moment you took off your sweater."

"I know," she says, and the way she says it, so full of pride and satisfaction, makes your cock throb inside her. "They're all yours." She leans in again. "But you have to make a good mess. I want you to cover them completely. Get them all sticky and hot with your cum. Promise me."

"Fuck, Jimin," you gasp, your body trembling. "Don't say things like that unless you mean it."

"Oh, I mean it," she says, her hips beginning to move in a final, frantic assault. She’s bouncing on your cock with a wild, desperate energy, trying to wring every last drop of pleasure from you. "I want it all. I want you to empty your balls for me. Cum for me, baby. Come on my tits now!"

"I'm going to!" you shout, the words ripped from you. "Karina, I'm going to cum!"

Without a word, she breaks the connection, sliding her body off your cock with a wet, sucking sound that echoes the hollowness you now feel. Before you can even question it, she moves with a dancer's deliberate grace, crawling to the edge of the bed and sinking to her knees on the soft rug below. She looks up at you from the floor.

You follow her lead, your mind reeling, your body acting on pure instinct. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand before her. The world has tilted on its axis. The sight of Jimin, your childhood best friend, Karina, a global icon, the woman whose face adorns billboards and magazines, kneeling at your feet is so surreal, so intensely erotic, it feels like a fever dream. Her hair is a tangled mess around her shoulders, her face is flushed with exertion, her lips are swollen and parted, and her eyes… her eyes are fixed on your cock with a look of devotional worship.

She is waiting.

You take your cock in your hand, the skin slick with her juices and your own precum. The head is swollen, twitching with need. You start stroking yourself, a slow, steady rhythm, your gaze locked with hers. You want her to watch. You want to see her expression as you bring yourself to the edge for her.

Your hand moves on your cock, a slick, frantic motion, but it's almost unnecessary. Her gaze, her posture, her very existence in this moment is all the stimulation you need. She squeezes her breasts together, pushing them up, the pale, heavy flesh forming a perfect canvas, a perfect target. The nipples are hard, dark points in the soft mounds, practically begging to be decorated.

"Please," she whimpers. "Look at them. They're waiting for you. I want to feel your hot cum all over them. I need it. Please, baby, give it to me. Drench me." She shifts on her knees, her eyes wide and pleading. "I want to be your good, filthy whore. I want you to paint my tits."

Her words are a lit match to a barrel of gasoline. A deep, primal roar tears itself from your throat, a sound of pure, untethered release. Your hips snap forward, your eyes roll back into your head, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot flash of sensation.

"Fuck! Jimin!" you scream as the first torrent of your orgasm erupts from the tip of your cock.

It's a powerful, shockingly thick shot that arcs through the air with surprising force, splattering directly in the center of her chest, in the deep valley created by her hands squeezing her breasts together. A thick, pearlescent glob lands with an audible smack against her hot skin.

She gasps, a sharp, shuddering intake of breath, her whole body jolting as if you’d touched her with a live wire. "Yes!" she cries out, her eyes fluttering shut. "Oh god, it's so hot... so warm..."

But you're just getting started. Your body is a machine now, completely outside of your conscious control. You grip your cock, your knuckles white, and with another guttural groan, a second, then a third powerful spurt are unleashed. These ones are ropes, thick and heavy, that land higher, one splattering across her right breast, covering the dark, puckered areola completely, the other hitting her delicate collarbone and starting to drip slowly down her neck.

"More!" she pants, her eyes still closed, lost in the sensation of being covered by you. "Give me all of it! Don't hold back!"

You obey her command, your hips continuing their involuntary bucking motion. Spurt after spurt flies from you, a relentless, massive load that you didn't even know you were holding. You paint her with your release, a chaotic, beautiful masterpiece of pure lust. A thick shot coats her left breast, another lands on her shoulder. You see a long, thick strand connect from your cock to her chin for a split second before it falls, adding to the growing mess on her chest. She is taking it all, not flinching, not shying away, only sighing and shivering as each hot, wet impact makes contact with her skin.

Even as the initial, powerful torrents begin to subside, you don't stop. You wrap your hand firmly around the base of your shaft and start to stroke, determined to give her everything. "Every last drop is for you, Jimin," you manage to gasp out. You milk your cock, forcing out the last, thickest globs of your semen, adding them to the already considerable mess. Your cum is everywhere. It’s pooled in the hollow of her throat, it’s dripping in thick, slow trails between and under her breasts, it has completely coated her chest and neck in a sticky, glistening layer.

Finally, your orgasm spends itself completely. You sway on your feet, your knees weak, your body utterly drained. You stare down at the scene, your breathing coming in ragged, harsh pants.

Karina stays kneeling for a long moment, her chest rising and falling heavily beneath the cooling, sticky evidence of your pleasure. Then, slowly, she opens her eyes. She looks down at herself, a look of pure, unadulterated awe on her face.

"Wow," she whispers. She looks up at you, her eyes shining. "Look what you did to me. You came so much."

Then, she does something that makes your already overloaded brain short-circuit again. She dips the index finger of her right hand into the thickest pool of your cum between her breasts. She lifts it, watching the thick, white strand stretch and then snap. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across her face. She uses her finger to swirl the cum around, drawing lazy circles and patterns on her own skin.

"It's so sticky," she says with a giggle, completely devoid of shame, full of nothing but a raw, playful joy. She dips the fingers of her other hand in, spreading the mess further, connecting the splatters, ensuring every inch of her chest and the full, heavy curves of her breasts are coated in a uniform, glistening layer of you. "Am I pretty like this?" she asks, looking up at you through her lashes, her face a picture of filthy innocence. "All covered in your hot cum?"

You can only nod, completely speechless.

She sees your state and her smile widens. She leans forward, takes the now-sensitive, post-orgasm head of your cock into her mouth, and gently, reverently, sucks you clean. Her tongue is soft and methodical, a soothing, incredible sensation that makes your knees threaten to buckle.

When she's done, she pulls back and looks up at you again, her own masterpiece complete. "All clean," she says softly. She gestures down at her chest. "All of it is on me now. Just like I wanted."

You finally find your voice. "You're… perfect," you say. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

You sink to your knees in front of her, your strength completely gone. You cup her face, your thumbs wiping away a stray drip of your own cum from her chin. You look at her, this incredible woman, your childhood friend, your idol, your lover, covered in your filth at her own request. And then you kiss her, a deep, soul-searing kiss that tastes of salt, and sweat, and sex.

—

You crack an eye open, the morning light filtering through a gap in Jimin’s bedroom curtains, painting stripes across the far wall. The space beside you in the massive bed is empty, though the sheets are still rumpled, still faintly radiating her warmth and her unique, intoxicating scent. You’re sprawled on your stomach, clad only in your boxer briefs. You push yourself up, wincing slightly as your muscles protest, and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

The apartment is quiet, save for the distant, comforting clatter of something in the kitchen. Coffee. The thought alone is enough to make you move. You pad out of the bedroom, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor, still feeling the pleasant, lingering ache in your groin, a happy souvenir from the night’s activities.

And there she is.

Jimin is standing at the kitchen counter, her back to you, humming softly to herself as she expertly works her fancy espresso machine. And she’s wearing your shirt. Your button-down from last night, the one you’d discarded so carelessly on her bedroom floor. It’s ridiculously oversized on her frame, the sleeves rolled up multiple times, the hem falling to her mid-thighs, offering tantalizing glimpses of her long, pale legs. Her hair is piled on top of her head in another one of those effortlessly perfect messy buns, a few errant strands escaping to kiss the nape of her neck.

It’s such an incredibly domestic scene, but the irony isn't lost on you: one minute she’s a K-pop idol, the next she’s your childhood crush confessing feelings, then she’s a screaming, cum-covered goddess, and now… now she’s just Jimin, making coffee in your shirt in her sun-drenched kitchen. Your head is still trying to catch up with the whiplash.

You lean against the doorframe just watching her for a moment. She moves with an easy grace, even when she’s just reaching for a mug, a quiet confidence in her posture that wasn’t there when you first reconnected. She turns then, two steaming mugs in her hands, and her own smile, soft and a little shy, blooms when she sees you.

"Oh, good morning," a slight blush creeps up her cheeks, but her eyes are warm. "I wasn’t sure when you’d surface. Or if you’d even remember where you were."

"Morning," you reply, your own speech still a little rough from sleep. You push off the doorframe and walk towards her, your gaze lingering on the way your shirt drapes over her. "And trust me, last night is pretty… unforgettable. Slept like a fucking log, though. Best sleep I’ve had in ages."

"Me too," she admits, her blush deepening slightly as she hands you one of the mugs. The rich, dark aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills your senses, a welcome antidote to the lingering haze of your hangover. "Black, two sugars, right? Or has your sophisticated palate evolved since our high school instant coffee days?"

You chuckle, taking a grateful sip. Perfect. "Still remember, huh? Impressive. And no, some things are sacred. This is… this is exactly what I needed." You take another long, appreciative gulp. "So, are you feeling the after-effects of that wine as much as I am?" you ask, gesturing vaguely to your head. "My skull feels like it's been crushed by a baseball bat."

She laughs, a light, airy sound. "Tell me about it. Definitely a two-aspirin, one-gallon-of-water kind of morning for me too." She sips her own coffee, her eyes meeting yours over the rim of the mug, a comfortable, knowing silence settling between you for a moment. "So," she begins, her gaze dropping to her mug for a second before returning to yours, a hint of that earlier vulnerability creeping back in. "Last night… that was… " She trails off, searching for the words.

"Amazing," you supply, your own words soft but firm, leaving no room for doubt. "It was fucking amazing, Jimin. All of it."

A relieved, almost dazzling smile breaks across her face. "Yeah," she breathes, her shoulders relaxing visibly. "Yeah, it really, really was." She takes another sip of coffee, then, almost as if she can’t help herself, she adds, "You… you really know how to make a girl feel good. Like, really good."

"Just returning the favor," you say, a teasing glint in your eyes. "You weren't exactly holding back yourself." The memory of her, riding you with such wild abandon, her cries echoing in the room, makes a heat rise through your body, making your cock give a responsive throb in your boxers. You discreetly shift your weight. This domestic morning-after scene is lovely, but your body clearly hasn't forgotten the main event.

A comfortable lull settles as you both sip your coffee, the shared memories of the night before a warm, unspoken presence. But then, you see a flicker of something in Jimin’s eyes, a subtle shift in her expression. She sets her mug down on the counter, her fingers tracing the rim. The tension, which had dissipated, slowly begins to creep back into the room. Here it comes. The inevitable "what now?"

"So…" she begins, her gaze fixed on her coffee cup, her words careful, almost tentative. "What… what happens now? With us?" She finally looks up at you, her eyes wide and searching. "Was last night just… you know… a one-time thing? Because of the wine, and the confessions, and… everything?"

You set your own mug down, your heart giving a familiar, uncomfortable thump.

This is it. The moment of truth.

"A one-time thing?" you repeat. You let out a short, humorless chuckle, running a hand through your already messy hair. "Jimin, after last night… after you… do you honestly think I could just… walk away from that? Pretend it didn't happen?" You meet her gaze, your own expression deadly serious now. "I really, really like you. More than like you, if I’m being completely honest. And… and I don’t think I can be the same around you anymore. Not after yesterday." You take a deep breath. "I think… fuck, I know… I need you. Like it’s oxygen. And that terrifies the absolute shit out of me, but it’s the goddamn truth."

The silence that follows is deafening. For a heart-stopping moment, you think you’ve said too much, gone too far, laid yourself too bare.

Then, slowly, miraculously, a smile begins to spread across her face. It’s not just any smile. It’s a Jimin-smile, a radiant, all-encompassing beam of pure, unadulterated happiness that lights up her entire being, that chases away every last shadow of doubt and fear in the room. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Without a word, she pushes herself off the counter, closes the small distance between you in two quick steps, and then her arms are around your neck, her body pressing against yours, and she’s kissing you. It’s a kiss that tastes of coffee, and relief. It’s a kiss that seals the deal, a kiss that says everything you both needed to hear. And as you kiss her back, your own arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer, feeling the soft warmth of her body clad only in your shirt against your bare chest, You suddenly remember that Jimin, your Jimin, is no longer just yours, is no longer just Jimin, your dork childhood friend.

You pull back slightly, your gaze searching hers. "Jimin," you begin, "this is… this is incredible. You’re incredible. Last night was… beyond anything." Her smile softens, her eyes shining with affection, but you press on. "But… what the hell do we do now? I meant what I said, about needing you, about all of it. But us… like this…" You gesture vaguely between the two of you, encompassing the intimacy, the secret now hanging palpably in the air of her sunlit kitchen. "You know what your life is like. The spotlight, the fans, the company… SM isn’t exactly known for its progressive stance on its idols having, well, this." Your irony here is bitter, a defense mechanism against the very real fear clenching your heart. "This could be… dangerous for you. For your career. I don’t want to be the one who…"

Jimin’s fingers gently press against your lips, silencing you. Her expression is soft, understanding, but there’s a new firmness there too, a resolute calm that wasn’t present during her earlier, more vulnerable moments.

"Shhh," she murmurs, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "Don't. Don't do that. Don't spiral." She leans in, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to your mouth, then another to your cheek, then your forehead. Her touch is like a balm, soothing the sharp edges of your anxiety. "I know all of that. Believe me, I live it every single day. But right now," she continues, her eyes holding yours, clear and unwavering, "right now, I don’t want to think about any of it. Not SM, not the fans, not the potential fallout. Not yet."

She pulls back just enough to look you squarely in the eyes, her hands now resting on your shoulders. "What happened last night, what’s happening right now," she says, "this is real. And it’s ours." Her lips curve into a small, almost conspiratorial smile. "No one needs to know about this. Not now, anyway. It’ll be our secret, okay? Just for us."

Her words, her confidence, the delicious, illicit thrill of a shared secret with her: it’s an intoxicating, dangerous combination.

"Our secret, huh?" you echo, an eyebrow quirking upwards. "You know, that’s… that’s actually kind of fucking sexy, Jimin. The danger of it all… it’s a little exciting, isn't it?" You can't help the way your own words deepen, the way your gaze drops to her lips.

She lets out a delighted, throaty chuckle. "See? I knew you’d get it." She leans in again, her lips brushing yours, a silent promise of more to come. "Danger is always more exciting." Her breath is warm against your skin, her proximity reigniting the embers of last night’s events.

Between feather-light kisses that dance along your jawline, your neck, she murmurs, "But, speaking of not wanting things to get… complicated… or, you know, result in tiny, K-pop-superstar-related accidents…" She pulls back slightly, her expression turning a little more practical, though the sultry glint in her eyes remains. "I think it might be a very, very good idea for you to acquire some condoms. Like, a lot of them. A truly impressive, perhaps even alarming, quantity." A playful smirk dances on her lips. "We can’t exactly keep pushing our luck like last night, as… memorable as it was."

"Duly noted. I’ll arrange for a strategic acquisition of latex-based defenses. Consider me on a mission."

"Good," she purrs, pressing a final, lingering kiss to your mouth. Then, her hand, which had been resting on your shoulder, slides down your chest, a slow, deliberate trail of fire, down, down, until it reaches the front of your boxer briefs. Her fingers close around your already-hardening cock, her touch light but possessive, sending a jolt straight through you. You gasp, your hips giving an involuntary twitch.

She looks up at you through her lashes, her smile turning wicked, utterly predatory. "Because," she whispers, her breath hot against your lips, her fingers giving you a slow, deliberate squeeze that makes your knees weak, "while we wait for those… reinforcements… there is something I can do for you right now. Something that definitely doesn't require a condom."

And with a final, devastatingly innocent flutter of her eyelashes, she slides from your embrace, her hand never leaving your groin, and slowly, gracefully, sinks to her knees on the kitchen floor in front of you. The morning, it seems, is far from over.

In fact, this is just the beginning.

[electricgg]

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 9: As Long As I’m Held, I Don’t Care If It’s By Teeth

Masterlist

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 (Here!) / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 /

‘A family is forever.’

It sounded like static. At least the first few times, until her ears finally tuned in to the words as if she clicked into the right channel.

‘A family is forever.’

She was sitting on a small bed, made for a child, with colorful lines on the bedsheets. Toy cars and dolls were scattered on the floor. Posters of movies, old series, and robots hang on the walls. A pair of white sneakers with green stripes were just by her bare feet.

When she lifted her head, a twin bed stood parallel to hers on the other side of the room.

It was empty. The bedsheets were unmade.

‘A family is forever.’

The door of the bedroom creaked open. She got up and walked through the frame, encountering a never-ending hall of different types of doors. Their shapes, colors, and sizes, changed in the blink of an eye.

They were glitching.

‘A family is forever.’

It was a woman’s voice, the one repeating those words over and over again and echoing down the long hall and reaching her still body. Sinking right through her skin and enveloping her senses. 

It felt like she was in some kind of trance.

Her steps felt light, like walking in a cloud. She walked down the hall, hands hovering right in front of her as she scanned the changing doors. Trying to figure out which one was the right one.

The right one for what? She wasn’t sure, but it had to be the right one.

Another creak was heard farther down, making her snap her head towards the noise. There, in a dark corner, a red glitching figure dived inside a half-opened wooden door on the right side of the hall.

She didn’t hesitate and started to run. 

“Hey, wait!” she yelled, running harder when she took notice of the hallway narrowing down and the doors glitching and slamming open and closed.

The groaning and splintering of wood made her look over her shoulder. The sight of the hall falling apart in a dark hole made her sprint harder, and she decided not to look back again, as cold sweat dripped down her temple.

As she passed by the doors, bits of conversations filtered through her head.

‘My wife and her flying saucers’  ‘My husband and his indestructible head’

Dad? Mom?

‘I'm so sorry. Excuse me. I am Glamour, and this is my delightful assistant, Illusion.’ ‘I am Glamour, and he's Illusion!’  ‘Yeah, what she said. Today, we will lie to you, and yet you will believe our little deceptions because human beings are easily fooled due to their limited understanding of the inner workings of the universe!’

Where are you? What is this?

‘I can't tell from this angle.’  ‘I can’t wait to be a proud papa-ya!’

Dad. I’m right here?

‘That puts you at about... six months! Boy, oh, boy, I thought I had superspeed. I can't keep up! Please don't misinterpret; I can't wait to meet you, little Billy.’  ‘Billy?’  ‘Yeah!’  ‘Well, I was thinking Tommy. Just a nice, classic, all-American name.’  ‘Hmm, Tommy? Hmm, yeah. Yeah. Then there's Billy, isn't there? Named after William Shakespeare, “All the world’s a stage. All the men and women are merely players.”’  ‘Well, I guess there's only one solution to this debate. Hope for a girl.’

MOM, I AM RIGHT HERE. MOM. DAD. MOM-

‘Can you believe it? Twins!’ 

‘I’m a twin. I had a brother. His name was Pietro-’

A deafening screeching sound made her scream out, covering her ears and scrunching her eyes shut. But she didn’t stop running. She could feel the floor splintering under her feet, scraping the skin and making it bleed.

But she didn’t stop running.

If she had opened her eyes, she would have seen how everything around her had blurred out, or how her legs were leaving an imprint on the floor by how fast she was running.

‘You know, I don't miss the crying, but jeez Louise, did you have to learn to walk? You two never stay put.’

There! The door!

She reached out for it as it began to close, slamming it closed behind her and sinking to the floor with a crushing sob. Her back against it, hanging onto dear life by the frame of it as it rattled and tried to get busted open by the unseen force.

Then, silence.

She didn’t even notice she had her eyes screwed shut, tears slippnig down her cheeks as sobs ripped out of her throat.

What was happening? What is this? So lost, so confused. She wanted this to stop. The pain, the noise, everything. She just wanted to go ho-

“Sweetie, did you fall?” a motherly, warm tone snapped her out of her internal turmoil.

She wasn’t in the manor. Gone where the dark walls and expensive painted portraits. The smell of old dust and piney scent was no longer there. Instead, bright colors and a living room straight out of an 80s sitcom, with the heavenly aroma of freshly baked cookies and the faint smell of spices in the air, stood right in front of her.

But what took her breath away was the curly-haired woman wearing a suspender pants and a square-pattern shirt with a gentle smile on her face.

“Look at you! You’re bleeding, sweetheart!” she fussed, taking her in her embrace and carrying her towards the huge kitchen.

The woman settled her on the counter, muttering to her and wiping away her tears with her fingers. She kissed her forehead before separating from the girl and walking around the kitchen, picking up paper towels and a glass of water.

The girl looked around until she made eye contact with her reflection on the metal toaster. Gasping, as her little fingers touched around her face and the new wardrobe. A long-sleeved striped shirt and green overalls made out of soft material, her hair in two ponytails with huge green plastic balls on the hairties. Two on each side.

She didn’t even notice how small she had become. She looked like she was five years old!

“That’s why we always wear our shoes when running around, sweetheart.” The woman began to wipe off the blood on her feet, making her focus on her once again.

“Sorry,” wow, even her voice sounded small!

“Oh,” the woman cooed. “That’s alright. We all make mistakes, but we learn from them, right?”

She could feel tears coming out once again, lips trembling with an ugly sob, and pulling the woman in a state of panic. Items around the kitchen began to float, which only kick-started a new crying session.

The living room, the smells, the kitchen, the outfit. Everything. Everything was the same. This was home. But home had disappeared. Along with Mom. With Dad. With Billy. Home was gone. It was supposed to be gone. They were all supposed to be gone, but now she is here, and she knows it can’t be real. It can’t be real, but god, she wants it to be so bad, and it’s so selfish of her because Mom had to do the right thing, but she wants it back. And she wants it ba-

Her sobbing gets muffled as she gets pulled against somebody’s chest, hearing strong heartbeats under her ear. Hushing and soft words while her pony tails get undone by gentle hands, and soothingly caressing her hair.

Her Mom continued to hold her until her sobs settled down, taking big breaths as she gripped her mother’s clothes.

“You’re so strong, my sweet girl.” She said. “You have done what you can by yourself, and I’m so proud.”

“I wanna stay here,” the girl whimpered.

“I know.”

“I wanna be with you and dad.”

“I know, baby.”

“I want Billy with me.” She sniffled, lifting her head and looking at her teary-eyed mother. Her mom smiled wetly, cupping her cheeks and stroking the chubby skin with a soft laugh.

“He’s coming, sweetie. He’s closer than you think.” 

The light in the room began to brighten up. Muffled noise coming from outside the house. She looked around, heart pounding as the walls and the tables started to glitch and disappear.

When she turned to look back at her mom, she was standing up and face to face with her. Back to her real height, it seemed. 

“Mom, please,” the girl pleaded, hugging the woman tightly. “Don’t make me leave. Stay, please.”

Her mom held her tightly, making sure the girl’s face was against her body so she wouldn’t look at the glitching house. “Billy is close. I am close, and so is your father.”

The girl shook against her, hands fisting around Wanda’s shirt, as if hanging as tightly as she could would be enough to keep her grounded to her.

“Mama, I can’t do it. Not alone.” She whimpered, feeling the counter glitching behind her and the voices outside becoming louder.

“You’re not alone. And you're strong,” Wanda took her daughter’s head away from her shoulder so she would be able to look at her directly. She smiled widely at the crying girl.

“You’re a Maximoff. You’re strong and brave. And you will never be alone, because you have a family out there looking for you, and you need to hang on.”

The girl took deep breaths, and the ground started to glitch beneath the two of them. But she only looked at Wanda.

Even when everything glitched out and became black, all she heard was her mother’s voice.

“A family is forever. We could never truly leave each other even if we tried.”

“-me on! Snap out of it!”

She blinked, a loud, grave voice yelling right in her face, making her wince out loud. The bruising grip on her arms suddenly loosened as the tall, concerned man took a few steps back from her space.

The cold night breeze had made her skin cold to touch, her senses finally kicking back in. She quickly hugged herself, looking around the empty street she had woken up in.

The street lights flickered every three seconds. The road was soaked with what she supposed was from the late-night rain she remembered pouring outside in the manor while she listened to Wayne’s recordings once again. There were a few parked cars scattered around, some of them visibly damaged with broken windows and missing tires. The smell of trash and smoke almost made her cough and gag, but her teetering teeth made sure that didn’t happen.

She was wearing her sleeping clothes, a worn t-shirt of a seventies asian singer, and pajama shorts that she only used for the sake of wearing something underneath. 

…She didn’t like long pants for sleeping. It was a pain in the ass waking up with pantaloons after twisting around in bed, don’t judge.

“What are you doing out?” The man in front of her growled out, an angry frown on his face. “It’s three and a half in the morning, and you thought going for a stroll down in Chinatown was a good idea?!”

He was tall, really tall. And built like a tank, judging by how his arms and legs threaten to rip out the seams of his clothes if he dared to flex even a little bit (best to take cover if something like that happened-). His hair was a messy mop of black, with a white streak curling in the front. A healed scar running down the side of his cheek, accompanied by a toxic green glare that truly made her hesitate to move from her spot.

If she weren’t so disoriented, she would probably yell at him to mind his own business and walk away. But right now, her mind is still wobbly, so her charming comebacks are a no-go.

“I’m-” Her hand instantly went to her throat, caught off guard by how cracked it sounded. As if she were screaming her head off. She cleared it with a cough, wincing at the raspy sensation.

“I don’t know.” She groaned out, receiving a blank look from the fuming man.

He began to take off his jacket and put it around her freezing body, the whole time grumbling under his breath about ‘damned Wayne genes of acting dumb’ and ‘how are you even so far away from the manor’. She gawked at him, shoving her arms inside the huge sleeves.

Until she noticed a familiar flickering pattern from a nearby street light.

“.--- .- ... --- -. .-.-.- / -... . / -.-. .- .-. . ..-. ..- .-..”

JASON. BE CAREFUL

‘So this is Jay,’ She mused to her thoughts, letting him guide her down the street with a hand on her shoulder.

Wayne barely mentioned him. All that she had learned about the missing brother of the family was from the recording tapes and mentions from eavesdropping conversations around the mansion by pretending to ignore them while using her headphones.

And most of the information she found wasn’t exactly good.

₊°︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶ ‧₊˚

Diary Entry: Year 8

“...I don’t really know how to begin his tape.”

“I’m supposed to be happy. Be glad that he’s back with us. That he is alive and safe and finally home…”

“But it feels wrong.”

“He looks wrong.”

“His eyes look so, so wrong.”

“...Mom mentioned something like it. A long time ago, when she wasn’t like she is now. About old rituals. Of bringing people back from the dead. She said that it was never good to anger Death, especially when it’s about taking a soul away from her.”

“Whoever takes from Death shall pay the consequences with their blood. Mom always warned me about it… But I can’t tell Dad about it.”

“He is still strange. With Jason back, he barely leaves the office, and in the past years, even mentioning Jason would be enough for him to shut down and disappear for days.”

“And Jason… he has changed. A lot.”

“He’s so angry. At everyone. And I can’t blame him for it because he has every reason to, no matter how much Dick tries to make things smoother.”

“...But sometimes, letting people be angry is a good thing. It is good that Jason feels angry rather than nothing.”

“No matter how much he scares me now, I prefer that he yells and fights and argues.”

“Even if I miss his smile and his talks, I know that Jason is gone.”

“All that is left is the anger, and I’m okay with that.”

“Even if it hurts.”

“Even if it scares me.”

₊°︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶ ‧₊˚

At least, she wasn’t the only undead person in the family. Yay!

Though both of their cases were quite different, there was one common fact. Which was that the two of them didn’t come back the same after their deadly encounters.

She still didn’t know how exactly Jason came back to life (still researching on that), but she was sure that Jason didn’t get his soul switched up by some twin brother that somehow-

“Since when do you sleepwalk?” He asked, gathering her attention once again.

The question made sense. She remembered falling asleep on her bed, all the tapes around the mattress before snoring her ass off all sprawled out over the covers. Then, that dream sequence (that’s still stuck in her head, by the way. Because she saw her mom. Her real mom. Her real house. She finally has her real last name. She is a Maxi-) and now, she woke up while standing in the middle of a street with no shoes and-

Wait. That’s right.

She ran. 

She ran barefoot.

Jason yelped when she came to a full stop, lifting up her foot and holding it with her hands with a puzzled expression at the sight of the skin.

See, the skin on the soles of your feet, while thick, is still delicate and can be damaged by friction and pressure. Even in her dream, she had her feet all scraped and bleeding from mere wooden splinters. If she had managed to get out of the manor, go through the rocky path towards the gate, climb over the gate, and go through the dirty streets of Gotham while running, there was a huge probability that her feet were screaming out in pain, and she wouldn’t be standing at all.

Instead, there was no sight of blood. Not even a scratch on her skin.

“Damn lucky, if you ask me,” Jason said, tilting his head as he observed her unscatched skin. A glint of wonder in his gaze directed towards her.

“Yeah, lucky me,” She muttered, wiping away some of the dirt on her foot and sighing. She smoothed back her hair, some annoying strands bothering her view while staring at Jason with a grimace. “I guess you’re my ride back?”

He stood quiet for a moment, his glare getting under her skin and making her feel on the edge about his unsettling green color.

Wayne was right. Something about him was off.

“No, actually,” He grunted, walking forward and nodding towards an upcoming familiar car. “That would be Alfred. Good luck on that rant, kid.”

Jason walked over and passed the car, giving Alfred a quick nod as he got out of the car before continuing down the street to get on an old-fashioned bike that was parked further down.

Guessing on how much Alfred’s sharp eyebrows furrowed on his forehead, she knew she was having a long ride back to the mansion.

Well, she got a lot of things out of this. For example, Jason was also someone that she should avoid (still questioning that). And, of course, a very important detail.

Maximoff. She has her name back.

Fucking finally.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

Contrary to what Tim believed, sleeping in the Titan’s tower did not work out like he expected.

His mind was on the verge of a breakdown, his brain begging for rest and sleep, but still refusing to do so. Like his own body knew what it needed to do, had even tried to do so without his permission, by the multiple times he jolted back to consciousness after nodding off in front of the main computer, or the sound of his friend walking down the halls.

Tim compared his situation to Pavlovian conditioning. And he was sure two people shared the blame.

It was a classical conditioning experiment or respondent conditioning. A behavioral learning process where a neutral stimulus becomes associated with an unconditioned stimulus, leading to a learned response to the formerly neutral stimulus. 

This process was named after the russian physiologist Ivan Pavlov, who famously demonstrated it through his experiment with dogs.

In the experiment, three things were used: a dog, a bell, and food. The neutral stimulus (the bell) is repeatedly paired with an unconditioned stimulus (the food), which naturally elicits a reflexive response (the dog starting to salivate whenever he hears the bell because he knows that when the bell rings, he will be getting food). 

In his case, Tim was the dog, and his reflexive response was sleep.

And the bell was his sister’s piano.

He thought it was stupid at first, but after a week and a half without proper sleep or naps, everything made sense.

Tim had associated his sister’s music with sleep. Unconsciously conditioning himself and his body to wait for the soft keys of the same old song echoing in the halls, so he would allow his tiredness and sleep to consume him and go to bed. And he had done it for years, even! Without ever noticing what she was doing!

Because two share the blame in this.

Him, because he was stupid enough to get himself conditioned like a fucking dog and understimating her.

And her, because, of course, she had these intentions the whole time.

Drive him insane without her music. Her daily check-ups. Not picking up his dirty dishes in the hall. It was all part of her meticulous plan of starving and depriving him of sleep.

He couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly, rubbing his eyes while leaning back in his chair.

His clever and cunning sister.

‘I can’t believe she managed to outsmart me,’ he thought as a contented smile pulled to his lips.

Maybe it was pride that he felt. Proud that she had twisted the odds and put him down from his high horse by playing the long game. By acting with patience. Waiting for the perfect moment to take away something as simple as-

“Still can’t sleep?” Conner’s voice kicked him out of his head, turning around in his chair to look at his concerned friend.

Conner had been the one to suggest that Tim could take a break in the tower, noticing on their calls that he wasn’t resting enough due to the current case going on in Gotham. And the young Kryptonian had been checking on him during his whole stay.

But no matter how much Kon tried to get him to talk, Tim wouldn’t say what was really going on.

He will keep his discovery to himself. No one else.

He was the one to figure her out.

His discovery. 

His investigation. 

His and only his.

“Just a bit,” Tim lied with ease, turning back his chair to the computer. The screen shows the new statistics and documents from the missing kids case. “I’m still going through the clinic documents that B sent a few days ago.”

Bruce had found their missing piece: Medical History.

All of the victims had been visiting hospitals in Manchester, Metropolis, Bludhaven, and Gotham in the past three years. General and specialized clinics.

Clinics that worked with genetics, specifically.

Kon leaned with his elbow against the back of Tim’s chair, scanning through the documents on display with intrigue. “What are your theories? Trafficking? Ransom?”

“It’s too late for ransom,” Tim muttered, tapping away on the keyboard for more documents to pop on the screen. “And trafficking would be more precise. Like a group of kids that stayed out too late or anything along that line, all of the children were taken at different times and with weeks of difference-”

Tim’s personal phone began to vibrate on the table, drawing both of their attention.

He took his phone, frowning at the ID Caller being none other than the demon spawn of his nightmares. He answered.

“What could you possibly want, Damian?”

The boy ignored his slashing tone. ”When are you returning, Drake?”

“Why do you even care?” Tim gave Kon a roll of eyes, to which the taller guy just shrugged.

“Because you’re the only one competent enough to hack into Arkham Asylum’s archives without questioning too much.”

“...You want me to what?”

“I am well aware you don’t lack hearing, Drake.”

Tim stood up from his chair, motioning to Kon to stay there as he walked outside the room to talk in the hall with his demanding younger brother. “I will need some context if you want me to do this behind B’s back.”

The line went quiet for a moment, hearing some door closing in the background and some shuffling around.

“I found some letters in Father’s office. Hiding in a compartment on his desk.” That got a groan out of Tim.

“Damian, you know that Bruce doesn’t like it when-”

“They’re letters for Embarrassment.”

That got Tim’s attention. “From Arkham? Letters from Arkham? To her? From who?”

“They’re all signed as U.H.. I believe the U stands for uncle, judging by the contents of the letter.”

“You read them?”

“And so will you, if you manage to hack into the Arkahm archives so we can figure out who this bastard is.”

The older sibling was very intrigued, despite the headache that was invading his brain. He was pretty much in the moment she was part of the investigation (more information about her, the more he could have in common with her-), but he would still complain about it just to annoy the little demon.

“And why is this bastard so important to you?”

The next words out of Damian’s mouth sent him down a spiral and directly to pack his things so he could head out of the tower as soon as possible.

“Because he is taking her away. All of the legal custody belongs to him.”

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

“I have made it perfectly clear, Clark.”

It’s been three days since that urgent meeting.

Three long days of rejected calls, ignoring messages, and blocking emails from everyone in the league, trying to change Bruce’s mind on the whole ordeal before he made a big mistake that could lead them to a completely preventable war.

Though that scenario was a bit extreme. But you could get the point.

“I get your point. I do,” the hero of Metropolis assented, his hands over the long meeting table in the Hall of Justice. “But you have to see what the consequences of your rule can bring to everyone else. Especially to Gotham.”

The Bat didn’t even look up from his file report. 

“I do know. And the answer is still the same as before,” It didn’t take too much for Clark to know Bruce was glaring at him once he dropped the file to look at the hero directly.

“No metas in my city. And that includes mutants.”

Clark shook his head with a sigh. “You can’t control that. There’s no way of knowing who is a meta when they’re not actively using their powers, and mutants have been fighting for years for their rights and avoiding a legal registry so they can live normal lives.”

“Then, Gotham is not the place for that normal life.” Bruce shot back. But Clark didn’t let it deter him.

“So what then? The moment a mutant kid has their abilities awakened, they should just pack up and move? Leave their family and the place they have only known as home?”

Bruce got up from his chair, posture upright and tight. But didn’t say a word, simply glared at the fuming man in blue and red.

“...I know we are negotiating with a dangerous man,” Clark said in a calmer tone, sitting down on the nearest chair. “But Erik Lehnsherr is only trying to get rights for mutants after years and years of discrimination. I have interviewed mutants, Bruce. They are still humans and deserve to-”

“I will not,” his voice was like rumbling thunder, coming from deep in his chest and thundering around the empty room. “Listen to the pleas of a madman and a terrorist, Kent.”

They stared at each other for a few deafening moments of silence. The harsh exchange of words brought a tense and cold atmosphere between the two leagues’ most important members. Bruce’s chest was still as stone, but Clark could hear the blood pressure going up in the Bat’s veins.

It was Bruce who moved first. Picking up his things and walking towards the exit door, he muttered to Clark on his way out.

“No mutants in Gotham, that’s my order.”

Clark mused to himself, now alone at the table. The tip of his fingers tapped against the white fiberglass table.

At least, the meeting with Magneto wasn’t as ineffective as this chat with Bruce.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

“-we’ve talked about it and we’re still discussing the outcome of such demand, Mr. Lehnsherr.”

The whole League was gathered with a rush from the sudden call, sitting on their designated chairs with Batman at the head of the table and Superman and Wonder Woman on both of his sides. 

A life-sized hologram of the man the world used to know as Magneto (now known as Erik Lehnsherr, ruler of Genosha) stood proud and tall with his hands behind his back as he listened to Wonder Woman’s words.

He was an older man, significantly older than the rest of the heroes by appearance, despite the good shape he was in. Judging by his muscles and good health, Lehnsherr took care of himself and kept a balanced way of life. He had a head of full white hair, slicked back with stray strands framing his severe face. Tanned skin, covered by an armor of red and purple accents. A dramatic cape was draped over his shoulders, and it waved at his ankles. His helmet, floating just beside him since the beginning of the meeting.

He commanded attention. Power. And Clark could see that Bruce did not like him one bit.

“Wonder Woman,” his deep, accented voice filtered through the sound system. “I am well aware that as an important security branch of the American government, you must make alliances with ‘threatening’ countries for the sake of your president’s peace.”

Everyone could understand what he meant by that.

“But,” he drawled, gaze sharpening towards the man sitting at the head of the table. “I can’t simply grant access to Genosha to the same government my people had to take refuge from. I have, above all, the security and well-being of my kind as a top priority.”

That’s when Clark decided to give his piece to the discussion. “We understand your views on the manner, sir. But what you ask in exchange-”

“Your leader wants to know if I’m making weapons. If I’m building an army.”

Glances and stares were exchanged as the silence in the room became tense.

But Erik Lehnsherr simply sighed, suddenly looking way older by the look in his eyes. 

“I know my reputation. I know my history, and that can’t be mended. No one can erase the mistakes from the past. What is done is done, and I’ve made my bed with it.”

Suddenly, he turned, making sure he could look at every hero sitting at the table.

“All that I do, all that I’ve done, is for my kind. For the new generation of mutant children. So they are able to walk securely on the streets. Be accepted into normal schools. Live normal lives without the fear of getting chased or isolated by something they were simply born with. Simply because nature decided they would be different.”

He looked over his shoulder at the three main leaders.

“I am willing to have official visits from any of your members, monthly or yearly, with strict conditions during your stay.”

A few members visibly sighed in relief at that. They have been trying to get somewhere with this manner, and it was finally showing that it would be getting to a more positive route.

“As long as you grant sanctuary to mutants in your protected cities.”

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

And that’s when the meeting went to shit.

All because Bruce didn’t want mutants in Gotham, and Erik wanted sanctuary in each city that was under the territory of every single member of the Justice League.

“All or nothing” was what he said before leaving the meeting.

Clark understood both sides. Gotham is a stressful place, always under threat, and it could trigger a powerful mutant and cause more trouble and damage.

But most of these mutants were just kids. Scared children who have nowhere else to turn but their clueless families. And of course, a huge part of the homeless community was formed by mutants. People who didn’t get any help or were denied the help they deserved.

Maybe he was being biased, but Clark would have to change Bruce’s mind.

And that thought alone made sure he had a headache for the rest of the day.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

“Give me two more laps, Wayne!”

When Mr. Munroe had inscribed her to the track and field team, she wasn’t expecting him to become her coach.

“The school said they didn’t have enough people to form an official team. They just let athletes warm up in the track, and that’s it. But what your family doesn’t know won’t hurt them.”

And with that, she had an excuse to stay after school. Track and field practice with Mr. Munroe (Who insisted on being called Logan, but just to get on his nerves, she started calling him Mr. Logan-).

Even if it was a made-up club, she had Mr. Logan as backup in case something happened.

And it wasn’t like she wasn’t practicing!

“Come on, Babes! You can run faster than that!” Bobby yelled and clapped from a bench as she jogged by him. She gave him a quick middle finger before sprinting down the track, his loud laugh making her grin.

Warren and Bobby were also tagging along with her to pretty much everywhere.

They took most of their classes together, excluding extracurricular activities (meaning Bobby’s baseball team and Warren’s debate team). Other than that, they would be attached to the hip even while at lunch or free period.

No matter how much Warren complained about needing to study, he wouldn’t move away from the two smiling idiots.

“She is gonna burn those shoes again,” Warren muttered, without looking up from his notebook, while Bobby turned to look at him.

“We put tape and glue on the soles yesterday, it’ll be fine.” He shrugged, glancing back at her as she began to run her last lap.

That would have been her twentieth lap. And it’s only been less than half an hour. Both of them knew she was fast, but it still shocked them how fast she actually was. 

On Tuesday, she made five laps while still wearing her school uniform, not a single sweat in sight, but her shoes were suffering the consequences.

On Wednesday, she made ten laps with proper shoes and attire. Still not a sweat in sight, but she looked thin after running. Until Mr. Logan shoved some homemade energy bars into her hands and gave her a rant about eating properly and having enough calories in her food.

On Thursday, (While looking pretty much half dead and complaing about sleepwalking) Warren gave her the number of his tailor. Her uniform was way too big on her and needed adjustments. Bobby decided to keep a closer look at how much she was eating and the number of servings she got at lunch (A total of six servings, and big enough to make him a bit nauseous. That’s without counting all the snacks Mr. Logan kept giving her throughout the day and in practice.) She made fifteen laps. And the soles of the shoes chaffed off. 

It’s Friday, and she just made twenty laps without a single sweat. In just five minutes. And no shoes burned.

“Oh shit!”

Scratch that. Two shoes burned.

Warren closed his notebook, walking towards an exasperated Mr. Logan, who inspected the ruined shoes, and a whining girl, who sat on the ground with her legs sprawled out as she ripped off her socks. Bobby followed him.

Her green jacket (a track jacket that she always wore to practice) and running attire (A white compression shirt and some green Lycra shorts with white stripes on the sides) didn’t show any signs of perspiration. Not even her skin seemed to sweat (and now it had some light tan to it, after spending this week running outside on breaks and in the afternoon).

“Looks like you need new shoes, bub. Can’t let you run in these anymore.” Mr. Logan said, making her throw herself back on the ground with a wail. “You melted the glue with your laps. The track is probably running hotter than I expected.”

For many reasons, Warren didn’t believe anything in that last sentence.

Bobby crouched down next to her as she mourned the death of her precious shoes, tapping her forehead so she would at least look at him. He smiled brightly when she opened her eyes and pouted up at him, making Warren roll his eyes.

“We can go shopping tomorrow! I need to buy clothes, and we could get you better shoes!”

Warren scrunched his eyes and crossed his arms. “Who is ‘we’?”

He was obviously ignored by both of them. She groaned out sitting up while slouching. “I can’t. I’m gonna go to the hospital to visit my mom in the afternoon.”

“We could go early,” Bobby offered, standing up and grabbing her arm to help her get off the floor. “I got my car, so we can go to the mall and then drop you off at the hospital! Maybe even meet your mom too!”

Warren waved his hand with a twitching smile. “Again, who is ‘we’?”

She threw herself over Bobby’s back, sighing at the cold temperature of his body and making the heat of the sun go away from her skin. Bobby jokingly broke his posture, receiving a whine and a pinch to the shoulder. He stood still as she looked over at Warren with a pleading glance.

“Would you guys do that? For me?” Bobby joined in the puppy dog eyes, both of them pouting at Warren as Mr. Logan shook his head in amusement, clapping off the dust from his hands as he walked away with the shoes.

Warren, red in the face, as his two friends scooched closer to him. Making exaggerated pleading faces and motions, until he groaned out to the sky and let them drag him into their weird and awkward embrace as they cheered.

“Fine, but only because I need to look for some shirts.” He grumbled, a twitch under the clothes on his back.

“It’s gonna be fun! We can also go eat something. I heard there’s this booming boba tea place, and I really want to try it. Oh, we can also go to Chili’s!” Bobby began to list off a lot of things to do, as he dragged both of his friends towards the bleachers to gather their things and kill some time before it was time for her to get picked up.

Maximoff could only think that she was glad to have people whom she could hang on to. 

Until Billy found her.

She could see them getting along with him. They could make a great group.

Perhaps… she could tell them what is truly going on. Eventually, obviously. 

Yeah, eventually.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

Author's Note: PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR, I'VE GOT A NEW CHAPTER FOR YOU!!! Literally locked in to write this chapter because I found out I was gonna spend the weekend celebrating my Mom's birthday. This is probably my favorite chapter to write uptill now. We got Mama Wanda, Insane Tim, PEEPAW MAGNETO- and more insight in the mutants💖😉 And got filled with energy by all the asks (AND NOW ACTUAL FANART???) and the love this story has been reciving. Keep in mind the new schedule! Update will be Sunday night/Monday morning. And remember that I love to answer comments and asks so keep them coming!! Lots of love and hugs. GG✨

Tag list:

 @bat1212 @kneelforloki @1abi @galaxypurplerose @yhin-gg @cxcilla @momentomoribitch @stargirl404 @initial-ari @welpthisisboring @icefox8155 @bunniotomia @alittlelostmoonchild @devotedlyshamelessdetective @shycreatorreview @nirvanaxx1942 @soulsire @ryuushou @rinkydinkythinky @lithiumval @ithoughtthinks @reeyy0-2 @cssammyyarts @lordbugs @ilovecoffe0 @kore-of-the-underworld @fortunatelydifferentqueen @vanessa-boo @livingund3ad @aelxr @im-so-goddamn-tired @lovebug-apple @staarflowerr @xoxoyukixoxo @whyiseveryuseenametaken @holderoflostmemories @doggyteam2028 @leeiasure @shadowypeachsweets @jjoppees @astraeasworld @wrenbirde

Bonus Memes:

[cressidagrey]

You are in Love

Summary: Emilie Abadie still didn’t care about Formula 1. But she may care about a specific McLaren Driver. 

Warnings and Notes: 

I promised and here it is. Second Spin off featuring Emilie and Lando.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Emilie hadn’t planned on arriving early. But the flight had landed ahead of schedule, her suitcase had actually appeared on the carousel like a miracle, and the driver had taken a shortcut that shaved twenty minutes off the usual paddock run. 

For once in Emilie Abadie’s chaotic little life, the universe was in fact cooperating.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Belle - just a location tag. No words. No fuss.

Classic Belle: elegant emotional manipulation dressed up as casual precision.

Emilie adjusted her sunglasses on her head and smoothed a hand over her linen jumpsuit as she walked. 

Singapore’s heat hit like a wall, heavy and immediate, but her nerves were louder. It had only been eight days… (Emilie knew that, she counted them)  but something about Lando in this particular city made her feel…things.

Lando liked night races. He liked dumplings and market stalls and neon lights reflecting off the marina. He always said the chaos of Singapore matched the chaos in his head, which she found oddly poetic for someone who once got stuck inside a beanbag chair and called it “the most humbling moment of my adult life.”

As she reached the edge of the McLaren hospitality, Emilie hesitated… just for a second.

She could see the terrace through the slats of the fencing. People scattered at tables, laughter in the air, that unique pre-race buzz humming through everything. And there - not far - was him.

Lando.

Animated. Talking too fast. Probably retelling his quali lap with hand gestures and self-deprecating flair. His curls were damp with sweat and he’d shoved his cap on backwards, like always. He was smiling.

But not with his eyes.

She knew that smile. It was the one he wore when he was trying really hard to pretend. The one that didn’t crinkle the corners or soften his face. Just teeth and noise and practiced charm.

It made her chest ache.

Her gaze flicked across the terrace, and found Belle sitting in the corner beside Max, looking deeply smug. She didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. Just gave the world’s tiniest nod. A signal.

Go.

Emilie moved.

She didn’t think. She just walked. Past the tables, past the sunlit terrace, cutting through engineers and junior drivers like they were static. It was instinct. Like orbiting back to gravity.

She caught the moment Lando noticed. Saw the flicker of confusion, the sudden stillness, like he was watching something impossible.

He turned. And froze.

His eyes went wide. His whole body locked like a system crash.

“Holy—” he started, but she didn’t let him finish.

Her arms were around his neck before he could even breathe out the next syllable. He smelled like sweat and sunscreen and the detergent from his race suit. He was so warm and so very real, and Emilie felt the week of missed calls and longing texts collapse in on itself.

Lando’s arms wrapped around her like muscle memory. One hand curled at the back of her head. His chin tucked instinctively against her temple.

“Hey, idiot,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-choked. “You didn’t think I was missing night race dumplings, did you?”

Lando made a sound halfway between a choked laugh and a whimper, and Emilie felt the last thread of her exhaustion unravel in his arms. 

God, she’d missed him. His warmth, his scent, his chaotic aura and stupid jokes. The way he somehow made her feel like everything, everything, was a little more bearable, even when the world was loud.

She pulled back just enough to look at him.

He looked overwhelmed. Damp curls clinging to his forehead. Wide eyes. That open, helpless expression she’d seen sometimes on his face when he watched her. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. 

Around them, the terrace kept buzzing. She heard Oscar’s voice, low and amused. A quiet laugh from somewhere to the left. Probably Belle, watching with all the satisfaction of a woman who knows she’s done something good and thinks she’s subtle about it.

“I thought you were in Denmark until Sunday,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I was. Then Belle weaponized her unborn child and guilt-tripped me into flying to Singapore”

Lando blinked. “That tracks.”

And then his arms were around her again, and Emilie let herself melt into it. Around them, the world kept turning…Oscar made a dry comment that made someone laugh, a camera clicked somewhere in the distance, Belle gave her a little wave from across the terrace, smug as hell—but none of it mattered.

Emilie didn’t care.

She closed her eyes and held on tighter, like if she let go now, she might not get another chance.

And maybe later she’d tease him about sulking. About dramatic sighs and sad-boy playlists and whatever nonsense he pulled while she was gone.

But not right now.

Right now, it was enough to be back. In his arms. In this stupid, sweaty, beautiful corner of the world where everything always felt like too much…and exactly right.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

Lando: hey just wanted to say thank you

Belle: for what?

Lando: for telling Emilie to come for making that happen i know you did. don’t pretend you didn’t

Belle: 😇

Lando: you’re terrifying and also the best

Belle:I prefer “emotionally strategic genius,” but I’ll accept “the best”

Lando: seriously though i haven’t felt like myself in a while not properly but when she showed up… everything clicked again

Belle:Good That’s what she does, doesn’t she?

Lando:Yeah she’s like coming up for air

***

The air-conditioning hummed low in the background, but the humidity still clung to Lando’s skin like a second layer. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, barefoot, damp curls falling into his eyes, fidgeting with the corner of a room service napkin like it had wronged him.

Emilie stood near the window, her linen jumpsuit swapped out for one of his oversized t-shirts and a pair of cotton shorts she’d dug out from her overnight bag. Her hair was damp from the shower. Her face was bare. She looked at home.

And he was terrified.

Not because she was here…but because he knew, somehow, this was the moment. The line they hadn’t crossed. Not really. Not with words.

He didn’t look up when he spoke. “I missed you.”

It came out quieter than he meant it to. But true.

Emilie turned from the window. Her expression softened. “I missed you too.”

He let out a breath, short and sharp. “I thought I was fine, you know? Like…I’m a grown man. You went to work. Not Mars.”

Emilie crossed the room and sat beside him. “And yet?”

“And yet I was pathetic,” he muttered, glancing sideways. “Oscar caught me listening to your voice messages.”

She blinked. “You listened—”

“I was down bad, Emilie. Like, tragic. I think I even made a sad playlist.”

She gave a quiet, delighted laugh. “Oh, baby.”

Lando smiled, but it faded quickly. His fingers stilled on the napkin. “You’re the first thing that’s felt... steady. In a while.”

Her smile faltered. He wasn’t joking anymore.

“I know I’m all over the place,” he continued. “On track. Off track. I make dumb jokes and act like everything’s fine even when it isn’t. But when I’m with you… I don’t have to do that. You don’t need me to be anything except… me. And I don’t think I realised how rare that was until you weren’t here.”

Silence stretched between them, warm and heavy and full of everything he hadn’t said before.

Emilie didn’t interrupt. She just reached out and took his hand, threading their fingers together.

“I don’t want to be casual about this anymore,” he said, eyes still fixed on their joined hands. “Whatever we’ve been doing… halfway, undefined, letting everyone think we’re just friends… I don’t want that. I want it to be real. Official. Known. I want you.”

Emilie was very quiet.

Lando finally looked up. “If that’s not what you want, that’s okay. Just… don’t lie to spare me.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then exhaled. “You’re an idiot.”

He blinked. “That feels mean in context.”

“You’re an idiot,” she repeated, softer this time, “because you think you’ve been the only one scared.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I didn’t want to say anything first,” she admitted. “Because I thought… if I say it, and you don’t feel the same way, if I ruin the best thing I’ve had in years because I wanted more… then what? But the truth is, I’ve felt like this for a while.”

Lando’s throat worked around a swallow. “How long?”

“Long enough that not saying it has started to feel dishonest.”

He laughed…quiet, awestruck. “So say it.”

She smiled, something a little shaky in it. But true. “I’m in love with you.”

Lando stilled.

Then he surged forward, hand curling around the back of her neck, mouth pressing into hers like he’d been holding it in for months.

When they finally broke apart, his forehead rested against hers, breath uneven. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “Properly. Now.”

Emilie smiled into his skin. “I always was.”

And just like that, everything slotted into place.

***

It was the kind of heat that didn’t just settle on your skin—it sank in. Thick, sweet, almost alive. Singapore didn’t do quiet. Not even at night. Not even after the fireworks died and the engines went still. There was always something humming—underfoot, in the air, inside her chest.

Emilie stood just past the barriers near Parc Fermé, surrounded by chaos, but strangely untouched by it. She had come down with the mechanics, badge clipped to her collarbone, her fingers curled tight around its edge like it was the only thing grounding her.

She hadn’t even thought about what she was doing. She’d just… moved. Like instinct. Like orbit.

And then she saw him.

Lando.

Helmet off. 

Still trembling, still breathless. He’d driven like a man possessed—like someone burning for something, someone. And when the checkered flag dropped, Emilie swore she felt it in her teeth. 

That kind of win doesn’t whisper. It shouts.

But what really unraveled her wasn’t the win.

It was the way he looked at her when he found her in the crowd.

It wasn’t just relief. It wasn’t just joy. It was recognition. Like his entire body had been straining toward something and now - finally - he could stop.

There was no hesitation.

One stride. Then two.

And then he was there, in front of her, hands coming up to cup her face like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like the only thing holding him together was the fact that she was here.

And then he kissed her.

Not a PR kiss. Not a cautious “maybe if we angle this right it won’t go viral” kiss.

No - this was reckless and real and right there in front of every camera lens in a ten-mile radius. His mouth against hers, desperate and tender and breathless. She tasted champagne and adrenaline and something wild, something golden. His hands trembled as they curled around her waist. Her nails curled into his shoulders.

The crowd exploded. Applause. Cheers. Someone whistled like they were at a wedding. Someone else yelled “GET IN THERE, NORRIS!” like it was the finale of a romcom they’d all been waiting for.

But Emilie didn’t hear it. Not really.

All she heard was the sound he made when he pulled back just slightly, forehead pressed to hers, nose brushing hers. That broken little laugh. That sound of disbelief and joy and love all tangled together.

“I won,” he whispered.

“I know,” she whispered back.

And then he picked her up like she weighed nothing and spun her. Just once. Just because he could. Because the world was spinning anyway.

She could hear Oscar saying something behind them (probably deadpan and hilarious) and someone on the McLaren crew absolutely howling. But none of it stuck.

Because all she could think was: this is it.

Not just the win. Not just the kiss. But the moment. The shift.

There was no going back after this.

No hiding. No halfway.

This was his world, and he’d pulled her into it like she belonged there.

And for once, Emilie didn’t flinch under the weight of being seen.

She leaned into it.

Into him.

And as he kissed her again—softer this time, slower—she knew something else too:

This wasn’t the end of anything.

It was the beginning.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Lando: Mate.

Max: oh look who won a race and became the main character big night for you, rom-com boy

Lando: shut up

Max: no actually I won’t you kissed her in Parc Fermé with your HAIR doing that curly mop drama do you want a movie deal or should i start pitching it for you?

Lando: i blacked out okay

Max: you kissed her like she was oxygen and you’d been drowning sky sports is already calling it “the kiss that broke the internet” crofty said he felt emotions

Lando: he WHAT

Max: don’t worry i’m making a montage music options so far include: – “Can’t Help Falling in Love” (classic) – “Unwritten” (chaotic) – or just a slow-mo replay with crowd screams behind it

Lando: i will block you

Max: you kissed her and spun her around are you trying to get nominated for a Teen Choice Award?? do we need to get you a surfboard trophy?

Lando: it wasn’t planned i just… saw her and it was like. yeah. her. the win was hers too

Max: 🥹 okay fine that’s actually adorable still gonna roast you though

Lando: i’d be offended if you didn’t

Max: also oscar said you made a noise like a sick baby deer when she hugged you

Lando: i’m ending this conversation now

Max: love you too, parc fermé prince 💋

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Belle Verstappen

Emilie: so we’re official

Belle: you’re kidding

Belle: i thought you already were?? you’ve been attached at the soul for like two months

Emilie: we hadn’t said it you know? not out loud but now it’s real. like… capital-R real

Belle: i’m so happy for you and also going to start charging you rent for how often you live in denial

Emilie: you’re not wrong but he said it, belle he said he wants this us. publicly. completely.

Belle: you deserve it, Em all of it

Emilie: i didn’t think it’d ever feel like this like being wanted could feel safe

Belle: that’s what love’s supposed to be not fireworks not tension just… a soft place to land

you’re allowed to be happy and soft and loved

Emilie: i didn’t think i’d ever get all three

Belle: you got them in a boy with curls and questionable fashion sense

Emilie: god help me

Belle: yes. you can trust him. he loves you with his whole dumb, golden retriever heart

Emilie: okay thank you (for seeing it before i did)

Belle: always. now go be disgustingly in love

[rikudaa]

₊ ⊹ ᶻz !! The Ones Who Weren’t There !! ␥ Part 2

[BatFam x Alien Stage] x Reader | <<< You are here!! >>>

✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Violent Death, Grief, Psychological Trauma, Body Horror, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor’s Guilt

Again, this is part two for the earlier post SO READ THE FIRST PART FIRST, UP YOU GO🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The low murmur of keyboards and coffee machines faded into static the moment the newsroom screen flared to life.

Dick, now just another name on an HR payroll in Blüdhaven’s safer corners at day—was elbow-deep in quarterly reports when his coworker’s voice slithered through the haze of workday monotony.

“God, Gotham’s a cesspool. Did you see the news? Gala turned massacre. Whole damn city’s cursed—wait, isn’t that your sibling?”

The air collapsed.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Like rebooting a jammed system. His pen dropped, clattering loudly against the laminate desk, but it sounded like it came from underwater. A dull echo. The noise of a world beginning to warp.

He turned to the TV.

The news chyron bled across the bottom of the screen:

“BREAKING: Unidentified Body Found After Gotham Gala Massacre. Brain Removed.”

His eyes snagged on the footage.

A stretcher.

A body under a black tarp.

Boots. Flashbulbs. Officers shouting.

Plastic gloves smeared with something dark and glistening.

“That can’t be—no. No. No, no, no—”

Not you.

Not you.

His chair screeched as he stumbled to his feet. He was shaking and didn’t even know it. The room swayed. His vision tunneled. Somewhere behind his ribs, a war began—a fight between every breath he couldn’t take and every scream he wouldn’t let loose.

The screen cut to a slow replay: the tarp lifting. A gasp from the bystanders. The gloved hand reached into the body bag—just for a second. A sliver of exposed jaw. Pale skin. Bloodless. Too bloodless.

The top of the skull—

Gone.

A void where a mind should be.

And Dick’s mind broke open with it.

He gasped—violently—as if the TV had just punched air out of his lungs. His hands gripped the sides of the desk. The wood under his fingers warped, melted into the phantom feeling of a gala wineglass. The memory struck like lightning: your laugh under chandeliers, the rustle of your formal wear, the way you’d said, “Bruce is impossible, but he backed out. I’m handling the gala instead—wish me luck, Dickie.”

The memory shattered into blood.

He staggered backward. A chair toppled. Someone called his name but it didn’t reach him.

“They got it wrong. The press—always fast, always messy. It’s a mistake. It’s a mistake. That’s not you. That’s not you, that’s not–”

But it was the coat.

The color.

The cufflink—his cufflink, one he’d gifted you last winter, gold and black and one of a kind.

And that’s when the spiral began.

It wasn’t just horror. It was a fracture.

Denial wasn’t a wall—it was a flood, tearing through every cell in his body.

He couldn’t breathe. His chest caved in on itself. His vision pixelated. He clawed at his tie like it was a noose, a foreign object choking him.

“They’re wrong. You’re alive. You’re probably pissed Bruce bailed on the gala and now you’re hiding somewhere, sipping scotch, sulking over bad press. You always hated the spotlight—this is a prank. A test. Maybe Jason’s idea of a sick joke. Or Scarecrow—maybe this is a fear toxin flashback. Yes. Yes. That’s all it is.”

You weren’t-

…missing a brain.

His heartbeat thundered so loud he didn’t notice he was crying until a drop fell onto the back of his hand.

He was halfway out the office before anyone could stop him, breath ragged, lips moving to a name he didn’t dare say aloud.

Not yet.

Not until he could prove the universe wrong.

Because if that body was you–

If your eyes would never open again–

If someone had reached into your skull and stolen the part that made you you–

He wasn’t just going to mourn.

He was going to burn Gotham to the ground to find the monster that did it.

──── ୨୧ ────

Jason had been close.

The sensor tripped—a flicker of red on his gauntlet HUD. Hidden panic clenched his gut, but he was already on the bike. Already tearing through Gotham’s streets like a bullet ripped from the barrel. He’d always told you to keep it low profile, but you insisted on finishing Bruce’s gala.

Always trying to hold the damn family together, even when it splintered.

He was close.

But never fast enough.

When he got there, Crime Alley was already swarming. Flashing red and blue strobed across the soot-stained brick, casting monstrous shadows down the corridor of Gotham’s most cursed street. It looked like a wound split open in the city’s ribs. Blood-slick asphalt. Sirens howling like eulogies.

He ditched the bike two blocks away.

Walked the rest of the distance like a man descending into his own grave.

Jason didn’t blink. Didn’t ask permission.

He walked past two rookie cops. Shaking. Crying. One vomiting against the side of the ambulance, hands braced on his knees, the other whispering frantically into his wrist mic, “It’s like a butcher shop… Jesus Christ…”

He stepped inside.

And the smell hit first.

Iron. Burnt ozone. Copper. And something rotted.

The crime scene was centered under the crooked old lamppost—half-lit, the bulb flickering like it couldn’t decide if it should expose or mercy-dim what lay beneath.

He saw drag marks. Two trails. Long. Panicked.

Someone had fought here. Desperately.

The sidewalk bore impact cracks, as if something—or someone—had been slammed into it, again and again.

The blood trail was wide.

Wide and dark and too much.

The stench nearly took him to his knees.

He didn’t throw up.

Didn’t breathe.

He just moved, slow, controlled, rage tightening in every joint, his gun already drawn because this wasn’t a rescue anymore. This was a fucking hunt.

Then he saw it. The ping zone. Right at the mouth of the alley.

Your last stand.

Your watch was there–the screen cracked, but the signal light was still blinking—pathetically, like it didn’t understand it had failed.

“No.”

His voice rasped, caught between fury and a breaking sob he would never admit to.

“You were supposed to ping me. You did. I came. I was here—I WAS FUCKING HERE.”

He crouched beside the watch, blood squelching under his boots. One gloved hand hovered over it—shaking.

There was no body.

Only pieces.

Pieces.

Not enough to say for certain. Not enough to kill hope.

But the blood told him the truth anyway. The kind of blood loss no one walks away from.

And the skull–God, your skull.

Or what was left of one.

The top of the cranium was gone—scooped out like a jack-o’-lantern.

Blood seeped around it, pooling under where the brain should have been.

But there was nothing.

Nothing inside.

They didn’t just kill you.

They desecrated you.

This wasn’t a crime.

It was a statement.

Jason’s throat closed around a scream he didn’t let out. Not here. Not in front of these bastards who’d arrived too late. Not in front of the blinking camera feeds. Not where someone might see the Jason Todd on his knees, shaking like a child and staring at a broken watch like it was a headstone.

“I should’ve been faster.”

The guilt gnawed instantly.

He thought of Dick—what this would do to him.

Of Bruce—how he’d fold it into another stoic silence.

Of himself—and how he wouldn’t survive this. Not again. Not you.

You were his tether. The one person who still called him “Jay” like it didn’t taste like ash. The one who gave him shit about overkill, but still patched his wounds when he came back bloodied.

Now there was nothing.

No you.

No face to hold onto. No soft body to bury.

Just the red blinking light.

And blood.

So much blood.

Jason stood slowly. Every movement hurt.

He holstered the gun. But not the rage.

“I’m gonna find them,” he whispered.

“I’m gonna find whoever did this. I’m gonna look them in the eye. And I’m gonna carve their fucking names into the devil’s guest list.”

Behind him, the lamplight flickered once, then went out completely.

Because someone had taken his tether to humanity—

And now?

He had nothing left to lose.

──── ୨୧ ────

Wayne Manor had gone silent for the night.

No operatic soundtrack echoing from the study. No clink of decanter glass. Just the whisper of firelight crackling in the hearth, and the rustle of papers as Bruce Wayne read through an intelligence report that had been sitting unopened for three days.

He hadn’t attended the gala.

You did.

And instead…

His phone rang.

The line that never rang unless it was bad.

Worse than bad.

Bruce froze.

His hand hovered over the encrypted comm.

Then it rang again.

He picked up.

“Wayne.”

The voice on the other end was tight. Measured.

GCPD.

“We… Mr. Wayne, we need you to come to Crime Alley.”

He didn’t respond at first. Didn’t move.

“There’s been… an incident. We believe your legal signature may be required to identify… remains. It’s your ward. We found credentials. We—please, sir.”

Bruce said nothing.

He hung up.

He didn’t throw the phone. Didn’t scream.

Just stood.

Rigid. Straight-backed. Like a soldier receiving orders from a war he thought was long over.

Crime Alley had never changed.

Still dark. Still narrow. Still reeking of old tragedy and new ones waiting to happen.

The Batmobile didn’t come. Bruce Wayne arrived alone, in a nondescript black town car. His coat sharp. Face pale. Movements exact.

He walked through the barricade tape, not even looking at the officers who parted for him like water.

Some recognized him. Some averted their eyes.

Most said nothing.

One detective—a younger man, freckles, eyes red from crying—met him halfway.

“Mr. Wayne. Sir. This way.”

He was led past the alley’s mouth, to where the cleanup hadn’t even started yet.

Jason’s silhouette stood off to the side. Still. Bleeding at the knuckles. Blood that wasn’t his. Or maybe it was.

His mask was off. Eyes vacant. Rage burned out into the kind of grief that could kill gods.

Bruce looked down.

There was a metal cart draped in a white sheet.

There was the watch—your watch—bagged beside it, cracked but blinking.

And there was a clipboard.

The words “LEGAL GUARDIAN / IDENTIFYING RELATIVE” printed at the top.

Bruce reached for the clipboard. His hand trembled once. Just once.

He forced it still.

The sheet was lifted.

And for a moment, time stopped.

Not because of gore. Bruce had seen worse.

Not because of the horror—though it was there, oh God, it was there.

But because there was nothing behind your eyes.

Because there were no eyes.

No skullcap. No brain. Just a hollow cavity.

A mind stolen.

A child erased.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t cry.

He just stared.

Long enough for the fire behind his eyes to ignite.

Then—

He signed.

B. WAYNE

Block letters. Neat. Final. The same way he signed every mission log, every will, every authorization for body disposal from the League.

But this was different.

This was you.

And paper wasn’t enough.

Jason approached slowly. Quiet. Like even breathing wrong might crack the world further.

“I was late,” he rasped.

Bruce didn’t answer.

“I came as fast as I could, but—”

“I know,” Bruce said. A voice carved from stone.

He looked at the remnants of your watch.

“I should’ve gone myself. It should’ve been me. Not you.”

Jason turned his face away, fists curling again.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

Bruce’s eyes sharpened. Cold. Focused.

“We bury what’s left.”

He looked toward the blood stains drying under the lamppost where his life had once changed.

Then back to yours.

“Then we hunt.”

He didn’t speak the entire ride back to the manor.

Didn’t change.

Didn’t sit.

He stood in the center of the library, coat still soaked from alley rain, the silence heavy like a shroud.

The clock ticked.

4:29 a.m.

He reached for the secure comm device on the desk. His fingers trembled, just slightly.

He called her.

Selina answered after the first ring, her voice still velvet with sleep.

“Bruce? That you?”

Silence.

Then—

“You’re calling late, or early—I guess depending on what disaster you’re cleaning up. What’s wrong?”

More silence.

She sat up. He could hear it—the creak of silk sheets, the shift in her breath.

“Bruce. Say it.”

He stared at the floor.

Where you once sat with a cup of tea and tired jokes about how the manor was too quiet without Damian’s brooding and Dick’s bad coffee.

I should have gone.

It should’ve been me.

He exhaled through his nose. A single sound. Broken.

Then finally, he spoke.

Low. Guttural. Final.

“It’s Y/N.”

Selina didn’t respond right away. But he knew her silence. It wasn’t confusion—it was comprehension. The kind of silence that comes only when the floor drops out from under you.

“How bad?” she whispered.

He closed his eyes.

“No body.”

“…”

“Just blood. Pieces. Skull damage. Brain’s gone. They took it. Left the rest.”

Another silence. This one hurt more.

“Bruce. I’m coming over.”

He didn’t stop her.

Didn’t say “No” or “Don’t.” Didn’t do anything but drop the comm back onto the desk like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He stood there alone.

The man who taught Gotham to fear the dark now stood powerless against the shadow it had stolen.

He could handle blood.

He could handle death.

But this?

This was void.

And Bruce Wayne had no contingency plan for grief shaped like a missing mind.

──── ୨୧ ────

The sun rose without permission.

Across Gotham, the city exhaled into its usual chaos—sirens, taxis, coffee cups, the sleepy grind of another morning that didn’t yet know someone was gone.

But at 9:06 a.m., Tim Drake did.

He was half-dressed in his dorm room, one hand mid-reach for his tablet, when he noticed the missed calls stacked on his phone screen like a silent scream:

4:52 a.m. – Bruce (4 calls)

4:56 a.m. – Alfred (1 voicemail)

5:03 a.m. – Jason (text: “Answer your damn phone.”)

5:08 a.m. – Unknown GCPD number

He hit play.

“Master Timothy… it’s Alfred. I… I’m sorry. There’s been an incident. It’s Y/N. They were found in Crime Alley last night. We need you at the manor. You were one of the last to see them—please come home.”

He stopped breathing.

Memory rushed in like a flood he wasn’t ready for.

Last night.

You stood just outside the gala entrance, eyes tired but warm. You tugged Damian’s tie loose and made some dry comment about him learning fashion from Bruce. Tim had laughed, and you’d grinned at both of them. Just for a second. That grin.

“Go,” you said. “I’ve got this. I need to head back to my dorm anyway—last gala dance of the season, right?”

So casual. So safe.

He and Damian had taken that as their cue to leave.

And now?

Now Alfred was telling him you never made it home.

•

9:29 a.m. | Gotham Academy Grounds

Damian had only just arrived.

His ride had dropped him off near the Academy gate, and he was heading toward the east wing when he noticed something… wrong.

His communicator buzzed in his coat pocket.

Then buzzed again.

Then again.

He scowled, annoyed at the interruption. Until he saw the message.

“Come home. It’s Y/N.” — Alfred

He froze.

Right there in the middle of the walkway. Students brushed past him, laughing, shouting, alive.

His mind played back your parting words—“I need to head to my dorm anyway.”

He had nodded at the time, smug and satisfied that you’d handled the gala despite Bruce flaking.

But now…

Something in him fractured.

He turned on his heel and began walking back toward the school’s gates without a word.

10:04 a.m. | The Batcave

The manor was too quiet.

Tim entered through the upper floor and instinctively followed the hum of tech down the hidden elevator shaft, down into the heartbeat of the house.

The Batcave lights glowed cold and clinical.

Bruce stood in front of the main console, cowl discarded but armor still on—shoulders heavy, jaw locked.

Jason leaned against a table to the side, helmet in hand, eyes bloodshot.

Alfred sat stiffly on a chair nearby, hands folded, a glass of untouched tea beside him.

When Tim stepped off the platform, no one said anything.

They didn’t need to.

“It’s real,” Tim whispered.

Bruce only nodded once.

Tim’s knees buckled.

He gripped the nearest workbench to stay upright, blinking fast, vision swimming. His backpack slipped off his shoulder with a thud. He didn’t bother picking it up.

Then—

Footsteps.

Rapid. Sharp.

Damian.

He stormed off the elevator like it had offended him.

“What the hell happened.”

His voice cracked halfway through, though he tried to bury it under rage.

Jason moved to intercept, but Bruce raised a hand. Let the kid come.

Damian stopped in front of the console. Saw the footage playing in silent loop.

Crime Alley. Blood. The blinking watch. The dragged smear of a body that wasn’t whole.

His jaw clenched. Fists balled.

“We left. They told us they had to go back to their dorm. We didn’t argue. We left.”

No one responded.

The silence was a verdict.

Damian shook his head—hard, as if trying to rattle the truth loose from his brain.

“No body?” he asked quietly.

Alfred answered, voice gravel-rough.

“Only fragments. Part of the skull. The brain… was removed.”

Tim turned away, a hand over his mouth. He was shaking.

Damian just stood there.

Still.

Staring at the watch on the display.

Your watch.

Still blinking red.

“They were fine. They were laughing. They were—whole.”

He looked at Bruce.

“Why weren’t you there?”

It came out like a blade.

Jason inhaled sharply, but again, Bruce said nothing.

Damian turned away, but not fast enough to hide the wet sheen in his eyes.

“We were the last to see them,” Tim whispered, hoarse. “Do you know what that means?”

No one had to say it.

They all knew.

It meant the memory of your smile would be the last one they’d ever have.

It meant your voice would live in their heads like a ghost.

It meant they had let you walk alone into the dark.

And now all they had left was blood, silence, and a blinking watch that wouldn’t stop calling for help.

──── ୨୧ ────

It was the day after.

The news hadn’t broken publicly yet—not fully. Gotham’s media machine was still running on speculation and half-formed headlines.

“Violent Crime in Crime Alley — Sources Say ‘High-Profile’ Victim.”

“Massive Blood Loss, No Body, GCPD Investigating Ritual Angle.”

But at 10:46 a.m., the truth hit the rest of them.

And it hit hard.

Steph was in the middle of a coffee run when she saw the Bat-signal flare faintly across the WayneComm emergency line.

“Wayne Manor. Cave. Now.”

She rolled her eyes. No context. Typical Bat-style.

Still, something gnawed at her gut.

She balanced her tray of coffees all the way to the manor, boots crunching on gravel with every confident step, humming some dumb pop song under her breath. Just another meeting, she thought. Maybe a mission brief. Maybe B had finally figured out who was sneaking cookies from Alfred’s tin.

Then she walked into the cave.

The air was ice.

Bruce stood still by the monitor. Jason wouldn’t look up. Tim was seated, face buried in his hands. Damian was statue-still beside the watch console, fists clenched so tight his gloves creaked. Alfred stood near the elevator, red-eyed.

And in the corner, a large display screen—

Crime Alley. Blood. Markers.

The Watch. Still blinking. Still searching.

Steph blinked.

Then blinked again.

A step back. Then forward.

“Wait. Where’s—where’s Y/N?”

The silence answered.

And just beside the elevator—

Selina Kyle.

Black coat. Red lips. Arms crossed, but jaw clenched like she was chewing glass.

She hadn’t said much since arriving. Just showed up after Bruce’s call like a shadow at the door.

She didn’t need directions. She knew where the pain lived.

Everyone noticed her.

No one said anything.

But the thought hung in the room.

Why were you there and not Y/N?

You were supposed to host the gala because Bruce pulled out. You were supposed to make the appearance, smile, keep up the illusion of a still-standing family name.

Selina should’ve been with you.

Should’ve escorted. Should’ve backed you up. Should’ve noticed something.

But no one asked.

Not out loud.

Because grief in this family wore too many masks.

The tray of coffee hit the floor.

And then she was on her knees beside it, sobbing into her gloved hands like it would bring you back.

•

Duke had a sense for things—light, shadows, the moods that lived between words.

When he arrived at the manor, the stillness gave him his answer before anyone said it aloud.

He walked into the cave, scanned the faces, and his chest seized.

“What happened.”

No one lied.

Not even Bruce.

They told him the truth.

Crime Alley. No witnesses. No camera footage. Too much blood to survive. No body.

“The brain was removed.”

That last detail—

That’s when his hands trembled.

Not because of gore. He’d seen worse.

But because you weren’t just another sibling. You were present. You listened. You made time for his questions about identity, legacy, shadows, and light.

You had a mind that made space for others.

And now someone had stolen it.

He didn’t cry.

He sat down, quietly, and started flipping through surveillance feeds, timestamps, power outages.

“If they left nothing,” he whispered, “that means they wanted it that way. That’s a pattern. We’ll find it.”

Grief would come later.

For now, he’d find the gap in the light.

•

Cass knew.

She’d felt it hours ago.

The ping. That cold, sharp, too-late red light.

She’d checked the location instantly, heart already racing before the data finished loading.

Crime Alley.

She knew you’d been at the gala. Knew you weren’t supposed to be there.

Knew something was wrong the second it flared.

She called the comm line.

Then another.

Then tried again.

But she was already too far—in Hub City, two hours out even with the fastest route.

She had screamed once—short and sharp—and launched into motion, already suiting up, already on the bike.

But by the time she got the second update, it wasn’t a rescue anymore.

It was a cleanup.

The guilt wrapped itself around her ribs like wire. Still hadn’t let go.

She crouched now by the dimmed display, one gloved hand still resting where the last signal pulsed.

Steph sat beside her, quiet now, eyes raw.

“If I had just—if I didn’t leave…”

Cass didn’t answer.

Didn’t say you told them to go.

Didn’t say you were proud of them.

Didn’t say you joked about dorms and deadlines.

Instead, she stood up. Movements stiff. Precise.

Walked straight past the console to Selina, and stood in front of her like a statue built from everything unspoken.

Selina met her gaze.

No flinch.

No apology.

Just mirrored pain, just as sharp.

Cass didn’t say why weren’t you there.

She didn’t have to.

Her body said it.

Selina didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Just clenched her jaw harder and nodded, like yes—she knew she should’ve been there.

She always knew.

Bruce stepped forward, voice low.

“We’ll find them.”

No one questioned who. Everyone knew.

This wasn’t a mugging. It wasn’t random. This was surgical.

A brain stolen. A body desecrated. A message sent.

“This wasn’t about opportunity. This was targeted. Someone knew Y/N would be alone. Someone waited for the right moment.”

“And someone,” Jason said, voice shaking, “knew how to get past us all.”

Steph looked up. “You think they’ve done it before?”

Bruce nodded once. “Or… this is only the first.”

Cass moved back to the center of the cave.

Her voice—quiet, but firm—cut through the room:

“No more delays.”

“We hunt now.”

──── ୨୧ ────

You wake with a gasp.

Air floods your lungs like water after drowning—sharp, cold, wrong.

Your body arches against the grass beneath you—soft, too soft. The light above is too bright, and it doesn’t feel like sunlight.

You slam a hand against your forehead as pain lances through your skull. Blinding. Like something hot was carved into the inside of your brain and then scraped out.

You can’t breathe for a second.

You squeeze your eyes shut and see red behind your lids.

Panic flares in your chest. You remember—nothing.

A color. A sound. A shape, maybe. A scream—

Then it’s gone.

Your fingers brush something cold and metallic around your neck.

A collar.

You blink. A red dot flickers at the center—glowing. Watching.

You barely have time to register it when you hear the voice.

Soft. Familiar. Somewhere to your left.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?”

You turn.

Your vision blurs at the edges.

Someone’s sitting beside you—legs crossed, concern etched on their face. Familiar. Maybe. But your head is too full of fog and static to name them.

They tilt their head at you.

Your heartbeat’s still trying to climb out of your ribs.

You don’t answer at first. The words feel far away.

But something else answers for you. Something instinctual. Buried.

You shake yours. Lightheaded.

You force a breath.

“Nothing, Mizi.”

The red light on the collar pulses once.

And you smile.

But the pain behind your eyes doesn’t fade.

<<< You are here!! >>> •Note: GUESS WHO’S HERE

And again grief time, more reactions lol, I combined Steph, Cass and Duke parts together (and cut out Babs–) but it seems too rushed but well, it’s too long and make my literally phone lagging. And this is my inspiration if you feel familiar, word count is 7k for both parts what the helly!!

Tagging: @lizzyzzn, @whaaaaaaaaat111, @hai-there-how-are-you, @1abi, @dreamzaremyrealityy, @bugsfruits, @alishii, @ememgl, @cssammyyarts, @kaeyasrose, @cebrospudipudi, @cupid73

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[vibeswithdivs]

Red and Papaya

Pairing: Reader x Oscar Piastri

You weren’t supposed to be on that side of the paddock.

It was only your third week in the role, and you’d been sent to deliver a last-minute hard drive to one of the F1 TV crews. You didn’t know the shortcut you took would slice right past the McLaren garage—and you certainly didn’t expect to see him.

Oscar Piastri.

He wasn’t surrounded by people or walking with purpose like most of the grid. He was leaning against the side of the garage, one hand resting loosely on a crate, the other tugging at the edge of the gloves stuffed into his race suit. His helmet sat on the ground beside him. He looked up briefly, not even at you—just toward the noise of a mechanic calling out behind you.

That one second, though. It felt like gravity bent around it.

The world didn’t go silent like people say in clichés. Instead, everything sharpened—the warmth of the sun on your neck, the sharp scent of rubber and oil in the air, the crackling static of pit radios nearby. And yet, your whole focus tunneled in on the way he blinked slowly, like he existed in a quieter frequency. Like stillness clung to him on purpose.

He was just standing there. But something in your chest fluttered so hard it felt like a ripple across your ribs.

You didn’t linger. You didn’t smile. You kept walking, heart racing.

But that image stayed with you like the aftertaste of something sweet and unexpected. That night, in the silence of your hotel room, you caught yourself replaying it—his posture, the calm in his features, the light in his eyes.

You didn’t know why it mattered. You just knew that it did.

Oscar didn’t notice you that day.

But few weeks later, in Imola, he did.

He had just wrapped up an interview and was walking past the Ferrari hospitality area when he heard something that made him turn his head without thinking—your laugh.

It was warm and messy and unfiltered, and it caught him off guard. It wasn’t performative, not one of those polite chuckles drivers were used to hearing. No, this was real. A burst of joy that filled the space around it like sunshine through clouds.

And then he saw you.

You were filming a challenge video with Charles and Carlos—something ridiculous involving guessing baby pictures and impersonations. You were kneeling in front of the camera setup, laughing so hard you had to brace yourself on the seat behind you when Charles pointed at Carlos and yelled, “That’s definitely not me!”

Your hair was loose, wind-messed. There was marker smudged on your wrist. You were smiling like you forgot the world was watching.

Oscar should’ve kept walking. But for some reason, he didn’t—not for a moment.

There was something in the way you glowed around the edges, like you weren’t trying to be seen. Just someone quietly in love with their job. Someone soft at the core, even surrounded by the chaos of a race weekend.

He didn’t know your name. But that moment rooted itself in his chest with quiet certainty.

And after that, he started noticing you. Not often. Just enough to recognize the shape of your presence—your voice in the background of press conferences, your laugh echoing faintly from behind the media pens.

It wasn’t a crush. Not exactly.

It was a curiosity that warmed into something gentler, deeper, every time he caught himself hoping to see you again.

It wasn’t until Spain that the universe finally conspired to put you in the same frame.

The paddock is full of near-misses, brief glances, lingering what-ifs. You’re on opposite ends of the spectrum—different teams, different rhythms, different obligations. You weren’t expecting a story. You weren’t even sure there was one. But then came Friday at the Spanish Grand Prix, and everything changed.

You were standing beside Charles, just behind the media pen barrier, both of you waiting for Oscar to wrap up his one-on-one with a Sky Sports reporter before Charles’s turn came.

The sun was relentless, casting a hot glare across the grid. You shaded your eyes with one hand, absently scrolling through your phone with the other, half-listening to the interview while making mental notes for Ferrari’s post-session brief.

Charles was unbothered, casually sipping water and leaning against the barrier. You noticed he kept smirking every time Oscar glanced over, which happened more than once. You ignored it.

“Didn’t realize you were so fascinating,” Charles murmured with a teasing grin.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not. He’s probably just bored.”

Oscar was answering something about tire degradation and long runs, completely unbothered as always. His tone was cool but polite, fingers resting lightly on his hips. A breeze lifted the edges of his race suit and flapped the mic flags on the reporters’ mics.

Then it happened.

A sound, sudden and sharp—a metallic clink from above.

It was stupidly quick. A loose scaffolding clamp, rusted and unstable, snapped free from the camera rig above Oscar. You saw it before anyone else did—just a small, silver blur falling far too fast toward where he stood.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your phone hit the ground. You pushed off from the barrier, shoving past a startled camera operator and lunging forward. Oscar looked up at the exact moment you collided with him—your hands hitting his chest, knocking him sideways just enough for the chunk of metal to miss him and crash onto the concrete where his head had been seconds earlier.

Gasps rang out. Someone swore. The camera operator yelled for a medic even though no one was hurt.

You were breathless. So was Oscar.

His hands had come up instinctively to catch you, one gripping your upper arm, the other braced against your back as you leaned into him. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. He looked at you—not past you, not through you—but at you. Directly.

“Are you okay?” you breathed.

“I should be asking you that.” His voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge of surprise in it now. “You just tackled me.”

“You were about to get brained by half a light rig.”

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close. “Fair point.”

You felt it then—that flutter again. The same one from weeks ago. But louder now. Stronger.

Oscar’s fingers lingered at your side a moment too long before he slowly let go. You pulled back, flustered, brushing dust from your sleeves.

Charles sidled in behind you with a smug grin. “Didn’t know Ferrari trained you for combat rescues.”

“Shut up,” you muttered under your breath, cheeks on fire.

Oscar straightened, glancing at the wreckage. Then at you.

“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time. Sincere. “That could’ve been…”

“Yeah.” You gave a small smile. “Try not to stand under falling things next time.”

“I’ll do my best.”

[vibelladonna]

𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓉𝑔𝓊𝓃 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝑜𝒷𝓎 𝓇𝑜𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: University sucks, the party’s not much better, and you just needed something to take the edge off. Then you met him—smirking, drinking, smoking, and way too good at getting under your skin. One reckless choice, a little smoke, and now you’re in deeper than you planned.  

All this because of 'shotgun'.

This is by far my favorite fic, like I was giggling while reading this. [ 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓉𝓌𝑜 ]

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: dealer!toby x student!reader, afab!reader, drunk and high reader, smut, public fucking, degrading, frat party chaos, dangerously hot tension, dirty talk, sloppy makeout, mischief and mayhem, horror lurking in the background, high risk, bad decisions, toxic flirting, rough but hot, Toby being a menace, reader getting lost in the moment

Music. Loud. Sweaty. Flashing lights. Packed bodies. 

That’s life at a frat party—especially at a University.    

And here you are. Again. It’s the fourth time this week, which is ridiculous, but whatever. Thinking about it too much makes your head hurt, and right now, thinking is the last thing you want to do. So, you don’t. Instead, you just exist—float through the mess of bodies, lights, and bass like it’s just another night, because at this point, it is.  

One second, you were swearing off cheap beer and regret-fueled decisions, and the next? Someone was dragging you through the door of another overcrowded house, the bass shaking the walls like it’s got something to prove.  

The air is thick and humid with the scent of too many people packed into one place, layered with alcohol, sweat, cheap cologne, and the unmistakable burn of weed. Someone stumbles past, nearly knocking into you, and you move without thinking, sidestepping effortlessly. 

You don’t even flinch. 

You’ve already lost count of how many times someone’s spilled their drink on you, but at this point, what’s another stain on your already questionable life choices?  You’ve gotten used to this—used to the chaos, the noise, the heat of it all pressing in.  

Your dress clings to your body, lace and satin hugging your frame like it was made for you, black and sleek, the hem just short enough to tease but not desperate enough to beg for attention. Your ripped tights stretch over your legs, the small tears catching the flashing neon lights as you move. Your boots—tall, chunky, black platforms—thud against the sticky floor with every step, giving you that extra height, that extra weight to your presence. 

You’re not delicate. 

Not fragile. Not here.  

The star-shaped bead necklace resting against your collarbone shifts as you walk, the cool beads a strange contrast to the heat of the room. It’s the only thing on you that doesn’t feel like armor, the only thing soft, almost childish, against the dark edge of the rest of your outfit. 

But you like it. It reminds you of something—something you can’t quite name, but something that feels distant, like a memory you almost remember before it slips through your fingers.  

You could leave. You should leave. 

But something keeps you here. 

Maybe it’s the way the music thrums under your skin, the way the chaos feels like static in your head—loud enough to drown out whatever thoughts you don’t want to deal with, or maybe it’s just that part of you that doesn’t want to be alone tonight.  

But whatever. It’s just another night. Another party. Another drink.  

You push through the crowd, toward the kitchen, because if you’re going to keep pretending everything is fine, you’re going to need something to sip on. It’s easier that way. It keeps everything quiet, keeps the thoughts at bay. 

And right now? That’s all you need.

The kitchen is just as much of a mess as the rest of the house. Sticky counters, half-empty bottles of vodka and tequila, a questionable jungle juice mix sloshing around in a plastic tub that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned properly in months. 

Solo cups litter every surface, discarded and forgotten, and the faint smell of beer, sweat, and something burnt lingers in the air. Someone left a bag of half-eaten chips on the counter, but they’re already stale, exposed to the humidity and the heat of too many bodies in a house that should not be holding this many people.  

You weave through the kitchen, careful with your movements—controlled, deliberate. You don’t rush. Rushing means you’re in a hurry, means you’re nervous, and that’s the last thing you want to look like in a place like this. 

The frat guys? Yeah, they’re watching. 

They always are. 

Not that you care, not really, but you make sure to let them see just enough to know you’re not approachable. The lace and satin of your dress catch the dim, flickering light, your ripped tights adding an edge, the platform boots giving you weight, grounding you. 

You look good. You know it. They know it. 

But that doesn’t mean you’re interested.  

It’s all the same. These parties, these guys. They circle like vultures, drunk off beer and ego, scanning the room for girls too fresh to know better. It’s not even surprising. Frat parties aren’t really about the party; they’re about the hunt. And the freshmen? They eat it up, giggling into their drinks, draping themselves over guys who are already planning how the night’s gonna end. 

It’s not a bad thing, necessarily—everyone’s having fun, after all—but it cheapens the whole vibe. Makes it feel less like a party and more like a transaction.  

So, why are you here?  

Good question. Maybe it’s the music, the way the bass thrums through your bones, loud enough to drown out thoughts you don’t want to deal with. Maybe it’s the anonymity of it all—here, no one cares who you are or what you’re running from. 

You could be anyone. Do anything. It’s the kind of place where judgment doesn’t exist, where people let themselves fall apart without consequence, because come morning, no one’s gonna remember.  

You grab a bottle from the counter, something dark, something strong, and pour yourself another drink. It burns when it goes down, but that’s good. 

That’s what you want. 

That’s the point.  

The night stretches ahead, endless and hazy, the music still pulsing, the party still alive. And you? You’re just here, existing in it, letting it swallow you whole.

The wooden planks creak under your boots as you step onto the balcony, the air instantly cooler, crisper against your flushed skin. Out here, the chaos of the party fades—not completely, but enough. The bass still thrums through the walls, muffled, but compared to the suffocating heat inside, this feels almost peaceful. Almost.  

You lean against the railing, eyes scanning the view—a few trees swaying gently in the night breeze, buildings standing silent in the distance, the occasional car rolling down the dimly lit street below. It’s nothing special, but right now, it’s a hell of a lot better than being trapped inside with too many bodies, too much noise, and too many guys looking for their next easy lay. 

You take a slow breath, letting the night air cool your skin, before pushing your hair back and taking a sip of your drink. The burn is familiar now, settling warm in your stomach, grounding you in a way that nothing else really does.  

You place the cup on the railing, fingers lingering for a moment before you catch movement out of the corner of your eye. You’re not alone.  

In the farthest corner of the balcony, half-hidden in the shadows, a guy is leaning up against the wall, phone pressed to his ear. He’s talking—low, quiet, voice barely carrying over the distant thump of music inside. You can’t make out the words, not exactly, but there’s something in the way he speaks, clipped and tense, that makes it clear the conversation isn’t lighthearted.  

You don’t mean to listen. Really. But it’s hard not to when it’s just the two of you out here, and there’s nothing else to focus on besides the sound of his voice. You shift your weight, turning slightly away, giving the illusion of privacy while your ears pick up every muffled word you can catch.

 Nosy? Maybe. But can you be blamed?  

The wind picks up slightly, pushing strands of hair into your face. You exhale, shaking them loose, and glance at the guy again. He hasn’t noticed you—or if he has, he doesn’t care. Fine by you. 

You’re not looking for conversation. Just a moment to breathe, to exist outside of everything, even if it’s just for a few minutes.

You exhale slowly, eyes trailing over the street below as the cool night air settles over your skin. The party is still in full swing behind you—muffled bass rattling the walls, drunken laughter spilling out through the open doors, the occasional shout of someone either too hyped or too wasted to care about volume control. It’s all background noise now, just another part of the night.  

Maybe it’s time to leave.  

You’ve been here long enough, longer than you meant to. You told yourself you’d just come for one drink, just to feel the energy, just to distract yourself for a little while. And yet, here you are—four nights deep into the same routine, standing on a frat house balcony at god-knows-what time, staring out at the same damn street, feeling the same creeping exhaustion settle into your bones.  

You know how the rest of the night is gonna play out. You’ll go back inside, push through the sweat-slick bodies, dodge another drunk guy who thinks standing way too close is an acceptable flirting technique, grab whatever’s left of your drink, and maybe—just maybe—someone will convince you to stay for “one more.” You’ll say yes, because it’s easier than going home to an empty room where your own thoughts are louder than the party you just left.  

Or, you could just… go now. Call it. Walk down those sticky-ass, deathtrap stairs, push past the front door, and let the night air carry you home. Sounds easy enough.  

Except, knowing this place, the second your boot hits one of those steps, there’s a good chance the entire staircase might just give out beneath you. It’s a miracle this frat house is still standing at all—like some kind of drunk, indestructible cockroach of a building, surviving on nothing but spilled beer, bad decisions, and whatever last-minute duct tape fixes the guys have slapped together over the years.  

The walls? Covered in mystery stains no one dares to question. The furniture? A graveyard of mismatched couches that probably came from a curb somewhere, each one holding the history of every regrettable hookup that’s ever happened at this house. The floors? Stickier than a damn movie theater, holding onto spilled drinks and broken dreams like a badge of honor.  

And those stairs? Those damn stairs are an actual lawsuit waiting to happen. Uneven, creaking under the weight of anyone stupid enough to trust them, patched up with nails that barely hold together the wood. You’ve seen people wipe out on them at least three times tonight alone—some because they were drunk, others just because the stairs themselves seemed to decide, “Yeah, not tonight.”  

Still, as much of a disaster as this place is, it’s got that weird, grimy charm that keeps people coming back. Maybe it’s the parties, maybe it’s the fact that no matter how many times the university threatens to shut this place down, it just refuses to die. Or maybe it’s because, in some strange way, it feels like the kind of place where nothing matters. You can exist here without expectation, without judgment.  

But that doesn’t mean you have to stay.  

With a final glance toward the flashing lights inside, you sigh. Time to get out of here—before the floor caves in or the ceiling fan that’s barely hanging on finally falls and takes someone out.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, already preparing yourself to leave when—  

“Hey.”  

You jolt so hard you nearly throw yourself over the damn railing.  

“Jesus—” You whip around, hand clutching your chest like that’s gonna stop your soul from trying to escape your body. The guy in the corner—formerly minding his own business, deeply invested in whatever serious phone call he was having—now stands a few feet away, looking far too amused for someone who just scared the life out of you.  

“Didn’t mean to freak you out,” he says, even though the smirk on his face suggests otherwise.  

“You did,” you deadpan, still willing your heartbeat to slow down. “Congratulations. Hope that was the highlight of your night.”  

He chuckles, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Eh, top five, at least.”  

You roll your eyes, exhaling sharply. “Right. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of having an existential crisis, so…”  

He raises a brow. “That serious, huh?”  

You glance back at the party inside—the flashing lights, the chaos, the bodies pressed too close together. Then back at the street below, quiet and empty, calling your name.  

“Something like that.”  

He doesn’t respond right away, just studies you for a second like he’s trying to piece you together. And honestly? You’re too tired to care what conclusions he’s coming to.  

“Then what’re you still doing here?” he finally asks, tilting his head slightly.  

Good question. One, you don’t quite have an answer to.  

Maybe you should leave. Maybe you really will this time. But for now, you just huff out a laugh, grab your drink from the railing, and take another slow sip.  

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

You didn’t know what to make of the dude other than that he’s been out here with you for a while now. Long enough to feel like part of the scenery—like the railing, like the wind, like the streetlights casting long shadows below.

But now that he’s talking and close enough for you to get a good look at him, you realize something.  

He looks… off. 

Not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way that makes your brain take longer to process him.  

Pale. Gaunt. Like he hasn’t slept in a week, maybe two. His dark brown hair is messy, almost like he forgot he had it, and his eyes—deep-set, sunken—hold an intensity that makes it impossible to tell if he’s actually looking at you or through you. He’s thin and wiry, all sharp angles beneath layers of tattered clothing that somehow manage to look effortlessly cool. 

Black-washed jeans, ripped just enough to make it look intentional, a T-shirt barely visible beneath a flannel, and a dark brown jacket that’s seen better days. Perched on his head, a pair of orange goggles sits like a misplaced artifact, out of place but somehow fitting him perfectly.  

Then there’s the grin. Wide. Unsettling. A little too knowing, like he’s in on some joke you haven’t heard yet. His teeth—crooked, sharp-looking—flash in the dim balcony light. Paired with his unblinking stare and the way he barely seems to stand still, it’s enough to make most people uneasy.  

But you? You just study him right back.  

“You checkin’ me out or trying to decide if I’m a serial killer?” His voice is rough, edged with something lazy and amused, the smirk on his lips deepening as he tilts his head slightly.  

You don’t even flinch. “Can’t it be both?”  

His laugh is sharp, quick. “Damn. That’s cold.”  

You shrug, taking another sip of your drink. “Just saying. You’ve got a look.”  

“A look?” He raises an eyebrow—well, what’s left of one. The slit cutting through it adds to the whole deranged but weirdly stylish vibe he’s got going on. “Elaborate.”  

You gesture vaguely at him. “You know. The I may or may not haunt abandoned gas stations look.”  

He barks out another laugh, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “That’s a new one. Not bad. Kinda poetic.”  

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, glancing back at the party inside. “Fits.”  

He watches you for a beat, then leans against the railing beside you, hands slipping into his pockets. The erratic energy he had earlier settles just a bit.  

“So, what’s your deal?” he asks, tilting his head again. “You’re out here looking all brooding and mysterious. Gotta say, if we’re going for aesthetic, you’ve got it locked down.”  

You scoff. “Says the guy with the mad scientist, but make it grunge fit.”  

He grins again, flashing those crooked teeth. “Touché.”  

Silence settles for a moment, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just the two of you leaning against the railing, breathing in the cool night air, letting the distant noise of the party fill the spaces between words.  

Finally, he speaks again. “You gonna leave?”  

You exhale slowly, swirling the liquid in your cup. “Dunno. Maybe.”  

He hums, rocking on his heels. “If you do, try not to get murdered on the way home. Bad way to end the night.”  

You smirk, side-eyeing him. “That a threat?”  

He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah. Just a friendly PSA.”  

For some reason, that makes you laugh, too. And maybe, just maybe, the night doesn’t feel as heavy anymore.

You swirl the last bit of your drink in your cup, watching the way the liquid catches the dim light before glancing back at the guy beside you. He’s still leaning against the railing, a smirk lingering at the corner of his mouth, but his fingers tap restlessly against his jacket, like he’s got too much energy to keep still. His gaze flickers toward you again, catching you staring.  

“What?” he drawls, eyebrow raising slightly.  

You tilt your head, eyes trailing over his face. “Your piercings.”  

His smirk widens. “Damn, if you wanted to check me out, you could’ve just said so.”  

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Relax... Just curious.”  

He chuckles but obliges, turning his head slightly so you can get a better look. Up close, they’re even more noticeable—two silver rings through his lip, a matching set in his eyebrow, slicing through the already-slit brow in a way that somehow makes him look even more chaotic. There’s something deliberate about it, though. Messy but intentional. Like everything about him is designed to make people do a double-take.  

“How many you got?” you ask, squinting slightly.  

He hums, tilting his head as if counting. “Double lip rings, double eyebrow… septum, too.” He gestures vaguely at the silver hoop in his nose. “Had a few more, but, y’know. Shit happens.”  

You nod, studying the way they catch the light. “They suit you.”  

He grins, crooked and toothy. “Damn right they do.”  

There’s something oddly comfortable about standing here, talking like this. The party behind you still rages on, but out here, it’s just the two of you, the night air, and the occasional rumble of a car passing below.  

“You from around here?” you ask, half out of curiosity, half just to keep the conversation going.  

He shrugs, gaze shifting toward the street. “Yeah. Kinda. Grew up a little ways out. Middle of nowhere.”  

“You got family here?”  

His fingers twitch against his jacket again, but he nods. “Used to have a mom and sister growing up. Just us three.”  

You don’t press, but he keeps going anyway, voice a little lighter, like he’s just saying whatever comes to mind.  

“Didn’t really have a lotta friends as a kid. Not the ‘fits in real well’ type, y’know?” He laughs, but there’s something dry about it. “Ended up homeschooled pretty early on.”  

You raise a brow. “Why?”  

Before he can answer, his body suddenly jolts, shoulders snapping upward in a sharp, involuntary motion. His head jerks to the side slightly, fingers twitching, and a small noise escapes him—quick, abrupt.  

You flinch. Just a little. Not on purpose, just out of instinct.  

His head turns toward you again, eyes unreadable for a moment. Then, as if he’s used to it, he gives a breathy chuckle. “Scare you?”  

You shake your head quickly. “No—well. Kinda. Wasn’t expecting it.”  

He shrugs, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking it off. “Yeah, that happens.” He pauses, then sighs, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “I’ve got a disorder. Makes shit like that happen. Tics, muscle movements, sounds, all that fun stuff. Can’t really control it.”  

You blink, processing that. “Does it hurt?”  

He snorts. “Nah. Just annoying. Worse when I’m stressed or whatever.”  

You nod slowly, watching as he twitches again, fingers curling against his palm before relaxing. “That’s why you were homeschooled?”  

His jaw ticks for a second, and then he exhales. “Yeah. Public school wasn’t exactly fun when you twitch like a fuckin’ glitchy video game. Teachers thought I was doing it on purpose, kids thought it was hilarious, and, well. It got old real fast.”  

You frown. “Sounds like bullshit.”  

He lets out a sharp, quick laugh. “Yeah, welcome to my life.”  

For a moment, you don’t say anything, just leaning against the railing as the wind pushes strands of hair into your face. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable talking about it—just matter-of-fact, like it is what it is. But still, you can’t help but feel something about it.  

“You ever, like… wish you were different?” you ask, not sure why you’re even asking.  

He considers that for a second, then shakes his head. “Nah. People suck either way. Might as well be the way I am and make it work.”  

You smirk. “Fair enough.”  

There’s a brief pause before he tilts his head at you, his expression unreadable. Then, with that same sharp grin, he says, “You’re not bad, y’know that?”  

You raise a brow. “What, were you expecting me to be?”  

He laughs. “Dunno. Jury’s still out.” And for some reason, you find yourself laughing, too. That’s when he leans back slightly, stretching his arms behind his head. “Toby, by the way. Short for Tobias.”  

Your lips twitch, barely holding back a smirk. “Tobias?”  

His eyes narrow playfully. “Don’t start.”  

“Oh, I am starting. Tobias? That’s so—”  

He groans, tipping his head back. “Alright, damn, I knew this was a mistake.”  

You chuckle, crossing your arms. “Nah, I like it. Tobias,” you repeat, dragging it out just to mess with him. “Sounds very... proper. Distinguished.”  

“Distinguished my ass,” he scoffs, but there’s an amused glint in his eyes. “Alright, alright, what about you? What’s your name?”  

You share it, though you notice the way he repeats it back, like he’s trying it out on his tongue, testing the way it feels.    

He considers it for a second, then nods. “Yeah. Suits you.”

You show a small smile and swirl the last remnants of your drink, watching the way the liquid catches the dim light. “So,” you start, glancing at him, “do you go to uni around here? Or are you just crashing this party for the hell of it?”  

Toby snickers, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, technically? But not, like… in the ‘good student’ kinda way.”  

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that mean?”  

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to spill some deep, dark secret. “It means,” he drawls, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t snitch, yeah?”  

You blink, thrown off. “Snitch? On what?”  

He grins—sharp, a little too amused. Then, with the most casual ease, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a joint, rolling it between his fingers. “Let’s just say I’m not exactly here for the education.”  

You snort. “You’re selling? At a frat party? Jesus, that’s like the most obvious place to get caught.”  

“Exactly,” he says, flicking a lighter open with a clink—then pausing. He pats his pockets, frowning. “Shit. Left mine back at the house.”  

Without thinking, you reach into your own jacket and pull out your lighter, holding it out.  

He raises a brow, lips quirking. “Damn. Didn’t peg you for a smoker.”  

“I’m not,” you say, flicking it open for him. “More of a drinker.”  

Toby hums, lighting the joint and taking a slow, deep inhale before blowing the smoke out into the night air. “Fair. Drinking’s easier. Weed’s got a whole vibe, though.”  

You shake your head, leaning back against the railing. “Nah. If I’m gonna get wasted, I’d rather do it fast.”  

Toby smirks around the joint, then glances at you with something almost mischievous in his eyes. “You ever shotgun before?”  

You blink. “Shotgun? Like, a beer?”  

“Nah,” he says, stepping just a little closer, tilting his head. “Shotgunning. With weed.” He takes another hit, then gestures loosely. “One person takes a drag, blows the smoke into the other person’s mouth. Real smooth way to convert someone.”  

You stare at him for a second. “That’s a thing?”  

Toby grins, exhaling through his nose. “Oh yeah.”  

You sigh, swirling the last few drops of your drink before setting the bottle on the railing. The buzz in your head is nice, warm, just enough to take the edge off, but not enough to drown out the way the night still feels heavy on your shoulders. The way everything has felt heavy lately. 

Maybe that’s why you’re still standing out here, entertaining this conversation instead of making up some excuse to leave. Maybe that’s why, when Toby takes another slow drag from his joint, you catch yourself watching the way his lips part, the ember at the tip glowing faintly in the dark.  

Fuck it.  

You tilt your head, eyes half-lidded, tired but sharp. “Alright,” you murmur, voice low, almost lazy. “Let’s do it.”  

Toby pauses mid-inhale, blinking at you like he wasn’t actually expecting you to say yes. Then, his grin spreads slowly and crooked across his face, like you just made his night. “Oh? Thought you weren’t into smoking.”  

You shrug, licking your lips. “I’m not.” You shift slightly, stepping just a little closer, gaze flicking from his mouth to the joint and back again. “But I’m also kinda drunk and bored, so…”  

He huffs a laugh, tapping his fingers against the joint. “Fair enough.” Then, with no hesitation, he takes a long, deep pull, holding the smoke in his mouth before leaning in, bringing himself just inches from you.  

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice smooth, inviting.  

You exhale slowly through your nose, then close the distance, tilting your chin up. His hand lifts, fingers grazing your jaw, tilting your face just right before he leans in closer, until his lips are barely a breath from yours. Then—he exhales.  

The smoke pours from his mouth to yours, curling between your parted lips, thick and heady. You inhale, slow and steady, the burn unfamiliar but not unpleasant, and for a split second, you don’t know if it’s the weed, the alcohol, or the way he’s looking at you, but the moment feels thick—charged. His eyes flicker down to your lips, lingering, and you feel your pulse spike just a little.  

You exhale, blowing the smoke out past him, your breath mingling in the cold air between you. “Not bad,” you mutter, licking the taste of it off your lips.  

Toby smirks, leaning back just slightly, but his eyes are still on you, dark and amused. “You look real good doing that, y’know.”  

You scoff, shaking your head. “You say that to all your customers?”  

“Nah,” he says, tapping the ash off the joint, gaze still steady on you. “Just the ones that make it look hot.”  

You don’t break eye contact, and neither does he. The world around you fades, just a hum of music and muffled voices, but it feels like you’re in your little bubble. You’re still leaning in close enough to feel his breath, the faintest warmth of it on your skin. 

For a second, it almost feels like you’re both suspended, not really here, not really there, just caught somewhere in between. 

Toby tilts his head slightly, a glint of something almost mischievous in his eyes. “You sure you don’t want another hit?”  

You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into something just shy of a smile. “I’m good,” you say, voice steady, though your pulse is a little too fast, a little too loud in your ears.  

He shrugs, pulling the joint away from his lips and holding it out to you. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”  

You lean in a little closer, just enough for your shoulders to brush, and for a split second, there’s that spark again. Something in his eyes shifts, something deeper—an almost flickering challenge. “You’re cocky, aren’t you?”  

He looks down at you, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe.” He taps his fingers lightly against the side of his jacket, his other hand still holding the joint between his fingers. “But cocky’s fun, don’t you think?”  

The words hang between you, the moment stretching. 

He’s close. 

Too close, but somehow, it doesn’t feel too much. And for a split second, you forget why you came out here. Forget about all the noise, the chaos of the party inside, the fact that you should probably be making your exit.  

Maybe you just want to stay here for a second longer, where the world is quieter. Where it’s just you, him, and the cool night air.  

The joint is still in his hand, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. He lifts it again, but this time, instead of offering it to you, he holds it up between you, right in your line of sight. “You don’t gotta take another hit, but...” He leans in, his voice dipping low, more playful now. “How about a little more fun?”  

Your brows furrow, and you tilt your head, lips just curling with curiosity. “What do you mean by that?”  

“Shotgunning,” he repeats, voice light but with a dangerous edge to it, almost teasing. He flicks his eyes down to your lips again before looking back up at you. “But this time... I’ll let you call the shots.”  

There’s something undeniably bold about the way he says it, about the way his fingers graze your wrist lightly as he holds the joint between you. You could back off. Step away. Act like it’s no big deal. But the way he’s looking at you makes your heart skip a beat, makes that little voice in your head scream fuck it.  

So, without thinking, you nod. “Fine. Let’s do it.”  

He grins, his eyes lighting up with something between amusement and approval. “I like that. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”  

You can’t help but laugh softly, the sound mixing with the music still booming behind you. “You sure about that?”  

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves in closer, just enough for his breath to fan across your face before he places the joint between your lips, his fingers brushing against your skin. You lean into the contact, your pulse picking up. His lips hover just barely above yours, and for a moment, you think he might kiss you—but he pulls back instead, exhaling slowly into the space between you.  

The smoke fills the air, surrounding you in a cloud thick enough to make you dizzy, your body sinking deeper into the moment, feeling all kinds of electric, like you’re both too aware of the tension buzzing between you. You inhale the smoke, pulling it into your lungs. It’s harsh, but your body adapts.  

When you finally exhale, Toby is watching you closely, his smirk now gone, replaced with something far more intense. “You’re good at this,” he says quietly, his voice almost a whisper in the night air. “You ever do this with anyone before?”  

You shake your head, voice low and steady. “No. First time for everything, right?”  

He chuckles, but there’s a sharpness to it. “That’s what they say.” He leans back, finally pulling the joint from his mouth, the glow dimming as he exhales the smoke. “You’ve got guts. I respect that.”  

You give him a slight, teasing smile. “Respect doesn’t mean much at a frat party, though.”  

Toby tilts his head, his smirk returning, but it’s a little more dangerous now. “Maybe. But I think we’re having a pretty good time, don’t you?”  

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you just look at him, feeling the weight of the moment, the way the night’s still lingering between you two like something neither of you want to admit out loud. You can feel the air crackling with a kind of dangerous fun, and you know—you’re not about to walk away from this anytime soon.

The air between you and Toby is thick with unspoken tension, his eyes flickering to your lips for a moment, then back to your eyes, as if waiting for something, daring you to make the first move. You stare back at him, the weight of his gaze making your pulse race, but you’re not about to let him off that easily.  

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he teases, his voice a smooth, low drawl. “Did I break you already?”  

You roll your eyes, stepping back a little. “Please. I’m just trying to figure out if you’re a guy who talks big or if you can actually back it up.”  

Toby laughs softly, the sound vibrating through the air between you. “I back up everything I say.”  

“Oh really?” You arch an eyebrow, keeping your stance cool and unbothered. “Then prove it.”  

A shift passes through him, a flash of something dangerous and playful all at once. Before you can react, he steps forward, his movements fast, almost too quick. Before you know it, you’re backed up against the cold wooden railing of the balcony, your hands instinctively gripping the edge as he pins you there with just enough force to make your heart skip a beat.  

“Wha—” You cut yourself off, taken by surprise, eyes wide.  

Toby’s face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. His hands are on either side of you, not touching you, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from his fingertips. His gaze drops to your lips again, then back to your eyes, a challenge in his smirk.  

“Maybe you should be careful what you wish for,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly softer, almost dangerous. “You sure you wanna play with me like this?”  

You laugh, though it comes out breathless, feeling the adrenaline rush in your veins. “I didn’t ask you to pin me, but hey, guess this is what you meant by ‘proving it,’ huh?”  

He grins wider, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Mhm.” But then, the teasing in his voice falters just a little, and something shifts. He leans in a little closer, close enough that you can feel the tension building between you. “You don’t really get it, do you?”  

“What, that you’re just another bad boy with an attitude?” You quip, trying to keep the mood light, but you can feel your chest tightening, your breath hitching in your throat.  

Toby chuckles darkly, but it’s not mocking—this time, there’s something different behind it. “Nah. You’re not wrong, but that’s not what I mean. What I mean is…” He pauses, eyes flashing as he watches you carefully. He leans even closer, just barely touching your arm with his, and you feel the electricity run through you, like he’s teasing you, daring you to break first. “I’m not the type to let things go without finishing them. And that includes… whatever this is.”  

You take a breath—your heart racing. You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol, the weed, or just the way he’s looking at you right now, but the tension is practically suffocating. You can feel him leaning in, tempting, his lips just barely brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispers, “You think I’m just gonna let you walk away after that?”  

You should pull away. 

You should walk back inside and call it a night. 

But you don’t. 

You stay there, leaning back against the railing, watching him carefully, breathing in the same air, the same heat, the same anticipation.  

And then, without thinking, you lean up just a little, your face hovering dangerously close to his. “I think you might surprise me,” you murmur, your voice low, teasing, but there’s a challenge in it now.  

Toby’s eyes flash, his gaze burning into yours, and you feel the pull between you intensify. But before either of you can make the first move, the world around you shifts again.  

His hand is on the railing beside you, his body leaning just a little closer, but suddenly, there’s this split second of hesitation in his eyes. His lips part, and for the first time tonight, he looks unsure.  

“You’re not scared, are you?” You whisper, leaning in just a little more, watching the way his lips twitch.  

Toby’s chest rises and falls with a deep breath, and for a moment, you see it—the tension in his body, the war within him between wanting to give in to that dangerous impulse and knowing there’s a line that’s too far to cross.  

Then, with a sharp exhale, he pulls back slightly, running a hand through his messy hair, the motion almost like he’s trying to shake off whatever just happened. “You think I’m scared?”  

You smile, watching him carefully. “I don’t know, are you?”  

He grins, though it’s not nearly as playful as before. It’s something else, something that says he’s not backing down, but maybe he’s not quite ready for whatever happens next, either.  

“Nah,” he says, leaning back just enough to give you space, but his gaze is still heavy, still burning with something almost dangerous. “I’m not scared.”  

You both stand there for a second, caught in the lingering heat of the moment, neither of you speaking, but the air feels thick with the possibility of something that might happen if either of you makes the wrong move.  

And neither of you know what’s next. 

The tension between you and Toby has stretched taut, like an elastic band about to snap. You can’t help the way your body leans instinctively toward him, and as if on cue, he leans in just a fraction closer. 

The space between you has shrunk to nothing, leaving only the thundering of your heartbeat in your ears. His breath ghosts across your lips, warm and steady, and for a moment, the whole world around you disappears—the thumping music, the chatter from inside, even the cool night air that brushes against your skin. 

It’s just him, so close you can feel the pulse of his energy, his presence like a current that pulls you in deeper.

You’re completely caught in the moment, every nerve in your body humming with anticipation, when his hand suddenly finds your waist, fingers pressing against the fabric of your dress. 

The heat of his palm sears through the thin material, his touch gentle at first, almost hesitant—as if waiting for a sign. But then, the pressure intensifies. His grip tightens, dragging you closer to him, the movement swift and sure, until your body is flush against his.

Now, you feel everything. 

The hard planes of his chest, the quick beat of his heart that matches your frantic pulse. But it’s the sensation of his lips that gets you the most—his pierced lips brushing against yours, the slight click of metal against metal. 

You can feel the cool weight of his lip rings as they press softly against your mouth, a contrast to the heat of his skin beneath them. Each breath you take mixes with his; his lips barely brush yours, sending sparks through your veins. The sensation of those piercings, a gentle reminder of the tension that’s been building between you, makes your pulse quicken even more.  

Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to burst through your ribs, but you don’t move away. You inch closer, your lips almost brushing as you finally let your eyes fall shut. 

And that’s when Toby makes the move.

He closes the space between you, tilting his head just enough so that his lips crash into yours with an intensity that takes your breath away. It’s messy at first, neither of you quite in sync, but the desperation of it is overwhelming. His hand on your waist pulls you tighter, your chest pressed flush against his, the way his fingers dig into your skin making a fire run through your veins. 

His other hand cups your face, pulling you even closer, his thumb tracing the edge of your jawline, before his lips find yours again, this time with more certainty.

You respond without hesitation, your own hands reaching up, tangling in his hair, fingers scraping lightly against his scalp. It’s frantic, wild—like neither of you wants to stop, even though you both know it’s almost too much, too fast. His lips are soft but hungry, and the feeling of his breath against your mouth, the pulse of his body under your hands, drives you crazy. He pulls you even closer until there’s no space between you left at all, and for a moment, you feel like you’re melting into him.

His hand moves down your back, tracing the curve of your spine, and you can feel his body shifting against yours, more attuned now, his movements smoother, as if he’s figuring out the rhythm between the two of you. He pulls you closer still, his grip on your waist firm, but careful—he’s holding you there but not letting you fall. You can feel the tension in his body, the way it shakes under the intensity of the kiss, and for a moment, it feels like time itself stops.

But then, he pulls back just slightly, his lips still lingering on yours, his forehead resting gently against yours as he catches his breath. His hand on your waist softens, his thumb tracing little circles against your skin. There’s a grin on his face when you open your eyes, the hint of mischief and satisfaction in it, but there’s something else, too. Something softer.  

“That was... unexpected,” he says, his voice rough, his lips swollen from the kiss.  

You smile, your heart still racing, and before you can stop yourself, you laugh softly. “You think?” You’re breathless, a little dazed, but that feeling of heat isn’t going anywhere.  

Toby just shakes his head, a cocky grin forming on his lips. “You should be careful, you know. I can be a dangerous distraction.”  

You tilt your head, a teasing glint in your eyes. “I don’t mind a little danger.”  

His grin widens, and he pulls you closer again, his lips brushing yours once more, just barely, before he pulls back and whispers, “I think you like the danger, don't you?”  

The smirk he gives you is enough to make your stomach flip, and for the first time tonight, you feel like you’re actually in control of the situation. He’s looking at you like he’s waiting for something, lips barely brushing yours, making you ache for him to close the space. He’s teasing you, daring you with every second that passes, but now—now—it’s your turn.

Without thinking, you close the gap between you, pushing up on your toes just enough to press your lips firmly against his. It's a soft, slow kiss at first, just a gentle brush, but the second your lips touch his, you feel him stiffen, his breath hitching, and you can't help but grin against him. You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, watching his face for that split-second moment of confusion before he smirks, a wicked glint in his eyes.

“You make a good killer, you know that?” Toby murmurs, his voice low and teasing, as if he’s figured something out that you haven’t. 

You pull back slightly, furrowing your brow in confusion. “What?” You stare at him for a second, half lost in the buzz of the moment. “What the hell does that even mean?”  

He just grins wider, leaning closer again, his lips hovering near your ear. “You just know how to fuck with someone, don’t you? You keep them on edge, make them think you’re in control... I like it.” He pulls away just enough to give you a look that could melt steel. “Makes me wanna do something naughty with you out here.” 

Your stomach flutters at the word “naughty” as you tilt your head, leaning in with a sly smile. "Naughty, huh?" you tease, raising an eyebrow. "What, like throw me over the railing or something?"  

Toby’s eyes flicker with something dangerous and fun, and for a moment, he looks like he's actually considering it. Then, his grin curls back up, and he shakes his head. “Nah, not that reckless. But I’m sure we could find something equally interesting." His hand finds the back of your neck, pulling you in close again, the heat of his body overwhelming you. 

“I’m down for whatever,” you reply, your voice low, teasing, but laced with something more daring. You could feel him stiffen again, his breath catching as your words land, and you know you’ve pushed him right to the edge.

“Well," Toby breathed, lips brushing against your ear again, sending a shiver down your spine, "I think a little trouble in a frat house balcony could be exactly what we both need right now." 

You chuckle, the sound playful but daring. "What, just like that? You sure you can handle it?" 

Toby’s smile is all mischief now. “Oh, I can handle it. The question is—can you?” 

You feel the smirk spread across your face, the excitement of this new, strange, and slightly reckless vibe pulling you deeper into the moment. Toby’s hand is still resting lightly on the back of your neck, and his thumb traces small, lazy circles against your skin, a contrast to the tension in the air between you two. It’s like a silent dare now, like you both know exactly what’s coming, and yet, neither of you are willing to back down.

You look up at him, eyes sharp and playful, the lingering buzz of your earlier kiss still fresh on your lips. "I guess we’ll have to find out, won’t we?" you say, your voice barely above a whisper, like you’re sharing a secret no one else is supposed to hear. 

Toby raises an eyebrow, the corner of his lips curling upward. He leans in just enough that you feel the heat radiating off him, the way his body is still taut with energy, ready to make a move. “I’d say you make the first move, but I think you’re already way ahead of me.” His voice drops, getting even lower, almost conspiratorial. “You’re killing me right now, y’know that?”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound light and carefree, as if you’re both suddenly in on some twisted little game. "Yeah, well, you had it coming," you reply, your eyes flicking from his lips to the dark smirk on his face.

Before he can respond, you take a step back, making the deliberate choice to break the tension between you—just enough to give him a taste of his own medicine. You casually lean against the balcony railing, your fingers grazing the cool wood, as you look up at the stars for a moment, letting the cool night air settle over you.

But Toby isn’t backing off. You can feel his presence behind you, the way his gaze never leaves you. The next thing you know, you feel him step up behind you, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes your breath catch. His hand slides over the railing, right next to yours, almost like he’s claiming his space in your little world. 

“I thought you said you liked danger?” His voice is thick with challenge now, a note of amusement threading through the words. “You sure you’re not regretting that little move you made earlier?”

You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder, and the look in his eyes makes your pulse spike again. There's an intensity there, the same unrelenting intensity that’s been building all night, and it’s clear you’re both on the verge of something that might take you somewhere you didn’t expect.

"I don’t regret shit," you say, your voice steady but carrying that edge of flirtation. "And if you're smart, neither will you."

His grin grows, something darker flickering in his eyes as he leans even closer, his lips grazing your ear as he whispers, “Then let’s find out how far this can go… before we both regret it.”

You’re both too close now, and the space between you becomes a silent promise. His lips brush against your ear, the sensation sending a wave of heat rushing through your body. The night, the party, the chaos all fade into the background as your mind fixates on the moment, on the unspoken agreement between you two.

You could walk away, pretend like this was all just a stupid flirtation—but you’re not ready to. 

Not yet. 

Something about Toby, about the fire that’s been burning between you since the first kiss, pulls you in like gravity.

Before you can even think, you’re turning around, moving into him again, your lips finding his with a fierceness that surprises you both. His hands are at your waist, pulling you in, and for a moment, everything else disappears. It’s just him and you, bodies pressing against each other, the intensity of it all turning your head to mush.

Toby’s grip tightens on your waist, pulling you in even closer, and for a second, you almost think you might lose balance as his body presses against yours. But his attention shifts, and you feel him start to trail his lips down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as his lips graze the sensitive curve of your neck. The sensation sends a wave of shivers down your spine, your breath catching as you try to process what’s happening.

Before you can react, his teeth nip at the soft skin of your neck, just enough to sting but not too much to hurt. You gasp, a surprised laugh escaping you, but before you can say anything, he pulls back just enough to look at you with a wild grin, eyes gleaming with something mischievous.

“You sure you can handle this?” His voice is a low, almost amused growl, the edges of it thick with the lingering haze of his intoxication.

You’re about to respond when, without warning, his mouth is back on you, this time sucking lightly on the sensitive skin of your neck, the bites turning into licks as his hand slips under the hem of your dress. Your heart races, and your body reacts before your mind does, your head tilting back to give him more access, the sensation turning from playful to something hotter, needier. 

It’s almost like everything’s moving in slow motion, but in the best way possible—each movement from him feels deliberate and intoxicating, and you can’t help but feel that rush of excitement that comes with giving in just a little more.

The air between you crackles with heat, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts as his lips leave your neck only for a second before returning with a little more pressure, his teeth grazing the skin as his tongue follows with a hot, hungry lick.

You gasp, feeling the unexpected heat of it flood your senses, and your hands grip the railing behind you, trying to steady yourself as the dizziness from the moment intensifies.

“F-Fuck,” you hear him mutter under his breath, and it’s clear he’s getting lost in the moment, high on the feeling of being this close to you. “You taste so damn g-good.” His voice is rough now, almost feral, and it makes your chest tighten with a mix of desire and thrill.

Before you can process it, his lips are back on yours, deeper this time, his tongue slipping past your lips with an urgency that has you scrambling to keep up. The kiss is messy and chaotic, but it’s exactly what both of you want right now. There’s no stopping it, no turning back. His hands roam lower, his fingers brushing against the soft curve of your thigh before sliding underneath the fabric of your dress. The sensation of his fingers against your skin is almost too much, and you can feel yourself leaning into him, just wanting more, needing more.

It’s only when you hear a distant laugh from the party, a burst of loud music drifting through the close balcony doors, that the reality of the situation hits you again. The world outside is still there, the frat party still rages on, but here—right here—it’s just the two of you, caught in something that’s starting to feel less like a game and more like an escape.

The next thing you know, Toby’s hands are under your thighs, and before you can even react, he lifts you effortlessly off the ground. You gasp, the sudden movement catching you off guard for a split second. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, holding onto him as your heart skips a beat, both from the surprise and the wild rush of adrenaline. 

Your eyes flick to the balcony’s edge, the dizzying height of the drop below making your stomach lurch. You freeze for a second, panic surging through you as your grip tightens around his shoulders. The thought of falling—of losing control—flashes through your mind, but Toby’s quick to steady you, his arms firm and secure around your body. 

The flicker of amusement in his eyes almost makes you want to punch him, but the smile playing on his lips tells you he’s enjoying every second of this. “You looked like you were gonna scream for a sec there,” he laughs softly, leaning in to kiss your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he holds you effortlessly against him. 

You let out a breath, more out of relief than anything else, before narrowing your eyes at him. “You think you’re funny?” you mutter, but there’s no real anger behind the words. If anything, you’re starting to get lost in the way his hands feel on you, the way his touch sends heat coursing through your body.

He grins wider, lowering you down onto the balcony railing, your legs still wrapped around him as he keeps you close, his grip never faltering. The cool night air brushes against your exposed skin as you sit on the edge, your body feeling vulnerable yet somehow more alive than ever.

Toby’s hand slides beneath the lace of your dress, his fingers skimming over your thigh in slow, deliberate movements. His touch is gentle at first, but it soon intensifies, the feeling of his fingertips against the soft fabric of your tights making you shiver. His eyes are fixed on you, studying your reactions as if he’s trying to read you like a book. 

"God, you're killing me," he murmurs, voice rough as his hand moves higher, rubbing over your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress up just a little more. You feel the heat of his hand through the lace, and your body instinctively tenses, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation swirling inside you.

"You like that, don't you?" he says, his tone teasing, knowing exactly how to push your buttons. His fingers slip further under the lace, brushing against the smooth skin of your thigh, and you can feel the pressure building between you, a connection so strong it’s almost suffocating.

You don’t answer right away, not sure how to even put words to the feeling bubbling up inside of you. Instead, you just let out a shaky breath, your grip tightening around his neck, pulling him in closer as you press your lips against his, kissing him deeply, fiercely—making up for the tension you’ve both been holding onto all night. 

Toby responds immediately, his hands sliding further up your thigh, his fingers brushing against your skin with a new urgency. His lips are on yours again, hungry and demanding, as he holds you firmly against him, the world around you disappearing with every passing second.

You can feel his body heating up under your touch, the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching your own. His hands are everywhere, exploring the curve of your body with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

Toby watches you closely, his gaze intent, studying your every reaction. He knows he’s got you, and he’s more than willing to make you squirm a little bit before you give him exactly what he wants. 

He shifts slightly, his fingers tracing lightly along lace underwear, moving in slow, deliberate circles. The touch is soft at first, barely a graze, but it doesn’t stay that way for long before he moves them out of his way.

His two fingers increase their pressure, adding another, gradually rubbing up and down your clit, the sensation making you feel every inch of your skin tingle with anticipation. His touch is deceptively gentle, but you can tell from the way he’s looking at you that he’s playing with you—testing your limits.

With every pass of his fingers, he brings more heat, his touch becoming firmer, just enough to make your breath catch—feeling him drawing the tip of his finger back and forth and pressing his thumb over the shy pearl. Power and control danced on his face, gratification beaming on the brown haze of his glare as he manipulated you to his will.

You kept in the most sinful moans—not allowing it to break through your mouth to prevent others below the frat party from hearing. Spread wide open only for him, you shoved against the stroke of his hand and then choked over his forearm, riding his finger, clenching, pulsating desperately for release. 

You feel your heart thundering in your chest, the space between you and him narrowing with every passing second, the tension thickening until it’s almost unbearable.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, “I’m waiting.”

Toby leans back slightly, his eyes scanning you in a way that feels more predatory than appreciative. He’s got that smirk on his lips, like he knows exactly how much he’s getting under your skin. And if he’s being honest, he kinda enjoys it.

You look up at him, trying to steady yourself, but there’s something in his gaze that makes it hard to focus. His fingers suddenly move inside you, a subtle shift in pressure making you shiver under his touch, forcing your face into his shoulder. “You’ve been teasing me all night,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper now, “and now you’re not gonna answer? That’s not fair.”

You bite your lip, your body trembling from the mix of frustration and desire.  The way his fingers slowly move in and out of your, each touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake, it’s almost too much to handle. You slammed your eyes shut and bucked your hips, legs quaking as he skilfully curled his long, hard-working digit inside you and stroked all the right places. 

“You’re such a little mess, so tight for me…” he growls, his eyes flicking down to your dress, the way it clings to your skin. “…I’m surprised you haven’t already fallen apart, acting like you don’t want this. You’ve been eyeing me all night—don’t pretend like you don’t need someone to fuck the attitude out of you.”

The words are sharp, venomous even, and they hit harder than you want to admit. But there’s something in the way he says it—something like a challenge. It’s almost like he wants you to fight back, to prove that you’re not just another girl who’s going to let him get away with everything.

But you don’t back down. You narrow your eyes at him, lips curling into a defiant smile, even though your pulse is racing.

"Is that all you’ve got?" you retort, voice steady, though you can feel a sharp edge of annoyance creeping in. His words have already struck a nerve, but you're not about to let him see that. "Is that how you think you’re gonna get me to bend for you? Just call me a tease and hope I’ll fall for it?"

Toby grins, that cocky, self-satisfied grin, “Maybe…” like he’s just been handed the upper hand. There’s something undeniably infuriating—and yet, strangely enticing—about how he carries himself. Without a word, he lifted his hand, his three fingers coated with a thick, creamy layer.

You watch, transfixed, as he slowly brings his fingers to his lips, deliberately teasing you. He licks them clean, savoring every bit of your wetness, the way his tongue flicks over his fingers in that maddeningly slow motion. The sight of him is almost too much, and you can’t help but feel a rush of heat spread through your body.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him. 

The way he’s looking at you, the way he’s playing with your head, it makes everything feel ten times more intense. 

There’s something about the messiness of it all—the way he’s teasing and how everything feels so raw, so unpolished—that drives you wild. 

“Matter of fact…” Toby mumbles, his words a little slower as his body tenses for a moment, the muscles in his face twitching before he grins. His eyes gleam with a sudden spark of mischief, something darker slipping in. “Let’s change it up.”

Without warning, Toby forces you over the balcony railing—bending you over the edge of it and hands digging into your lower hips as he traps you between it and his body. 

You’re completely against him now, feeling the sudden pressure bulge agasint your ass catching you off guard. Your breath hitches, and your heart races. The space between you two feels dangerously small, and the night air seems colder now, but it only heightens the sensation of heat between your bodies.

The movement is rough; you feel the firm grip of his hands pushing your lace dress—just hands on your ass—quickly removing your underwear, making you shiver from the coolness of the outside air. He grins wider as his face is right next to your neck, letting a line of kisses you against your skin, biting at the sensitive skin, enough to make you shiver. He then begins to whisper in your ear. 

“Maybe bending you like this will make you listen.”

Your body trembles under the firm grip of his hands, a shudder rolling through you as the cool night air brushes against your flushed skin. The sharp contrast between the warmth of his touch and the chill of the balcony railing sends a wave of sensation through you, making you suck in a quiet breath. Your back presses against the wooden banister, the hard surface grounding you, but it does little to stop the way your pulse pounds in your throat.  

"What… are you—" The words catch in your throat, slipping away before you can fully voice them. Your mind is a whirlwind, caught between confusion, excitement, and the undeniable pull of something far more dangerous—the way his presence, his touch, his entire being coils around your senses like a vice.  

And then, the quiet sound of a zipper lowering reaches your ears. The realization of how far things are escalating makes your breath hitch, a sharp jolt of awareness cutting through the haze. But before you can react, the feeling of his lips grazing your neck—hot, teasing, sharp with the occasional scrape of his teeth—draws a quiet gasp from your lips.  

“W-wait,” you mumble, voice barely above a whisper, mindful of the fact that just beyond this balcony, the party is still raging. The pulse of the music thrums in the background, but it feels miles away compared to the intensity pressing against you.  

“The party is going on inside—what if someone comes—” You start, your voice faltering under the weight of the moment.  

Toby doesn’t give you the chance to finish. He chuckles, a low, knowing sound that rumbles against your skin as his lips graze your jawline. “What’s the matter?” he murmurs, voice dripping with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re getting shy now.”  

His grip tightens slightly, grounding, teasing. “You wouldn’t have let me get this far if you didn’t want it.”  

The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, your body reacting before your mind can form a response. Your lips part slightly, but no words come out. It’s hard to think with him so close, the press of his body leaving little space for doubt. His hand, rough and warm, traces down your thigh, the light scrape of his fingertips against the lace of your dress making your skin prickle with anticipation.  

His thumb presses agsint your clit—just enough to make you shiver, the simple movement sending a spark straight through you. He watches, eyes flicking over your expression, drinking in every reaction with a crooked grin. “That’s what I thought,” he mutters, voice thick with satisfaction before his mouth now slightly parted into a curious grin.

“You better be on the pill,” he mutters, his voice low and unbothered, like he’s already got you figured out.  

Your breath catches, not just from his words but from everything—his touch, the press of his body, the way his fingers tease against your skin like he already owns every reaction. That smug tone, laced with amusement, does something worse than his hands ever could. It lights something deep in your chest, a slow burn that spreads through your veins, making it impossible to think straight.  

“I’m… I am,” you manage, though your voice is shaky, uneven. “But we’re still…”  

Still what? Still on a balcony where anyone could walk out? Still caught up in something that feels reckless, dangerous—like a bad idea wrapped up in the kind of temptation that makes your head spin? You try to grasp onto logic, try to force your mind to play catch-up, but it’s already slipping, unraveling under the weight of his heat, his presence.  

You shouldn’t be here. 

You shouldn’t be doing this. 

Drunk or high, you can’t even tell anymore, but it doesn’t change the fact that this should be the kind of thing you stop before it goes too far.  

But let’s be for real. You’re not stopping.  

No. There’s no way in hell you’re leaving this frat party without Toby fucking your brains out.  

He must see it, must read every thought flickering behind your eyes, because that grin only grows, a flash of teeth in the dim lighting. “You’re getting all breathy and desperate just from a little touch…” His voice is like velvet, dark amusement lacing every word. His fingers trail higher, deliberate and slow, dragging shivers in their wake.  

Toby pulled your hips until the head of his cock was prodding at your entrance and he sighed, mumbling  mumbling so quietly you almost didn't catch it, “And you’re gonna be good and keep quiet, right?” He asked, 

You shivered as his words hit you, your face reddening even more. "I..." You gasped softly when Toby finally pressed inside you with ease, a disgustingly wet sound filling the air. He groaned in your ear when he bottomed out, pulling you in hard by your waist as if he was desperate to get even deeper. 

If you had any lingering doubts left in that pretty little head of yours, they sure as hell weren’t there now. And if, by some miracle, you still had a shred of shame about the absolute spectacle you were making of yourself—getting railed by some guy you just met, on a damn frat house balcony, with a whole ass party raging behind you—well, the pure, mind-numbing ecstasy currently wrecking through your body must’ve knocked that shame clean out of you.

Toby’s cock stretched you perfectly, deeply, and you could feel him in your stomach as prominently as the butterflies. You thought his fingers reached deep, but this was on a whole different level. His frame leant over yours, and his breath was hot on your neck. You felt close to him now, closer than ever before, and that thought sent you right to heaven. 

He felt so good, so perfect, so right. 

It was everything you had imagined and once he started moving, fuck, it was so much more. 

“T-That's so good.” He chuckled slightly and then started to kiss your neck while slowly thrusting inside you. Each time he fucked into you, he took note of the moans barely left your mouth—it’s good that you listen.

“G-God, shit, oh my God, feels so good," Toby stammered in between shaky breaths, his voice light and barely audible over your noises and the sound of skin slapping against skin. 

You stared down at the mess of drunken idiots stumbling around below, completely unaware of the absolute shitshow happening just a few feet above their heads. You came out here for fresh air, maybe to sip your drink in peace, not to—well, not this.  

Your fingers curled around the wooden railing, nails digging into the worn-out surface like it might somehow ground you. Spoiler: It didn’t. Not with him behind you, making it real damn hard to focus on anything but the way he was ruining you in the best way possible.  

You were starting to adjust, getting used to the feeling—if that was even possible—but fuck, he knew exactly what he was doing. And of course he did. The bastard was enjoying this way too much.

You were straight-up whimpering now—pathetic little sounds slipping out whether you liked it or not. And as long as you kept this up? Yeah, sure, the balcony wasn’t made of glass—thank god for small mercies, but let’s be real—anyone walking past that door would 100% hear you two. 

No doubt about it.  

They’d hear every little gasp, every moan, every damn noise spilling out of your mouth, and they’d know exactly what was happening just beyond that door.  

And you know what? That should probably freak you out. Should make you wanna shut up, be careful, maybe even reconsider your life choices.  

But nope. Instead, it just made you even more turned on.

Toby’s hand tangled in your hair, fingertips grazing your scalp in a way that sent a mix of tingles and heat straight down your spine. He gave a teasing little pull, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you who was in control here. His movements were rough, almost fast-paced—there was no mistaking his focus. When he pressed inside, he rolled his hips into you, pushing his cock in as deep as he could manage. He was reluctant to pull away, but when he did, the feeling of your cunt sucking him back in made him delirious. 

He was dragging this out. Because of course, he was.

“Shhh, shhh,” he cooed when you let a sound slip, his voice laced with amusement but making absolutely no effort to actually help your situation. “You were being so good for me, don’t start getting all loud now.”

And then—because he just had to—he leaned in, his breath hot against your skin before his teeth tugged at your earlobe. 

Toby definitely hadn’t expected his night to turn out like this. Random parties weren’t exactly his thing—hell, he’d only come to make a few deals and get the hell out. When he saw you step onto the balcony, he hadn’t thought much about it at first, too busy with his phone call to care. 

But the second that call ended? 

Yeah. That was different.

And, naturally, you wanted to talk to him. Because, of course, you did.

Thing was, his original plan? It had been simple—get a little fun out of you, maybe a quick makeout session, and call it a win. But considering he had aimed for kissing and now had you pressed up against this railing, looking at him like he was the only thing keeping you breathing? Yeah. His plan went way better than expected.

“F-Fuck—fuck you feel so good," Toby moaned when he pressed into you again, feeling your walls squeeze around his cock.

Everything he was waiting for finally became realized, and yet, there was still a part of him who wasn't fully satisfied. There was still a part of him who was desperate for more. He asked quietly, mostly to himself, "Why can't I get enough of you?" 

You were wondering about the same question. Why couldn't you get enough of him? You wanted more, you needed more. You wanted to plead for him to go faster, harder, deeper, louder, but when you opened your mouth, your thoughts were so scrambled that the only word you could think to say was, "More." 

Thankfully, Toby got the hint, and he picked up the pace. The whole desk shook as his hips began to snap forward faster and rougher, giving you the relief you had been searching for. You felt an overwhelming euphoria in your core each time he thrusted in. “Ahh..  please don't stop,” You cried out a little louder than you should have, already forgetting that he told you to quiet down.  

“T-Tell me," Toby choked out between gasps, his voice getting hoarse, "Tell me how good it feels to be bend over by me?”

“It feels good… so good… god, it... feels amazing..," You gasp out, just dazed out of your mind.

He let out a soft, breathy moan before nodding his head* "Mhm~ yeah?" 

He chuckled slightly at how dazed you were, his hands gripping onto your hips a little tighter.

"Then... tell me you're mine.” He said, his breath warm against your ear. He started moving a little bit faster, and a moan escaped his mouth before it was cut off by his biting his lip.

You breathe hitches. You can barely form a coherent thought with pleasure coursing through you, but somehow, she manages to speak through gasps and moans. "I-I'm yours... all yours..."

It wasn’t long before Toby abruptly pulled out of you, grabbing your waist and twisting you around until your legs were wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck to prevent falling. His mouth was on yours in an instant, your eyes fluttering closed as he kissed you sloppily. His lips felt just as soft as before, but this kiss was much rougher and messier, driven by a fever of desire. 

One of his hands gripped your waist firmly, keeping you steady against the balcony, while the other moved with a slow, deliberate touch, skimming your chest, sending waves of heat through you. The pressure of his hands was both grounding and electric, making it hard to focus as your pulse quickened in response.

"Close, so close," Toby stammered into your ear, his head dropping to the nape of your neck. His breath was hot, and loose strands of his hair tickled your skin. His thrusts were erratic as he began to lose his rhythm. 

“Please keep going, just like that," You pleaded, feeling your release coming closer as well. You brought your hand to the back of Toby’s head, feeling his soft hair beneath your fingers. Your legs around his back tightened as you pressed him closer to you. 

"Tell me more," Toby groaned, his voice thick with desire as his hand found yours, fingers wrapping around yours with a firm, almost desperate grip. The weight of his touch, his palm slick with sweat, sent a jolt through your body. He held your hand like he needed it—like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality in this moment. His fingers trembled slightly, betraying the control he usually had, and you couldn’t help but wonder... Was it just the rush, or did he need to hear it?  

You blinked, unsure if he was asking for more praise or if this was something deeper—something he craved. Maybe a little of both.  

"I—It's so good, Toby," you whispered, your breath catching as your body responded without warning. You didn’t think, didn’t need to, as your fingers slid into his hair, gripping it tightly, pulling him closer in a way that made him gasp. It felt like you were tugging at his very soul, your nails almost catching in the strands, and the soft tug made him exhale sharply.  

“Only you, Toby. You're the only one, please—don't stop,” you found yourself saying, breathless and almost frantic, as the need for him took over. It wasn’t just physical anymore; it was something more primal. You were lost in him, the two of you like fire and gasoline, a combination of desperation and want that tangled together seamlessly.  

His eyes flared with intensity, a silent challenge in them as they locked with yours. He didn’t need to say anything; his grip on your hand tightened, his breath heavy against your skin, and you both knew what came next. 

There was no turning back now.

You thought you could hold on for a few moments longer, but when Toby started chanting curse words under his breath, you knew you were done. He rolled his hips up, hitting that perfect spot in your stomach once more, and that was it. Waves of adrenaline mixed with pure pleasure washed over your entire body as you came around his cock, back arching and legs shaking.

Your breath catches in your throat, a mixture of gasps and soft whimpers spilling out as Toby’s movements drive you wild. The sensation overwhelms you, pulling every ounce of focus from your mind, leaving you only with the feeling of his touch. It’s almost too much—too fast, too intense—and you can’t help the cry that escapes you, his name leaving your lips in a desperate rush.

But before you can fully let the sound escape, his free hand moves swiftly, covering your mouth, his palm pressing firmly against you. You try to push against it, but he holds you in place, the tension between you building with every breath. The muffled sounds of your whines vibrate against his hand, a helpless sound that only fuels the storm of sensations crashing through you.

It’s a mix of pleasure and frustration, the way he has control over you, the way your body reacts even when your mind is trying to keep up. The heat between you two seems to grow with every second, and with every soft struggle and pleading shift of your body, Toby pulls you closer, testing your limits, enjoying the chaos he stirs.

Toby fucked you through your high, not giving you a moment to breathe. He melted in between the sound of your muffled cries, the feeling of your cunt pulsing around him, and the sight of your face twisted in pleasure. 

He stuttered, tumbling over his words, "I'm- fuck, I'm-" 

He groaned, unable to even get the words out before he felt his pleasure burst like a bubble. He shoved deep inside you one last time, giving you all of him as he fell apart. He held himself there as he came, making sure you were pumped with every last drop of him. 

Toby was straight-up wrecked, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a damn marathon. His breath came out heavy, uneven, like he was actually struggling to catch it. You were slumped against him, just as spent, your body warm and lax against his.  

Fuck. He couldn’t even remember the last time he felt this drained—in the best possible way.  

You were everything. 

More than he ever expected, more than he ever thought he’d get.  

He pressed a lazy, lingering kiss against your neck, then another against your jaw, slow and hazy, like he was savoring the moment before finally pulling out of you. His grip on you softened, and he let his hand slide from your mouth to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin with a surprising tenderness.  

“Good job,” he murmured, voice rough, breath still unsteady. His lips twitched into a smirk, but his eyes were softer now. “Knew you’d be good for me. You did so fucking good.”

Toby was still holding you close, your body warm and spent against his, when the shrill buzz of his phone cut through the heavy silence. He groaned, pressing his forehead against your shoulder for a second before fishing it out of his pocket. The screen lit up with a familiar name.  

He answered without even thinking, balancing the phone between his cheek and shoulder. “Yeah?” His voice was still rough, breath uneven.  

A deep, gruff voice rumbled through the speaker—Tim.  

"You did what I told you to do?"  

Toby stiffened, his fingers flexing slightly against your skin as his mind scrambled for an answer that didn’t involve—I just got ridiculously sidetracked making fucking out with a random girl at the party. He licked his lips, throwing a quick glance at you as you caught your breath, and tried to sound nonchalant. “Yeah—uh, almost. Just handling some... extra business.”  

There was a beat of silence before Tim let out a heavy sigh. “Bullshit. I know when you’re lying. Don’t tell me you got distracted—again.”  

Toby rolled his eyes, already knowing there was no point in denying it. “I was handling it,” he grumbled.  

The static over the line crackled before another voice chimed in—Brian. “We’re coming to get you before the cops show up. Get your ass outside, now.”  

Toby barely had time to process that before the unmistakable glare of blue and red lights flooded the street below. A few distant shouts rang out, followed by the telltale sound of a police siren winding up.  

“Shit.” He hangs up, and his grip on you tightened instinctively, his entire body tensing as his eyes flicked from the street back to you. “The party’s over, sweetheart.”

Your stomach twisted as the flashing lights painted the street below in streaks of red and blue. You swallowed hard, your breath still uneven as you whispered, “Wait… what do we do?” Your voice wavered between concern and fear. “What about the cops?”  

Toby was already shifting, straightening up, adjusting his jacket, and making sure his jeans weren’t too obvious in their disheveled state. He shot you a look—one that was unusually serious despite the usual glint of mischief in his eyes.  

“You stay,” he said firmly, fingers brushing over your cheek briefly before he fixed your dress, smoothing the fabric down as if he had all the time in the world. “Act normal. Pretend like you’re just another drunk University chick who had too much to drink. They won’t look twice at you.”  

You blinked at him, confused. “Wait—where the hell are you going?”  

He exhaled sharply, pulling his hoodie over his head before ruffling his messy brown hair, making it look even more chaotic. “I gotta go before they get me,” he muttered. “I sell here, remember?”  

Shit. You had forgotten.

In the haze of alcohol, his teasing, his hands, and everything that had just happened between you two, it completely slipped your mind. If they caught him, it wouldn’t just be a slap on the wrist—it would be bad news.  

For a second, you were going to let him go, watching as he turned toward the balcony door, preparing to slip out into the chaos inside. But something in you rebelled against it. A sharp, instinctual refusal.  

Before you could stop yourself, your hand shot out, grabbing the back of his jacket and yanking him back toward you.  

Toby barely had time to react before he stumbled a step, his body pressing against yours again, your grip tight and desperate. He looked down at you, brows raised, lips parting slightly in surprise. “The hell—?”  

“You can’t just run out there like that,” you hissed, your fingers curling into his hoodie, refusing to let go. “What if they do see you? What if they’re already inside?”  

His jaw tensed for a moment, like he was trying to calculate his next move, but you saw it—the flicker of hesitation. Maybe he didn’t expect you to stop him.

Maybe he didn’t expect you to care.  

Toby let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You really don’t know when to let things go, huh?” His voice was amused, but his hand settled on your waist again, steadying you both.  

You held his stare, breath hitching slightly as the distant sounds of officers yelling orders reached your ears. “Not when it comes to this,” you murmured.

Toby stared at you for a second, something unreadable flashing behind his dark brown eyes. Then, before you could think or react, he was on you again. His lips crashed into yours, rough yet intoxicating, his fingers tightening on your waist as he pushed you back against the railing.    

Your body tensed at first, but only for a moment. The warmth of his breath against your skin, the press of his lips traveling down your jawline—it melted away any resistance. Toby was teasing, deliberate, but his intent was clear. He wanted to leave something behind, a mark, a reminder.    

His lips skimmed the sensitive spot beneath your ear, sending a shiver down your spine before he sucked harshly on the skin. You gasped, fingers gripping the fabric of his hoodie as he worked his way down, each kiss and bite searing into you like a brand. A selfish part of him wanted to take you with him, to leave proof of what had happened tonight—not for anyone else, just for himself. 

Only he would know he was the cause.    

You sighed as he moved lower, the feeling of his teeth grazing your collarbone making your knees weak. His hands—still warm, still possessive—kept you steady, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. But then, too soon, he pulled back, tilting his head to admire his work.    

Your arms stayed hooked around his neck, your body still pressed against his. Your skin tingled, a mess of scattered purples and deep bruises decorating your neck and collarbones. You knew they would be impossible to hide tomorrow.    

"There. Something for me and..." He smirked before dipping down again, stealing another kiss, slower this time, his lip piercings cold against your swollen lips. When he pulled away, his voice was lower, almost smug, “Something for me…”    

Before you could say anything, a sudden noise from below made both of you jolt. Flashing red and blue lights reflected against the building, and you could hear the distant, commanding shouts of officers pushing their way inside.    

Your heart pounded as you rushed to the railing, gripping the cold metal as you peered down. Cops were pouring into the house now, pushing past the drunken partygoers stumbling in confusion. 

You were about to turn back, to warn Toby—  

But he was gone.

Your stomach dropped. How the fuck did he move that fast?

Spinning around, you scanned the balcony, the shadows, but there was nothing. Just the ghost of his presence lingering on your skin, on your lips.    

A deep sense of unease crept over you as you rushed down the stairs. The whole house was in chaos, people pushing past each other, trying to slip out before the cops could start making arrests.

The party was officially dead.    

It wasn't just cause of the party now

Nah, someone had died inside.  

You barely caught wind of the hushed whispers as you made your way through the crowd. Someone had found a guy upstairs with a hatchet lodged in his back. Whoever called the cops had seen the body first. That sobered you up real fucking fast.  

Stepping out onto the front street, you pulled your phone from your pocket, fingers shaking slightly as you dialed one of your friends. No way in hell were you would walk back to the dorms alone after this.

As you stood there, the chill of the night settling in, something caught your eye.  

A figure stood just at the edge of the shadows, away from the flashing police lights. You almost didn’t recognize him at first, but then you saw the faint orange glow reflecting off the goggles perched on his head.  

Toby.  

He was watching you, partially obscured in the darkness, his lower face now hidden behind what looked like a mouth guard.  

The second you met his gaze, he lifted a hand, fingers wiggling in a lazy wave before he turned, disappearing into the night like a ghost. You stood frozen for a second, your heart pounding in your ears. “What the fuck just happened?” 

As you stood there, still processing everything, a sudden breeze swept under your dress, sending a shiver up your spine. 

That’s when you felt it. Or rather, I didn’t feel it.

Your eyes widened, a sudden wave of heat rushing to your face.    

That bastard.   

Your panties were gone.  

Your breath caught in your throat as realization sank in, your thighs pressing together instinctively. When the fuck had he taken them? You were just with him—there was no moment where—  

You wanted to die. Right there, right then.    

Meanwhile, down the street, Toby was already slipping into a black car parked in the shadows, the interior dimly lit by the dashboard glow.    

Tim was in the driver’s seat, arms crossed, while Brian sat in the passenger seat, his cold blue eyes flicking up as Toby climbed inside.

“Hey,” Toby greeted casually, as if he hadn’t just fled a crime scene and a party.    

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” Tim snapped, his gruff voice dripping with irritation. “What the fuck took you so long? We were supposed to be out of there before the cops even got close.”    

Toby shrugged, slumping back against the seat. “Got a little sidetracked” he admitted, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips.    

Tim gave him a long, unimpressed stare. “Don’t tell me you were out there fucking some random chick at the party.”    

Toby, for once, didn’t deny it.    

Brian snorted. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head.    

Toby just rolled his shoulders. “I did what I needed to do. Everything’s fine.”    

Tim muttered something under his breath before finally putting the car in drive, pulling away from the frat house as sirens wailed in the distance.    

As they sped off down the road, Toby leaned back, slipping a hand into his jacket pocket.    

A small, lacy piece of fabric met his fingertips, and he grinned to himself as he pulled it out just enough to see.    

Black lace panties.    

He chuckled, low and amused, rolling the fabric between his fingers before tucking them back away.    

At least he got to shotgun with a girl tonight.    

A pretty cool one, in fact.

[shallowseeker]

I'm not a big fan of love at first sight, but what I DO happen to like is disruption at first sight, like...

someone else on my dash put it better than me but there has to be some kind of magnetic fascination to it, almost... THAT is what makes a really juicy beginning

Like hmmm

what happens between Dean and Cas isn't birds singing or rasping violins

no, it’s a kind of interference pattern... signal distortion and static that scrambles everything for a few seconds click click shhhhh, like a sound that doesn’t make sense, and now the whole world has to recalibrate itself because these crossing signals that shouldn’t harmonize...

...do.

Cas disrupts Dean's certainty.

Dean disrupts Cas's certainty.

This isn’t romance. This isn’t even trust—not yet.

It's almost like recognition without comprehension.

In a lot of ways, it's kinda scary and at times veers towards over-corrective posturing, resulting in a bunch of mean stuff that can dip into glib or cruel as they prod and and insult and threaten and test one another...

...ofc as they try at the very same time work to draw each other in

It's the "I wanna know what you're thinking" of it all

They fascinate each other because they don’t make sense TO one another in so many ways and yet, they make sense of each other in deeper, almost irrationally deep, critical ways.

They don’t know what they are yet.

But the moment they meet, the oldest story in the universe cracks open and something ancient and impossible writes itself in without permission

And because of all that, they bend the world around them

("This isn't supposed to happen. You're not in this story.")

They shatter mirrors, rip out pages, and warp would-be parallel lines until they loop de loop

[static noises]

[livesincerely]

Buck bows his head beneath the falling water, his ribs shuddering around a shaky exhale. 

He’ll pull himself together eventually. Slap a smile back on his face and remember how to be grateful for what he already has.

But first he needs to mourn. He needs to mourn and mope and shed a tear or twenty: then he can bury these stupid feelings and finally put them to rest.

Maybe it’s time to re-download Bumble and Hinge, make a proper effort at getting back out there and moving on⁠—

The bathroom door slams open with a bang! Buck whips around so fast that he nearly loses his footing, then nearly keels over anyway when he realizes it’s Eddie standing there amongst the clouds of steam.

Eddie, whose chest heaves like he’s just run a marathon, his hair a mess and his shirt only half buttoned⁠—like he’d hauled ass out of the locker room in the middle of changing. Eddie, whose expression is granite but whose eyes are wild, his irises totally eclipsed by burning crimson, that spiced-dark-chocolate-char scent rolling off of him like thunderclouds sweeping in over the horizon.

They stare at each other for one long, charged moment. Buck can barely meet his eyes; there’s something almost feral prowling in the shadows of his gaze⁠—sharp and accusing, honed like a knife’s edge⁠—and it cuts him all the way to the core. 

Buck’s throat clicks around a nervous swallow, his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Eddie,” he says, almost helplessly, more of a breath than a word.

Eddie’s nostrils flare, his upper lip curling back to flash a single, pointed canine. Then he’s wrenching open the shower door and stepping determinedly into the spray⁠—still fully dressed, boots, belt, watch and all, what the fuck⁠ is he?⁠—and he braces a hand on either side of Buck’s waist, caging him up against the shower wall.

“Eddie!” Buck yelps, suddenly and extremely aware of the fact that he’s bare-ass naked, soap dripping down his arms and conditioner clinging to his curls. He clutches his hands to his chest like that will somehow mask the aforementioned nakedness. “What the hell are you⁠—? Hey!”

“Did you actually think,” Eddie starts, and his voice has settled in this gravely, dangerous place that’s making Buck’s stomach do somersaults. “That I wouldn’t come after you?”

“You— C’mon man, you’re getting soaked. Did you even take your phone out of your pocket⁠—”

“You did⁠,” Eddie decides, continuing as if Buck hadn’t spoken, anger and disbelief dueling across his features. “You thought I was gonna just let you go⁠?”

“Jesus, Eddie,” Buck sighs, letting his head thunk back against the tiles, already exhausted with this whole conversation. “Can’t this at least wait until I’m out of the fucking shower⁠—“

“Clearly it fucking can’t,” he growls, and he cups both of those huge hands around Buck’s jaw and yanks his head back down, forcing him to hold his gaze.

“Because last time I checked, we were in this together,” Eddie says—demands, really. Water streams through his hair and down his face in dozens of rivulets, his wet clothes clinging to every sodden, gorgeous inch of him. “That’s the deal, right? You have my back and I have yours. You go in and I’m right there on you six. I’m the one on the other end of your radio, I’m the one that double checks your harness, I’m the one that anchors your line.”

They’re plastered together: a tangle of water and limbs, fabric and skin. Buck’s mouth moves soundlessly, his voice trapped somewhere beneath the weight of his longing, but even if he could say something he wouldn’t have the words. Static blurs the edges of his vision, his mind emptied of anything that isn’t Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

“There isn’t a universe where I don’t come after you, Buck,” Eddie tells him, with all the force and certainty of gravity itself. “I’d have to be dead in the fucking ground before I’d let you go, and maybe not even then. Because you’re mine. You’re mine,” he insists when Buck can’t help the involuntary little noise that escapes him at the declaration. “And you’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m going to let you spend another second thinking I don’t want you.”

Buck’s heart stops dead in his chest, then kicks in again twice as fast. 

“Eddie,” he manages, barely able to hear himself over the sound of the shower pouring overhead. Thank god he’s already got a wall at his back⁠—he’s not sure his legs would support him otherwise, hope turning his joints to jelly. “You… Don’t do this if you don’t mean it. I can’t… I can’t.”

Eddie shifts impossibly closer, angling up until their faces are a hair apart. Their noses brush⁠—a gentle, almost exploratory touch⁠—followed by a solid press of forehead against forehead. 

“If you still don’t think I mean it,” he murmurs, his eyes burning like twin flames. “Then you clearly haven’t been listening to me.”

A shared breath. 

“Maybe this will finally convince you,” Eddie says, and he leans in and seals his mouth over Buck’s own.

[keferon]

Ahhhhhhhhh! The TF mecha Deadlock and human Ratchet drawing! I just saw it before sending this. His squishy! But yeeee! Continuing from the last one I wrote. Just pulled ideas from other posts you and others have done in this TF mecha universe. This is fun! :P

****

Ratchet's living quarters is much like the hanger where his lab is. An open area with some dividers up to make separate rooms. Scaffolding and catwalks line the wall and stairs are at each corner of the hanger. The interior is smaller when compared to the lab but the ceiling is much taller, allowing Deadlock the ability to sit up right comfortably. It looks like a little maze to Deadlock who can look down from above. Out of the five rooms in this hanger turned living quarters, Deadlock can't see into three of them. Ratchet's berthroom, the kitchen, and washrack all have ceilings to them. Ratchet's office is connected to the sitting area. Being the largest area in the hanger Deadlock has taken over the sitting area to recharge and heal in. Being the Chief Engineer no one has questioned Ratchet for having Deadlock in his hanger because Ratchet always takes work home with him. Also don't question Ratchet.

A click from the main entrance door has Deadlock stir from his recharge. Old instincts and habits have made him a light recharger. He opens one optic, a red glow fills the room. Blinding bright and staticky at first but dims and clears as his visual boots up. He see Ratchet opening the tiny entryway to slip out. He rumbles knowing it is way to early for Ratchet to head back to his lab. Ratchet had maybe, at most, gotten two hours of recharge. Deadlock gives a rumble/grunt again, this time it sounds more like a wheeze as he starts to shift to grab his little squishy who has already opened the door and stepped half way out. He is using the door to make himself unsnatchable not without breaking the thin metal.

Number one rule while in Ratchet's domain: Don't break Ratchet's things, he NEEDS them. The objects Ratchet chuck do not/can not hurt him. The disappointment and tired frustration however does hit something deep in his war worn spark. "Power back down kid. Just leaving for an emergency meeting. When I get back I'll check your intakes and engine. It's rattling and straining hard again." Ratchet says in a deep rougher voice used only when he wakes from recharge. The door click behind the human not giving him time to reply in his drowsy state. He rubs his fresh welded wounds and with a unhappy grunt curls loosely back around what Ratchet calls a lazy-e-boy chair and entertainment center.

ALL DAY! All day Ratchet has been gone. Deadlock should be use to Ratchet's long work days. But Ratchet didn't fuel before he left, he hasn't recharged in a long while. Two hours is not a recharge. Not for him, not for Ratchet. He is worried, it oozes out and around him from his EM Field like a shadowy murky cloak. His audial fins are pinned down and back as far as they can go. Ratchet looks so worn down. Overworked and shoulders heavy with responsibly the Cybertonian knows the bioengineer should not have to bare. The tv is on to use as a distraction but it no more then background noise as his proccesor runs through scenarios of what could be keeping Ratchet this time.

The door lock clicks and Deadlock instantly perks up. His EM Field fizzles away from gloomy to a more warm and bright mood. "Ratch-" He stops immediately when Ratchet comes through the door. Deadlock rakes his claws into the concrete floor and his field starts boiling with the energon in his lines. Ratchet is bruised and bleeding. The humans forehelm and knuckes are covered with fresh and dried blood. His glare intensifies as Ratchet closes the door and slumps against it with a grumble. Ratchet grunts as he takes off his shoes and dirty jacket. Deadlock's helm is filled with static and his spark heavy and spinning way to fast. He can taste energon on his glossa thanks to his fangs. Rage is not what is taking over his sensors and proccesor. Something more like a deeply rooted need, something instinctually feral burns hot in his frame. "WHO'D DARE-" Ratchet holds up a hand and makes a hushing noise, Deadlock snarls engine rattling harder to keep up with his burst of energy and restrained energon lust. His limbs shaking with just as much restraint. The only thing keeping him from ripping the hanger down is Ratchet's hunched form at the entry way. When Ratchet looks up at Deadlock his jaw snaps shut, denta slamming hard against each other with a harsh clank. The fragger looks amused! Tired, frustrated, and hurting but Deadlock knows that look. Those lips are ever so slightly turned up into an amused smirk, "R a t c h e t." Deadlock hisses out passed his denta audial fins pinned back.

"Relax, before you blow a fuse. You should see the other guy. These are just scratches Drift." The fragger chuckles wiping some blood from his lip with his thumb. That does something to Deadlock that he will not acknowledge right now. His spark flutters and pulses harder, EM Field a confusing mix of emotions that Ratchet can't feel, "I had a disagreement with some of the others in command while another sister base visited. I am fine. Been in more then one scrapping in my time." Ratchet hums as he limps into his office, Deadlock claws at the floor again. "I did not party and study my whole younger life away just to get my PhD in biomedical engineering and be told how to do my job. I may have got a tad heated." He chuckles again at Deadlocks snort/huff.

Deadlock relaxes slightly as Ratchet pulls out a medical kit. His systems are running hot and HUB flashing warnings at him do as Ratchet suggested. He relaxes slightly and presses his servo against his helm. "Frag doc starting fights for a disagreement?" He rasps out watching Ratchet closely while he steadies his intakes. The human carefully works on cleaning the blood stained knuckles, Deadlock takes some pleaser in knowing all that blood is not just Ratchet's. "You're just as much of a hot menace as me."

"For you." Ratchet mumbles as he gently rubs ointment on the cuts. "They wanted me to turn you over to the field officer. Told them that you are still a work in progress that needs more time. That you came to my lab mmm.." Ratchet realizes it's the next day, a whole day wasted arguing in a concert room with metal chairs. With stuck up, pathetic excesses for- "Two days ago now.. said I activated some guardian protocal that day by accident which what brought you looking for me. They think you are imprinted on me. Something like that." Ratchet winces as he wraps his most bruised and swollen hand. A whine leaves Deadlock's stuttering engine, the tip of his pointer digit's claw has been hovers over Ratchet's helm as the doc talked, "What is it Drift?" Ratchet pauses from reaching for the alcohol soaked cotten ball. He looking up into overly bright, almost white with worry optics. Ratchet's optics dart around looking over Deadlock's form and healing welds.

Deadlock wants to huff, to roll his optics at the bioengineer's worry for him. But he can't stop his spark and fuel tanks from turning while he watches the red liquid drip down Ratchet's forehelm and optic ridge. "I... can't help you. You are hurt.. cause of me... and I can only watch you patch yourself up." He admits dimming his optics and looking down. All of this because he got impatient and hunted down his squishy to get him to recharge for once.

Ratchet's optics soften slightly. He shuts the kit with a sharp snap and huffs as he straightens from being hunched over. "Hand down please." Deadlock's audial fins perk up at the request. He carefully and gently, as gently as he can, places two digits into the office room. He lifts Ratchet up slowly once the small being had found a good spot to sit on his servo. He doesn't want to risk even the slightest breeze to brush against the bruised and cut flesh. He makes certain his servo is locked so it doesn't twitch on them. "This is high enough. Stay still." Deadlock is about to scold him when he thinks Ratchet is going to check the welds on his chassis. Instead Ratchet pops the kit back open and works on himself. Deadlock's vocal box clicks a few times as he tries to comprehend what his squishy is doing. His spark flutters with his EM Field when he realizes Ratchet is using his metal plating like a mirror. Ratchet dabs the cotton ball on the cut above his left optic ridge. "Didn't feel like going all the way to the bathroom. So thanks kid."

Deadlock purrs and almost melts from the thanks. Yes he will happily be a mirror. "Clever thing to do doc. Have those idiots thinking I am loyal and protective to only you will mean I can follow you around more. I am content being imprinted on you. Just tell them you can't undo it doc and if they touch you ever again I will pluck their little tiny servos off and feed it to them." He rumbles in a flat tone towards the end. He rolls his optics at the small ping from Ratchet flicking his chassis, "You may start a fight doc but know I will finish it."

"Didn't really start it either kid." Ratchet sighs looking at his reflection with a solemn expression before going back to dabbing the cotten ball harder against the cut, "Wasn't just about you Drift. They wanted.... they want..." Deadlock wants to curl around Ratchet the tone he is using now sounds like defeat, that's not his Ratchet. Deadlock lifts his free servo and retracts a claw so he can rub Ratchet's back as best he can to comfort him. "I can't." Ratchet rasps placing his forehelm against Deadlock chassis. Deadlock's engine settles to a purr Cybertonians use to sooth each other. It seems to work. Ratchet's shoulders relax and he seems to be getting his thoughts together. Deadlock stays silent and even if he doesn't need to keeps his EM Field in check. He only giving off support, warmth and calm, "It's inhumane, evil... Tourture... It would break down to much of the muscles and cells of the body. The hippocampus, the cerebral cortex, and the frontal lobe... that much damage to the brain would... I can't do what they want me to. Not to anyone Drift. Not what they ask. I can't. To adults, to teenagers, To Children. Young kids not knowing what they have signed up for. Never told. No choice. No way in hell could I ever-"

The strain and deep pain in Ratchet's voice is killing Deadlock. Deadlock can feel the trembling coming from Ratchet as the human catches his breath. He keeps a steady presser against Ratchet's back for support as he moves him up. He ignores the small gasp from Ratchet when he presses Ratchet to his cheek gently. Warm smooth metal touched warm soft skin, "Never. Never will you do what anyone demands of you. They can not make you harm anyone. You have never done anything you didn't want to and you won't start now. You are to much for them to try to control. My little squishy scraplet. I will kill them if they try. You have my glyphic, honor, and spark on this." Deadlock pulls back feeling something wet on his faceplate. Before Deadlock can get a good look at Ratchet's face, the bioengineer is shakily wiping his optics in a rushed motion aggravating the wound on his forehelm making it bead up with fresh blood, "Woah easy doc!" Ratchet bats his digit away when he tries to stop him.

"Stupidly cocky little shit! Lets get you feeling better before you try taking on a whole mecha filled base for me!" Ratchet laughs and smacks the digit still pressed against his back. That laugh does something to Deadlock's systems and spark, "We'll need to discuss a plan. I don't ever do anything half ass. I will not go into anything blind. But you are right, this is not the place for me to be anymore. Sad really. I was doing a lot of good here, made things safer for our pilots. Slowly sure but less were dying... so horridly all the time." Ratchet mumbles the last bit under his breath before shaking his helm. Deadlock likes the smirk that comes back to Ratchet's lips, "Now lay down so I can check that engine. You are starting to sound like a shitty abandoned junker car. Think you knock something out of place."

Deadlock matches Ratchet's smirk with a slag eating grin as he lifts the human a tad higher to press his forehelm against Ratchet's. He feels Ratchet pulls back after a moment, a stuttering raspy purr rumbles pleasantly through him when Ratchet places his servo against his forehelm and rubs. Yeah he does sound like slag and his HUB is flashing warnings, "What ever you say Doc. I am your guardian knight after all. You just tell me when to start swinging." He hums as he shifts to lay down.

Y O U. YOU JUST WROTE THIS ABSOLUTE MASTERPIECE OF A FIC??? AND I DONT EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME?? WHOEVER YOU ARE, ANON, I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU SO MUCH NGKGKFGBFHGH YOUR WRITING DOES THINGS TO MY BRAI N

Also. Al s o. I just realized. Oh my god.

We have two Cybertronians on Earth at the moment right. Prowl and Deadlock. But Prowl is very much restricted in his actions because he has strong moral codex and also he's not a very good fighter (at least on his own).

But then we also have Deadlock. And the only thing keeping Deadlock in check is. Ratchet.

Like. Oh fuck just imagine. He isn't restricted by any moral implications except Ratchets opinion. He doesn't really give a fuck about other organic life or laws of Earth or anything. He is also a really fucking good fighter. He doesn't commit murder because that would disappoint Ratchet, but if. IF. Something happens to Ratchet?

THE HELL he would unleash would be visible from outer space.

Him being so sweet and caring and protective over Ratchet doesn't mean he behaves like this with everyone. Him being protective over Ratchet means that if anything takes Ratchet from him, he'll drown himself in blood. He'll burn, claw, gnaw, punch and tear his way back to his human.

All so he can be nice and sweet and caring again right afterward:)

Next

[thehealthyfearofeverything]

The Kitchen Sink

SYNOPSIS: “ No surprise family members?” you asked Mama. She laughed, light and airy and filled with genuine mirth.

“Not while I'm alive.” She said before kissing your head.

Or 

You died and were reborn into the DC universe, simple enough.

Chapter One || The View From Halfway Down.

Warnings: Death, suicide, depression, child neglect, violence, murder, untreated postpartum depression. The first part of this details a suicide please do not read this if it’s triggering, prioritize your mental health. If you want to continue but don't want to read the first part, the next scene starts here: “Death is surprisingly peaceful.”

You're standing at the edge of an incomplete bridge, a construction project that must’ve been abandoned a few years ago. Nature has reclaimed the old metal construct. The ground is still dewy and slick, and you caught yourself before you tripped when your foot slid against a particularly wet patch of moss.

It’s ironic how you caught yourself from falling considering what you’re about to do. A bitter chuckle fell from your lips. You’ve walked way past the old weathered warning signs and rusty railing that were placed there to keep people from falling. 

Or jumping. 

Now here you are standing at the very edge with your feet half off of the ledge. You lean over to look down, and a pang of fear bounce your gut. 

Yeah, that’s a long way down. You’d probably die on impact, or get swallowed by the current and drown.

A gust of wind blows through your clothes and hair, whistling softly against the shells of your ears.

The air smells like rain and wet earth, and you can see and hear thunder clouds rolling in the distance. You breathe in a painful breath of air, filling your lungs until they ache and emptying them again. The cold evening air makes the hair on the back of your neck stand, and you still feel chilly despite the layers of clothes you’re wearing.

You swallowed thickly, peace was slowly falling over you, calming your racing heart and cooling the burning blood in your veins. The sound of the rushing river sounded a lot like white noise, or the thrum of static. It reminds you of your grandpa, that blind old man with a smoker’s voice and a failing body, of how he’d sit in front of the T.V. and just listen to it, refusing to turn it off even when the scene went white and nothing of use played. 

Grandpa died in front of the T.V. and it was Mom who found him. It was mom who mourned for him.

Who would report your body? Who would mourn for you?

You know that it probably will be a few days, maybe weeks until your body washes up on the riverbed and a bit longer until someone finds it and reports it. You probably would be found sooner if you offed yourself in your apartment, but it certainly wouldn’t be by your friends.

It’d be by neighbors complaining of some smell or your landlord serving an eviction notice. You've skipped rent a few too many times. Whatever. It’s not like it mattered.

You weren't meant to live anyways, something has always been wrong with you. You were born wrong and it’s only taken 22 years to realize that you don’t fit into this world. So of course it all comes down to two choices: Live and kill yourself later, or just fucking jump and get it overwith now. 

A slow breath leaves your lungs, a cloud of condensation swirling in the chilling air in front of you. The breeze carries your breath away and disburses the cloud into nothingness. You lean forward and look over the edge again, staring down into waters that you’ll be throwing yourself down. You hope it’s a long enough drop to kill you on impact.

It’d fucking suck if it didn’t.

It's probably better than going back to what you have… Maybe.

You have...had an okay job behind a counter at a local mom-and-pop store, your coworkers are kind enough and the pay isn’t so bad. You also write in your spare time and some of the stuff you make you’re proud of. You wanted to pursue a career in it, but it just didn't turn out that way. 

You used to go to college. You’re still technically enrolled, but it’s been a year since you’ve stepped foot on campus and your financial aid has dropped you. Somewhere along the way you just busied yourself with a 9-5 job just to not feel useless, but you still are.

You make barely enough money to cover rent, ramen packets, coffee and on occasion fast food. When you aren't working your life away, most of it is spent just sitting at your desk staring off into space as a blank word document stares back at you.

You used to love writing, but it’s slowly become a chore to you and you find little interest in it anymore. You know that’s by-the-book depression, but what else did you have to look forward to? All you do now is go to work, sit and stare into space for hours, and drag yourself back to bed. You’re so tired.  All. The. Fucking. Time.

You feel sad that you won’t be around to enjoy the things you used to, like reading or writing. But let’s be real here, the only thing you’ve written lately is the suicide letter tucked under one of the rails. 

You’re going to really miss all the little things in life that you enjoyed. Sadly there aren’t enough little things to make you want to keep breathing. You wish there was, it isn’t like you hate living. You love it when it’s enjoyable, but living is just too hard for you. You should feel angry that you don’t have the will to live in this world, and that there doesn’t seem to be a place for you here, but you don’t.

You don’t feel as angry as you used to be.

You used to be so, so angry at everything. You detested the ground you walked on, cursing the planet for making you this way. You were angry at your friends, jealous of their success and happiness. You were angry at yourself for not being enough to keep up in this world. You were angry at things that happened to you. Angry for the way you were born. Angry at what you were born with.

As time went on, that anger fizzled into contempt, and then indifference. Wherever that anger went, wherever had it gone, you only know that it was replaced by a deep sadness that sits in your chest everyday. It wasn’t only anger that left you, though. It was every fiery emotion. Passion, motivation, etc. It's all gone. 

That was probably the first step towards giving up. Whenever something does manage to piss you off, it doesn’t last long. It sizzles out just as fast as it happens and it leaves you feeling empty. You are used to it by now, but that doesn’t make it any less bearable.

And it’s not like you didn’t try to be happy. You did, you really did try to be happy. To make friends, to get a good job, and to finish college. You tried to fulfill the promise you made to mom, to live a good life and become something more than her, to do better.

You made a promise and you broke it.

At least it’s a nice day to let go. You always enjoyed dreary weather more so than sunshine and all that bullshit. Darker weather always felt like a break, like the world was slowed down for that day. Slow to match your pace for once. You take in a slow breath. The sky is dark with heavy rain clouds now, and the sound of wind blowing air into trees is almost as loud as the sound of your heart in your chest. 

Okay. Shit. 

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Maybe you are more scared than you are letting on.

You loved the rain. You loved making a fresh pot of coffee. You loved reading a new book you found. You loved watching cheesy hallmark movies. You loved all the little things that life has to offer. But life can’t all be little things. 

You would love nothing more than to just write, and read all day, and enjoy the weather, and all of the small oddities that make you happy; but you’re too weak to work for them. You’ve tried. You've tried so fucking hard. 

The only thing that was keeping you going for a long while was your cat, Rukabella, and hanging out with your friends. But Rukabella passed away last December, and your friends stopped calling.

A bird flies past you and into the sky, as you watch it in peaceful silence. 

It soars into the sky, swaying with the pulses of wind before it nestles itself into a nearby tree. You wonder if it’s just taking shelter from the oncoming storm, or if it’s home is there.

You’d like to think that it’s going home to wait out the rain with other birds.

God, you're scared, though. You didn't think you'd be this fucking terrified. Dying is the hard, painful part that you’ve always chickened out of.

Until now

You stare down into the deep river, clear rushing water just waiting to sweep your body away. A thrum of anxiety buzzes in your gut, but your mind feels barren of emotion.

 You close your eyes and jump.

Death is surprisingly peaceful, It's warm and comforting and you never want to leave if this is the afterlife. You're free from pain and all of the nasty complex emotions that come with living.

‘It’s so hot. It hurts. It hurts so much. Why me? Why me? Why do I have to hurt? I hate this so much… mama please….’

A child’s voice cried out directly into Your head, weak, whimpering, and full of pain. What were you supposed to do about it? You were never good with distressed children, and you were out of touch with anything that had to do with empathy.

A warm darkness enveloped your body, and the child’s voice grew increasingly quiet. The child’s sobbing complaints faded into hushed pants. The moment when you realized you couldn’t hear the child’s voice anymore, the bubble-like  cocoon that had surrounded you disappeared with a pop.

You felt yourself waking up, and at the same time, a painful hot fever branched throughout your body, as if you had come down with the flu.

Your eyes snapped open and you shot upwards, the image of the ground rushing to meet you melting into the plain white walls. You groaned. Eyes screwing shut against the harsh light spilling through the room. You brushed your hand against your hair, leaning  forward over your legs.

The scratchy, heavy blanket that had been draped over you dropped to your lap. The fierce pounding in your head did not abate for a long minute, but as it slowly ebbed away into a dull ache, you released a deep sigh.

Your body was still hot, and there was a deep itch that made a home in your bones. You mindlessly scratched your arms.

You cracked your eyes open, mindful of the light, and stared at the room you're in.

“… A room?” You murmured, voice thick. It had been so vivid, so real. As if you had been the one to – your stomach clenched as more details from the dream solidified  in your mind. you shuddered, feeling the lingering  memory of ice cold water running over you. Brutal, frigid water that knew nothing of warmth. 

A hollow ping of disappointment  ricoshade through your body… It was only a dream.

A dream. 

You had only dreamt of jumping, of killing yourself.

Shaking your head, casting the dream from your mind, and moving to pull the blanket back. You froze when you caught sight of your hand properly for the first time.

Your eyes widened as you stared at the small callus-free limb, turning it over to see the same on the other side. You held the other one up, chest heaving when you saw that it too was wrong. Thin and frail, too small to belong to an adult, it was the hand of a small malnourished child. You took an unsteady breath, dropping  your arms and ripping  the blanket off. Your feet were the same, and the sight of them – not your own, what was going on? – had you springing from the bed in panic.

You had nearly collapsed under your weight, your knees shook as red-hot pain ebbed its way into your chest. You found it difficult to breathe. Your breath was coming out in short sharp huffs.

There was another bed, right beside the one you were in, an old stained blanket covered it, along with sad-looking  pillows. 

A nightstand  in between the two beds. Trunks were at the foot of the beds. The silence of the room was filled with white noise. You backed away, but you could not escape your own body. You knocked against the side table making the pitcher wobble, and then slammed into a wall, feeling something dig into your head.

You spun and realized that it was a door. You shoved it open and rushed inside, but came to an abrupt stop when you were confronted with a beautiful young woman. The woman set the tray she was holding on the ground, her eyebrows narrowed.

"what are you doing up?"

“Ah!” The moment the woman’s speech touched your ears, the mental dam burst open, and a flood of memories that wasn’t your own yet felt familiar  rushed through you. You fell to Your knees, the fever growing hotter. You were an inferno  burning from the inside out. The woman let out a concerned shriek. In a span of a few blinks, you were scooped up in the woman’s arms, your head pressed into her bosom.

The memories belonging to the girl, 'Birdie', crashed through your mind like a flood. You reflexively clasped the fabric of the woman’s shirt as you let out a weak whimper.

“Oh, Birdie...You’re  burning up.”

no, no, no! I’m not Birdie! You wanted to protest, but you couldn’t. Every time you opened your mouth to say something all that came out was a weak half-sob-half-cough. You were overwhelmed  by the sensations of the strange dirty room, the weak small hands that were becoming  yours, and goosebumps formed as the thrum of something buzz under your skin.

The flood of information sent you into a panic, as everything screamed one thing: you were no longer yourself anymore, you were this sickly five-year-old  girl.

“Birdie? Birdie?” The woman called out to you, aggressively stroking your back in her panic. Worried, she was worried, but she was a stranger. Or she would have been, but this body knew her. It even felt like you loved her.

The love felt gross and foreign. It wasn’t yours. You couldn’t accept that the woman holding you was your mother. Your body’s love and your mind’s repulsion  fought  against each other, the woman kept calling out the disgustingly comforting pet name.

“Mama”

When you looked up at the strange woman you never met before and called her ‘Mama,’ you fully became her Birdie.

“Shush, dear. All will be okay.” Her hands, warm and rough, smoothed down your hair. You didn���t want to touch your mother, who existed in your memories yet was someone you didn’t know. And so, when you were being placed down on the disgusting, hard bed, you threw yourself into the stinky pillows and rolled onto your side, closing your eyes.

“…My head hurts, I wanna sleep.”

“I’ll wake you when dinner's ready.”

You waited for Mama to leave the bedroom, and stiffened when you heard the door open again. Mama put something onto the nightstand  and left the room, this time for good. You licked your lips as you pulled yourself into a sitting position, getting up in stages and groaning as you did so. Your body was still hot, but it wasn’t the raging inferno it was earlier.

You glanced around the room again, on the nightstand was a wooden tray, with a cup of something in it. Nothing stood out, it was a bare-bones room that tried to look well-lived in.

You bowed your head as you laced your hands onto the back of your neck and tried to control your breathing. Big emotions in a small body were bound to end in a tantrum; you did not want to have a tantrum.

Calm down, calm down. There’s no way what I think happened, happened. Think, all you had to do was think, there was an explanation.

You slowed your breathing, and cast your mind back; The bridge, the river, the rush of wind in her ears.

“I jumped,” You announced,  astonishingly  to the empty bedroom. You actually killed yourself and were brought  back. Now isn’t that a cruel joke?

“Okay, no time to dwell on that. What’s next?” You muttered to yourself. This body still had memories; Mama or someone else would get suspicious if you didn’t use them to your advantage. You tried to look through your clearer second set of memories, going as far back as you could, but this body was that of a very young girl with a weak grasp of the language. She didn’t understand  everything  Mama had said.

Over half of these memories were useless.

“Oh God, what do I Do?”

You could determine a few things: One, your family consisted of you and your Mama, Rosetta. It seemed like you didn’t have a dad, and Mama worked as a waitress or something along those lines. Second, and the most shocking, this world isn’t your own. You were in the DCU, in Gotham 

“Haaah,” There were no mirrors in this residence. No matter how much you explored your memories you couldn’t find any details on your appearance.You tugged on a lock of your hair, thick, coarse, and dry— poorly maintained  Afro-textured  hair. You pulled the lock in front of your eyes, black. If Mama looked pretty then you must be too. Not that it mattered, you didn’t look amazing in your past life, you could live without being cute.

It’s the little victories and all that jazz. You pressed your hands on the hard mattress when they began shaking minutely, willing the tremors to stop. Your mind was flooded with noise and you bit your lip, pushing through the confusion, fear, and many other emotions, and focused on what was important. One thing at a time.

You looked down at your hands and clenched them repeatedly. They moved on your command, without  a hint of pain or any delay. You slowly started stretching, noting the lack of injuries. There was not even the slightest twinge.

You fell onto your side, what kind of isekai- reincarnation  bull shit was this?

You coughed. Your fever was subsiding.

“Birdie, are you awake?” As if to purposefully  interrupt  your thoughts  Mama stepped lightly into the room. You looked at the woman from over your shoulder. Mama looked out of breath and your lips twisted into a frown. 

“Dinner's done?” You asked, your voice sore and mouth dry.

“Yeah.” She whispered, and in the quickest moment, Mama sauntered over to your bedside and sat down.

Mama’s hands were rough and calloused, her nails were short and dirty, and she had the hands of a worker but she held your smaller hands with such tender care. Mama’s thumbs traced up the bone, curving over your little pointer fingers.

You stared in uncomfortable  breathless  wonder. You don’t remember… Has anyone treated you so gently?

Mama curled her much larger hands over your small frail ones. You pulled your hands away and tucked them under the filthy blanket. Mama frowned, the back of her hand now flushed against your forehead.

“Your fever’s gone down, that’s good.” She said softly. Mama was always gentle with you.

"Now, let's eat, I made a hearty soup that would kill the rest of that nasty fever of yours," Mama said, picking you up. You couldn't stop yourself from burying your face into the crook of her neck breathing in her earthy scent. 

Mama was nice and warm. You didn’t want to compare, but she was much more attentive than your previous mom was. Mom—not Mama—tried her best. You were aware that she never got over the ‘baby blues’, and it had gotten worse over the years. Being a single mom, working a dead-end job, and eventually taking care of her elderly smoker of a father, it was no surprise she did what she did.

And it was no surprise you followed her footsteps, despite promising not to.

Mama cradled you and kissed and hugged you without restraint, giving you affection as easily as she breathed. It took you two years to get used to the affection, you were touched starved and touched repulsed. Mama also noticed your aversion to physical contact, she didn’t force you to be affectionate, there was no manipulation  or guilt tripping. 

It was just you and Mama, like how it used to be just you and Mom.

You were poor in this life as well, living in the Narrows. It wasn’t much but it was enough, the rent was paid, and food was always on the table. You were twenty–two when you died, and now you were mentally twenty four, physically you were seven. You started school and now Mama could pick up more shifts, earn more money, just a little extra for holidays and emergencies.

It was fun having a mother that wouldn't lay in bed all day, or get mad when you got a little too loud. 

You bounced into the apartment throwing your backpack on the floor after saying bye to Toby, a brown haired second grader that started to walk you home after school. He lived down the hall from you, he was nice, cute too with big brown doe eyes and a face full of baby fat. You didn’t know why he started to hang around you, but you didn't mind it. You needed friends and Mama was starting to worry.

A win-win so to say.

“Mama! I'm back!” You yelled, taking off your shoes and jacket. The apartment was warm, so Mama was home early. Mama was in the bedroom, sitting on her bed. Music played from the bluetooth speaker on her nightstand. She looked up from the book she was reading with a soft smile on her face.

“Hey, Birdie, how's school?” she asked. You hummed in response before climbing onto her bed and snuggling against her side. Mama let out an amused huff before tapping your nose with her index finger.

“ School’s fine, I have to do a family tree thing for class… And I'll need my birth certificate.” You muttered, picking at a loose thread of her sweater, a wordless jazz song drifted from the speaker.

“Why do you need your birth certificate? Aren't these assignments done with crayons and paper?” You could hear the teasing tone in her voice. Mama was acting like she was reading her book, but you knew she was watching you. Wanting to catch every little emotion.

So fucking attentive.

“It's only me and you, I don't need to make a family tree.” Mama hummed, and finally stopped pretending to read her book. She placed it on the nightstand and pulled you onto her lap. Straddling Mama you gripped the slides of her sweater and looked Mama in her eyes, warm, soft and searching. 

Ever since you became Birdie Mama began to look at you differently, looking for remnants of her real daughter. It was to be expected you were mentally twenty four stuck in the body of a first grader. Of course she’d notice that her daughter had changed and would on some level miss the real Birdie.

It’s why you tried so hard to be good, to accept her affection and not draw too much attention to your little family. So far you managed to keep your depression at bay, and sure you had your bad days. Where you could barely get out of bed, barely had the energy to eat and had little to no tolerance for physical touch. And Mama handled it the best she could, accepted your mood swings with little to no questions.

A part of you thinks she might know that you're depressed, but she didn’t have the money for a diagnosis, therapy or medication. So Mama is just trying her best and you are too.

You don’t want to kill yourself, not again. You want to fulfill the promise you made to Mom, live a good life and be better than her. You want to learn to be happy again, to learn to love writing again, and find that fiery passion and motivation you had so long ago. 

So you’ll try to be better for both Mom and Mama.

“ Huh, I guess I never did tell you about our family. They're all dead but I think they still  deserve to be on our family tree.” Mama said before nuzzling her face against your neck, you let out a high pitched squeal. Mama blew raspberries against your skin and still giggling with laughter you wiggled out of her hold. 

You rolled onto the floor before pulling yourself up and leaning against the bed frame of your bed. The rush of energy makes you feel lighter. It took a moment for you to regain your breath.

“ Who were they?” You asked. In your first life Mom never mentioned that she had any living family, you had assumed that they were all dead. It surprised you when Grandpa came to live with you. One moment it was just you and Mom the next it was you Mom and Grandpa.

“ Well there was granny May, she was my dad’s mom, but she died four months after you were born, and… How about we take this to the living room, so you can write and I can talk.” Mama asked. You nodded and moved to get up. It was only when the both of you were in the hallway that the question popped into your head.

“ No surprise family members?” You asked Mama. She laughed; it was a light and airy thing filled with genuine mirth.

“Not while I'm alive.” She said before kissing your head.

You had convinced Mama to let you have a photocopy of your birth certificate. Next, her name was Batman—not Bruce Wayne, but Batman. You had asked her if Batman was really your dad, but she just shook her head.

Batman wasn’t your dad. Thank fucking god. You had read too many fics where the reader insert was neglected by the batfam then they become obsessive and possessive. The Batman thing was something that some single mothers do, they put Batman on their child's birth certificate for their child to feel special later on in life or as a joke.

Mama however put Batman as your father because she was delirious and embarrassed that she didn’t know who your father was. You could forgive her for that, it's not like you faulted her to begin with anyways. You were a happy accident.

As it turns out two other kids in your class had Batman as a father as well, a boy and a girl. They started to say that they were siblings and you guess you were an older sister now. 

Anessa and Jamie were fun, high energy and loud, but that could be forgiven since they were children. Mama was happy that you made more friends. And as Children they kept you busy, from your depression and other troubles with being an adult in the body of a child.

Birdie’s birthday is arriving soon, physically you’ll be eight, mentally you would be twenty five.

And that was fine. You’ll have Mama invite Tobey, Anessa, and Jamie, you’ll eat cake and ice cream, and then life will continue.

The Batfam isn't in this chapter but they will be in the next

HERE — Part 2

[spidermanstealyohoe]

hold it together || t.c.

“i got a feelin' that i wanna be there with you, nobody else will ever do” - hold it together by the marias

calling u back {1} | real life {2}

__________

parings: tara carpenter x gn reader

summary: in which tara wants you bad but you don’t give in because you’re not ready for commitment

warnings: slight angst, arguing, crying?, language

a/n: last part for this lil mini series, decided to give em a happy ending cuz i’m nice like dat🤗

__________

__________

the fluorescent lights of the lecture hall were criminal. too bright, too white, too loud.

your head throbbed like a jackhammer had set up camp behind your eyes, and your stomach swirled with every regret you tried to drown in bourbon the night before.

you barely made it to class dragged your body across campus, hoodie up, sunglasses on even indoors. you slumped into the building and shuffled your way down the aisle toward your seat like you were walking into a funeral.

because in a way… you were.

you saw her the second you walked in.

tara slouched in her chair, arms crossed tight across her chest like a wall. she wasn’t looking at anything just staring ahead, lips pressed into a line, eyes glassy but dry.

she looked miserable and unfortunately for you, your nameplate was right next to hers.

assigned seats.

you cursed under your breath and dropped into your chair like a bag of bricks, trying not to even breathe in her direction. your knee brushed hers by accident and she flinched not much, just a twitch but it was enough to make you recoil instantly.

you didn’t say anything. of course you didn’t.

neither did she.

you sat there in silence, inches apart, a war between you where neither of you had the guts to fire the first shot.

your hands were shaking from the hangover, from the weight, from everything you didn’t say.

tara didn’t look at you once. not once and god, it hurt more than if she had screamed at you.

you tried to focus on the professor’s voice. something about shot composition, color theory, visual subtext… but it all sounded like static. every word bounced off the inside of your skull, lost in the ache and the guilt.

you glanced sideways, just once. her jaw was clenched. her eyes were hollow. she looked like she hadn’t slept. like her whole world had cracked open and you were the reason.

and still somewhere under it all you swore she was still holding onto hope.

but she didn’t speak. she didn’t look.

so you sat there. hungover. hollow. hurting. wishing this wasn’t your seat. wishing you weren’t you.

and beside you, tara sat in silence, arms folded tighter, heart aching louder because no matter how much you pretended not to feel it…

she still did.

later, class ended in a blur of notebooks closing, chairs scraping, and voices rising in idle chatter.

you didn’t move right away.

you sat there, frozen, staring at the professor’s final slide, like if you just stared long enough, you’d somehow delay the inevitable. your stomach twisted. throat dry. head still pounding from the night before, but none of it compared to the pressure building in your chest the longer you sat next to her without saying a damn word.

tara hadn’t shifted either.

her fingers were locked tightly around the strap of her bag in her lap, knuckles white, lips pursed together in a line of barely contained pain. you didn’t need to look at her to know how tense she was you could feel it radiating off her like static.

then, like some cruel joke from the universe, you both stood at the exact same time.

you turned.

she turned.

and she bumped straight into your chest soft, sudden, so close you could smell her shampoo.

your hands instinctively reached out, grabbing her elbows to steady her, but she immediately jerked back from your touch. her eyes shot up to yours, wide, glassy, and that was when everything stopped.

you stared at each other. seconds passed. then more. longer than they should’ve.

it was like time folded in on itself, like the noise of the classroom disappeared. there was only her eyes locked with yours so full of hurt, love, disappointment, and something too deep to name. your mouth parted, unsure if you were about to say something or if your body just forgot how to breathe.

and then… she let out a small, broken sob.

not loud. not dramatic.

just a sound like something inside her cracked. and without another word, she pushed past you and ran.

you stood there, arm half-lifted, helpless and useless as you watched her disappear into the crowd of students flooding out the doors.

your throat closed. your feet didn’t move. your heart ached like someone had reached into your chest and wrung it dry.

and for the first time in a long time you realized you were just as broken as she was and maybe it was finally too late to fix it.

“shit.”

__________

you had skipped the rest of your classes.

you couldn’t sit through another hour of pretending your chest wasn’t caving in. after tara ran out of the lecture hall, something in you cracked too. something final. you walked out like a ghost, not even telling chad or ethan where you were going. your body carried you back to the dorm, but your mind hadn’t caught up.

now you sat on your bed, hoodie still on, lights off, the only sound in the room was the low hum of your mini fridge and the buzzing silence in your head. you hadn’t moved in hours.

and then…

BANG. BANG. BANG.

your head shot up. more pounding, loud and relentless, rattling your door in its frame. your heart jumped into your throat.

you froze. the knocking wasn’t casual. it was violent. furious.

you crept toward the door like something was waiting to bite you on the other side and looked through the peephole.

sam.

fuck.

your stomach dropped. you stepped back from the door instinctively like it had caught fire.

more banging.

“open the door.”

you hesitated, your hand trembling as it hovered over the knob. sam wasn’t just pissed she was something beyond that. you could feel it through the door.

with a deep breath, you unlocked it and opened it slowly. you barely got a word out before sam shoved the door wide and pushed her way in, eyes blazing.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” she snapped, marching straight into your space. “what the hell did you do to her?”

you stumbled back, shocked by the force of her voice more than anything.

“sam—”

“no,” she cut you off. “don’t ‘sam’ me. she hasn’t stopped crying since last night. she won’t eat. won’t sleep. do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

your lower back hit the edge of your desk as you stumbled back into your desk chair, nowhere to retreat.

“i know,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“no, you don’t.” sam’s finger jabbed toward your chest. “you don’t get to be the reason she shatters and then sit here in your cave hiding from it.”

you lowered your eyes, guilt sitting like a stone in your gut.

“it’s too late, sam.” your voice was low, bitter. tired.“i already lost her.”

sam stared at you like you’d just spoken in another language.

“you think she’s gone?” she scoffed, stepping back. “you’re dead wrong.”

you looked up, startled.

“do you know what she did last night, after you stood there and let her run off crying?” sam’s voice cracked now too not with anger, but exhaustion.

“she stayed up until sunrise sitting on the bathroom floor, hugging her knees, whispering your name like it was the only word she still remembered how to say.”

your breath caught.

“she still loves you.” sam said it plainly, like it was the simplest truth in the world. “she still wants you and god knows why because if i was her, i wouldn’t waste a second on you after what you did.”

you sank down into the desk chair, hands gripping the edge, the weight of it all crashing back over you like a tidal wave.

“i don’t know how to be what she wants, sam,” you confessed, looking at the floor. “i don’t do love. i don’t do feelings. and she deserves so much better than someone like me.”

sam knelt slightly, getting on your level, voice softer now.

“she doesn’t want better. she wants you. even when you push her away, even when it breaks her.”

you shook your head, blinking fast. “what if i break her again?”

sam sighed, her expression finally softening.

“don’t.”

“you don’t get infinite chances,” she said after a moment, her voice firm, controlled. “not with someone like tara.”

you looked up slowly. she wasn’t yelling anymore. that was worse.

“you think she’s tough—and she is—but when it comes to people she lets in?” sam’s jaw clenched. “she breaks easy. she won’t admit it, but she does.”

you swallowed, guilt tightening in your throat.

“and you,” sam went on, stepping closer, “you knew that. you saw how much she cared about you. and you let her chase you until she collapsed.”

you winced, her words digging like knives under your skin.

“i didn’t mean to—”

“intent doesn’t fix hurt,” she snapped, cutting you off again. “it’s not enough to be sorry. you either show up, or you don’t. no halfway bullshit. no ‘i don’t do feelings’ crap. because if you want to be in her life… this is it. this is your last chance.”

the words hung in the air like smoke. and they burned. you sat back, head tilted toward the ceiling, heart pounding so loud it filled the silence.

“i’m scared,” you admitted. quiet. honest.

sam nodded. “yeah so is she. every second.” she paused. “but she’d still give you everything, if you asked.”

you looked over at her then. the protective older sister, the one with the always-on edge stare and the walls that matched yours brick for brick.

“why are you even telling me this?” you asked. “why not just keep me away?”

sam’s gaze was level. “because if you don’t get your shit together and fix this… she’ll never stop loving you. and that will destroy her worse than anything you’ve already done.”

you blinked. “and if i do try?”

sam sighed softly. “then don’t just try. show up. prove her wrong about the world. for once.”

a beat of silence.

then:

“i mean it,” she said, turning toward the door. “this is your last chance. don’t fuck it up.”

and with that, she left. leaving you alone in the mess you made and the chance you still had to clean it up.

__________

your dorm felt too small. too quiet. too filled with your own nervous pacing. back and forth, back and forth across the creaky wooden floor, one hand buried in your hoodie pocket while the other gripped the stems of a slightly crushed bouquet you weren’t even sure matched her favorite colors.

you had no idea what you were doing.

your head was still pounding dull and mean, the aftermath of too many shots and not enough water but the hangover wasn’t what had you sweating.

it was the fear. the guilt. the hope you didn’t deserve to have.

you stopped at the door again, stared at it like it was going to open by itself and tell you what the hell you were supposed to say.

you looked down at the flowers half-wilted daisies and pink tulips, wrapped in tissue you found at the campus corner store. not perfect. not even close. but they were something. and it had to count for something, right?

you took a breath. then paced back again. the words you kept rehearsing in your head didn’t sound right anymore. none of it did.

you weren’t the kind of person who gave flowers. or apologized. or… felt things out loud.

but she broke you open in a way no one else ever had.

and it wasn’t until last night when she sobbed and ran, when you sat in the dark while sam tore through your walls with truth after truth that you finally realized you couldn’t pretend anymore.

you wanted her in every messy, terrifying, vulnerable way.

you sat down on the edge of your bed, resting your elbows on your knees as the flowers drooped slightly in your grip.

you muttered under your breath, a half-laugh at yourself, shaking your head with a bitter smile. “this is stupid.” your heart didn’t stop racing.

the rain tapped against the window like a metronome, counting down the time you were wasting.

you didn’t know what you were going to say. you didn’t know if she’d slam the door in your face. you didn’t know if she’d ever forgive you.

but you knew you had to try. because for the first time you weren’t running away. you were walking into it for her and you were soaked before you even made it to your car.

the rain hadn’t let up.

your hoodie was soaked through, your sneakers squished with every step, and the flowers were hanging onto life by a thread. it didn’t matter. none of it mattered. the only thing that did was the apartment door in front of you and the girl on the other side of it who still haunted your chest like a ghost.

you hesitated. just for a second. then raised your hand and knocked. there was shuffling from inside then the door cracked open.

sam.

she looked… stunned at first. brows raised, lips parting like she didn’t expect to actually see you standing there. and then that expression shifted into something softer relief, maybe, mixed with something she didn’t want you to see.

she glanced down at the now-soaking flowers in your hand. then back up at your drenched form.

“…you look like hell,” she said quietly.

you let out a short breath, maybe a laugh, maybe not. “feel like it too.”

a long pause.

then she stepped aside.

“she’s in her room.” her voice gentled, barely above a whisper now. “door’s closed, but not locked.”

you swallowed.

“you sure about this?”

sam nodded once, firm and absolute.

“yeah. but if you walk in there and break her again…” she gave you a look. the kind that carried real weight.

“i won’t,” you said, and you meant it with your whole chest.

“not this time.”

sam studied you for another beat, like she was checking for cracks. and whatever she saw it was enough. she stepped back and gave a small nod toward the hallway.

“go. before she convinces herself you’re never coming.”

you moved past her, your heart slamming against your ribs with each step toward that door. you stopped just outside it, staring at the faint light glowing underneath, the muffled sound of rain against the window on the other side.

you reached up slow, shaky and tapped your knuckles once against the wood.

silence.

then the tiniest voice, muffled but unmistakable:

“…yeah?”

you exhaled.

“it’s me.”

a pause. then the sound of sheets shifting. soft footsteps. the door opened just a crack at first and there she was.

tara.

messy hair. swollen eyes. your hoodie. the one she must’ve never given back.

she blinked at you. lips parting. she didn’t speak.

you lifted the soggy bouquet with an awkward shrug. “uh… these looked better earlier.” her eyes dropped to the flowers then flicked back to your face.

neither of you spoke, not yet but the door opened a little wider.

tara stood in front of you, arms folded across her chest like she was trying to hold herself together but her lip was already trembling. her eyes flicked from your face to your hand, to the wilted flowers dripping onto the floor between you.

you didn’t say anything at first. you couldn’t. neither of you moved. it felt like time was daring you to speak.

“can i come in?” your voice was soft. unsure. ready to be told to leave.

tara hesitated for a breath. two.

then she opened the door fully and stepped aside.

you walked in, slow, like if you moved too fast you’d scare her off. the warmth of her room wrapped around you quiet, lived-in, scented faintly of vanilla and her shampoo. the lights were low, and her comforter was still rumpled from where she’d been curled up.

she closed the door behind you but didn’t speak.

you stood there with the dying bouquet in hand until she took them from you silently, staring at them like they were foreign. then she set them gently on the dresser like they still meant something.

and when she finally turned to face you, her eyes were already glassy. her chest rising and falling faster.

“why?” she said, barely above a whisper. “why are you here?”

you blinked. “because i need to fix this.”

that broke something.

“now?” she snapped, voice raw. “now you want to fix it? after everything?”

“i know—”

“no. no, you don’t.”

her voice cracked, rising, “you don’t know what it’s like to love someone who keeps pushing you away. to feel like you’re not good enough just because they don’t know how to let you in.”

you looked down, guilt sinking its claws deeper into your spine. she wasn’t done.

“i gave you everything i had, and you—you just sat there. you let me humiliate myself over and over and you didn’t even flinch.”

a tear slid down her cheek. “i begged you, in every way that wasn’t saying it out loud, to just… care back.”

“i did,” you said quickly, finally looking her in the eye. “i do.”

“then why didn’t you ever show it?” her voice cracked. “why did i have to feel like the crazy one? like i was chasing something that didn’t exist?”

you stepped forward instinctively, but she backed up, like touching you might make it worse. you nodded slowly. you deserved every word. every sob.

“because i was scared,” you said, quiet. “because every time i looked at you, i felt something i didn’t know how to handle and instead of figuring it out, i ran. i always run.”

“and you left me to pick up the pieces,” she whispered. “again and again.”

you felt your chest tighten.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you, tara.”

“but you did.”

that one hurt more than anything else.

she sat down on the edge of her bed, finally letting the tears come. soft, muffled sobs as her shoulders shook.

you stayed where you were. you didn’t try to hug her. you didn’t try to say something perfect.

you let her cry because she deserved to. after a moment, her voice broke through the quiet, strained and low.

“i hated you yesterday.” she looked at her hands. “i wanted to hate you so badly.”

you nodded.

“you should have.”

“but i didn’t.” her eyes finally met yours again. “and i still don’t. and that’s the part that hurts the most.”

you sat down across from her, not too close, just enough. your voice cracked when you spoke next. “i never thought someone like you could love someone like me.” you wiped your face, not realizing you’d started crying too.

“i thought if i let you love me, i’d ruin you. i thought keeping you at a distance was the kindest thing i could do.”

tara shook her head, frustrated and breaking.

“but you did ruin me. you just did it while pretending you weren’t there.”

silence.

then you reached out slowly and gently rested your hand between you on the bed.

not touching her just… there. an invitation.

“i’m here now,” you said. “not just to apologize. not just because sam threatened me.”

a dry laugh escaped her, “i’m here because you’re the only person who’s ever made me want to stop running.” her bottom lip trembled.

“i don’t know how to trust you again,” she whispered.

“i know,” you said. “and i’m not asking for everything all at once. i’m just asking for the chance to earn it, the slow way, the real way.”

a beat passed and then tara leaned forward, just a little. her fingers brushed yours, your breath caught in your throat.

“if i let you in this time…” her voice was soft. fragile. “you can’t leave. not even a little.”

you nodded, eyes never leaving hers. “i won’t. not again. not ever.”

a long silence then she reached for you.

and this time, when she broke again when the sobs came full and real into your chest you were finally there to hold her.

no more running. no more pretending. just you, and her, and the storm between you both finally starting to clear.

a few moments later, the rain had quieted by now, tapering off into soft drops tapping against the window like the final beats of a storm that had finally given up.

you didn’t know how long you and tara had been sitting like that her in your arms, your hand gently combing through her hair as her breathing slowly calmed in your hoodie-covered chest. neither of you had said much in the last few minutes. there wasn’t anything left to scream, or cry, or beg for. the silence now was something earned. something healing.

eventually, tara pulled back just enough to look at you.

her eyes were still red, lashes clumped together from crying, cheeks raw and flushed but she was beautiful. painfully so. especially like this, unguarded and real.

you brushed a strand of hair from her face. she leaned into the touch without hesitation.

“i meant what i said,” you murmured. “i don’t know how to do this kind of stuff. the soft stuff. the whole… relationship thing.”

she studied you carefully.

“i know.”

you looked down, a nervous chuckle slipping past your lips. then you looked back up at her to see a small smile tugging at her lips.

there it was that smile. the one she gave you when she was about to tease you, or flirt with you, or destroy your entire emotional stability in one breath.

“you’ve got a lot of learning to do,” she said softly. “but lucky for you…” she leaned in just enough that her nose nearly brushed yours. “i’ve decided i’m going to teach you.”

you blinked, eyes narrowing with a tiny smirk. “are you now?”

“mhmm.” she nodded like it was fact. “starting with holding hands. then forehead kisses. cuddles. good morning texts. maybe even god forbid matching halloween costumes.”

“you’re sick.”

“and you’re mine.”

that stopped everything in your chest. just those two words.

you’re mine.

you swallowed, and suddenly it wasn’t so hard to breathe. because maybe for once, being someone’s didn’t sound like a trap.

it sounded like freedom.

she cupped your cheek gently, her thumb tracing the curve of your jaw as you held her waist. “you really gonna make me do all the cheesy couple stuff?”

she grinned now eyes gleaming with something both playful and tender.

“oh, you have no idea.”

you laughed through your nose and shook your head slightly and then you kissed her.

it was slow at first. hesitant. like your lips were still learning the shape of hers, like you were both afraid the moment might vanish if you leaned in too fast.

but then her hands curled into your hair. your fingers slid under her hoodie. and that hesitation melted into something real. something needy. hot. honest.

like all the built-up tension, all the times you didn’t let yourself feel it, were flooding out of both of you in that kiss. the kind that made your stomach twist, the kind that felt like fireworks bursting in your ribs.

you pulled her closer, impossibly close, and she climbed into your lap without thinking, lips never leaving yours. every part of her felt like home. like something you’d been scared to want but craved all the same.

when you finally pulled back for air, you were both breathless, grinning, flushed.

“see?” she whispered against your lips. “lovey-dovey stuff’s not so bad.”

you let out a soft, dazed laugh, “now you’re gonna ruin me.” tara smiled, forehead resting against yours.

“good. someone’s gotta.” and for once, you didn’t feel afraid. you felt lucky.

because if love had a face, if safety had a heartbeat, if healing had a name, it was her and she was holding you like she had no plans of letting go.

[itneverendshere]

the first relapse being the most scariest thing you’ve seen. sarah’s even calling you about him like “dads trying to get his doctor on the line just in case he od’s”

added this to what i'd already summarized in this ask!! hope everyone enjoys the angst 😔🫂 it’s a little long (around 7.1k)

death by a thousand cuts - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe) warnings: substance abuse.

Ward’s sitting at the dining table, not bothering to glance up from his phone when he walks in. That look—so cold, dismissive—always sets something off in Rafe.

His father’s eyes stay locked on the screen like the phone’s more of a son than he ever was.

“What’s wrong?” Rafe asks, already knowing this isn’t a normal night.

Ward doesn’t answer right away, only sighs as if Rafe being here is another weight on his shoulders.

“Your mother called today.”

He doesn’t have to ask which mother, Ward’s new wife has nothing to do with this. His real mom, who left.

His brain malfunctions. Static white noise, then, a flood. No rhythm, just shit pouring in. Why now? What did she say? Is she sick? Dead? Alive? Drunk? Remarried?

The name mom tries to form in his mouth and dies halfway out, too human. That’s not what she is in this house. 

“What’d she want?”

Did she ask about me?

“She says she wants to see you. You and your sisters.”

Rafe’s eyes narrow, his heart pounding harder now. The audacity of it. There's pressure behind his eyes, no tears—he doesn’t feel sad. 

She always did this—popped back in when it was convenient for her, like they were just part of her life she could pick up and drop whenever she felt like it.

When was the last time? A couple of years? It doesn’t matter, it's insulting. She always pulled this shit. 

“No. I’m not doing this again.” 

“Rafe—”

“No, I said no.” That all familiar burn expands in his chest. He stands there, fists clenched. “She doesn't give a fuck about us. So, no. I’m not seeing her.”

God forbid she dial his number and hear what he really thinks.

Ward looks up, calm as ever, but there's that sternest in his eyes—the one that always makes Rafe feel like a kid who’s stepped out of line.

“She’s still your mother.”

“My mother?” Rafe lets out a disbelieving bitter laugh, “She fucking left us. She’s not my mother."

Ward rises from his seat. “Watch your mouth.”

There it is, the typical shutdown, respect was ever earned in this house, not demanded. Of course Ward defends her, they're not to different after all and it's easier than facing what she did.

“Watch my mouth?” Rafe barks back, voice tearing straight from the pits of his personal hell. “I watched her leave me every time she got bored. And you—you didn’t do shit! You let it happen, over and over.”

“That’s enough, Rafe.”

No, it's not.

“You gonna defend her? That’s what this is? You gonna act like she didn’t walk out on your kids and you didn’t stand there doin' nothing?"

“Stop blaming everyone else for your problems,” Ward snaps, louder now, the mask slipping. “Grow up. She left. That’s it. You’re still here crying about it, grow up."

Rafe's heart is beating inside his skull. His chest tightens like someone’s squeezing the air out of him.

"You don't get it. You never did. She fucked me up. She fucked all of us up, and you're still acting like it's nothing."

His mind is spinning, flashing back to the nights he was too high to breathe, too strung out to care if he woke up the next day.

“I’m not doing this again, dad. I’m not.”

Ward’s gaze turns cold. “She’s trying now. That has to count for something.”

“Trying?” Rafe gris out, low and brutal. “Trying?”

All those years of broken promises, all the times he was left wondering what the fuck he did wrong to make her leave—and now Ward wants him to sit down like it’s a fucking normal family reunion. 

“I don’t care what you think,” Ward says sharply. “You’re going to see her. That’s final.”

“I don’t care what you think, Rafe. This isn’t up for discussion. You will see her, and that’s final.”

“No fucking way.” He growls, chest rising, holding back a scream. “You can’t make me do this. I’m not going to sit there and pretend like everything’s okay when she’s the reason I turned into. You’re no better than she is,” he spits.

Ward’s eyes narrow dangerously, but he continues, “You let her walk all over us. You let her leave me, us, and you never said a word. You’re a shitty father."

Ward’s jaw tightens, that danger behind his eyes burning full. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

’ll talk to you however the hell I want,” Rafe snarls. “You want me to act like a man? Then fucking hear it. You didn’t protect me. You watched it all go to hell and let me take the fall for everything.”

“You were the problem,” Ward barks, venom surfacing. “She didn’t know how to handle you. Neither did I. You were a disaster—you did that. Not her.”

Rafe laughs but something just died inside him.

“That’s real fucking funny, coming from the guy who was never around enough to know who the fuck I was. You two were and are the fucking problem because you can’t let go of her.”

“This isn’t about you. Sarah wants to see her. Weezie deserves to have a mother.”

Rafe shakes his head, mouth twisted in incredulity. “You think that makes it better? Using them makes this right?”

“Grow the fuck up, Rafe. You will meet her, or you can leave this house right now.”

All the intensive work he's put in, what he clawed through to get clean, the shit he's tried to fix, it's slipping right through his fingers.

He can’t be here, not like this. He’s out the door before he even knows what he’s doing. Door slams. Feet moving. No plan, only that itch under his skin is back—the one he thought was gone, that’s how much control his parents have over him.

Rafe’s hands are still shaking when he gets into his truck, slamming the door harder than he means to. At this point, he's not getting enough air in his lungs. His thoughts are overlapping, crashing into each other at once. The fight with his father keeps replaying in his head, louder and louder, until he can’t hear anything else.

His fingers go numb on the wheel. Jaw clenched so tight his molars ache. His whole body’s tensed preparing for another hit. Ward's voice, telling him he’s the problem. His hands are shaking worse now, and there’s only one thought pounding through his mind: 

He can’t go to you like this.

The thought of walking through your door, this messed up, makes him feel sick. You’ve seen him at his worst before, but this… This isdangerous, the before. Before you, clarity and peace. He can’t let you see him like this, the old Rafe who almost lost everything.

You don’t need to see that. You don’t deserve it.

He knows where he can go instead. Somewhere he shouldn’t, where he swore he’d never go again. Unfortunaly, right now, it feels like the only place that makes sense. His body's buzzing with leftover adrenaline and anger, he needs it to stop on way or another.

So he turns the key, letting instinct and bad decisions take over. There’s a place his body remembers even if his mind’s screaming at him to turn back.

Rafe knows the back roads by heart, even though it’s been years.

He pulls up to the small shack Barry calls home, the lights still on, music thumping from inside. Nothing’s changed. The same rundown place, the same shitty cars parked out front, the same smell of smoke and liquor in the air. Time never moved here.

He sits there for a second, engine ticking, heart pounding, fists locked in his lap. He shouldn’t be here. He knows that. 

Doesn’t matter.

Rafe steps out, heading into his grave with his hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the dirt, trying to stay numb. When he steps inside, the familiar smell of stale beer and weed hits him like a truck, bringing back memories he thought he’d buried.

Barry’s lounging on the couch, a joint hanging from his mouth, lazily flipping through channels on the TV.

“Country Club,” he drawls, exhaling smoke. This is funny to him, a joke. “Didn’t expect to see your rich ass again. Thought you traded this dump for something shinier. Where's your pretty little girlfriend?”

He flinches when Barry mentions you. But he can’t walk out now, he’s already here. It’s already happening.

“I need something,” he mumbles, shame burning up his eyes but he doesn’t look away, already regretting this but not enough to stop.

Barry raises a brow, that smug twitch in his face. “Yeah? You always do. What is it this time—daddy made you cry again?”

Rafe’s teeth grind. “Just give it to me.”

Barry leans back, flicking ash onto the floor, watching him like an animal in a cage.

“You sure?” he says slowly, dragging out every syllable, some fucked up moral test. “You’re about to piss all that clean time down the drain? Thought you were past this shit.”

“I said,” Rafe breathes, voice shaky, “give it to me.”

There’s a pause, Barry's sizing him up.

Then, with a shrug he pretends it's out of his hands and he's doing Rafe a favor. He gets up, disappearing into the back room. Rafe waits, heart pounding in his ears, staring at the floor, trying not to think about what he’s doing, what this means.

Barry comes back a minute later, a small bag of coke in his hand. He tosses it onto the table in front of him.

Bag hits the table. Cash. Grab. Move. All muscle memory.

“Knock yourself out.”

Rafe's already digging in, fingers acting on autopilot as he shoves another roll of cash toward Barry. He knows this is stupid, reckless, it's going to hurt you. But he needs to forget. Just for a little while.

His hands stop shaking the second he takes that first line, it burns like ice. And then—nothing.

You’re already drained when you step through the front door of the house, kicking off your shoes and throwing your bag onto the couch.

The sticky summer air is clinging to your skin, and all you want is a cold shower and to crash in bed. 

The day’s been dragging—Hell day. Work was loud and messy and endless and all you’ve wanted—all day—was to hear from him.

You haven’t gottena text from him since this morning, which would be fine. It should be fine. He’s busy. You’re busy. But it isn’t. 

There’s this nagging feeling in your chest, something’s off.

“Hey!”

Monica calls from the kitchen as you grab a glass of water. She’s scrolling through her phone, half-distracted. Milo’s at kindergarten.

“Hey,” you mumble back. “Everything alright?”

She shrugs, not looking up. “Yeah, mostly.” She pauses, frowning like she’s trying to piece something together. “I think I saw Rafe’s truck earlier. Over by Barry’s place.”

Your heart drops before you understand what that means. You blink, trying to process what she just said. “Barry’s?”

“Yeah, you know. The guy who used to sell—Whatever.” Monica shrugs again, more casual than you feel. “I was driving back from work, and I swear it was Rafe’s truck parked outside Barry’s house.”

No. No. No.

“You’re sure?”

“Looked like his truck,” your sister nods, “Thought it was weird. Figured maybe he was helping someone out or something.”

You know better.

A cold sweat breaks out over your skin.

Rafe talked about Barry, sometimes. He confied in you that when things were bad—really bad—Barry was the one who kept him hooked, pulling him deeper. He told you everything about those years when he was drowning in addicatio.

Barry’s name came up more than once.

And if his truck’s outside, you know something’s wrong.

It’s like a pit in your stomach, this gnawing feeling that’s been sitting with you all day. 

“What? Why’s that such a big deal?”

You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady, but it’s impossible. “Rafe doesn’t… he doesn’t go there anymore. He hasn’t in years.”

Now she looks up. “Oh. Shit. You think—?”

“I don’t know,” you lie. You do. You just don’t want to say it out loud. 

You pull out your phone, fingers wobbly as you open your messages, scrolling through the last texts from Rafe, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. He’s usually better at checking in, especially when he knows you’ve had a long day. But today? Nothing.

You stare at your screen, debating if you should call him. But deep down, you already know something’s happened. He wouldn’t go to Barry’s unless things were really bad.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” your sister offers, but her voice is hesitant, “Maybe he was stopping by. It doesn’t mean—”

She doesn’t finish her train of thought and you don’t need her to. You know what it mean, feel it in your bones. He’s back in that dark place, using—And he didn’t come to you.

Why didn’t he come to you?

“I need to go.”

Your voice cracks on the last word but you’re already moving, keys in hand.

"Wait—what? Where are you going?”

“I need to find Rafe.”

She steps toward you, alarmed now. “Is it really that serious?"

“If he’s at Barry’s, it’s bad.”

Rafe had told you everything—the ugly details about the years he spent losing himself, the drugs, the fights. He had opened up to you after your first time together. And for the past two years you’d seen him, the real Rafe, the one who tried so damn hard to be better.

And yet, he didn’t call you. Didn’t text or let you help.

Your mind is racing as you drive. You think about how good things have been with him—how far he’s come. He’s not the guy he used to be. He doesn’t party like he used to, doesn’t numb everything with lines of coke or bottles of whiskey. He told you about his time in rehab, how scared he was of becoming that version of himself again.

Something must’ve happened.

Why didn’t he tell you? The thought is suffocating and recurring.

You know him—he’s reckless and impulsive sometimes, sometimes still smokes weed to take the edge off, but this…This is worse.

You don’t remember the red lights or the turns. 

It had to be Ward.

His always had this chokehold on him, making him feel like he’s never good enough. And whenever his mom gets brought up—whenever she’s even mentioned—it fucks with him in ways you're still trying to understand.

You slam your fist against the steering wheel, frustrated.

He’s dealing with this alone. And now he’s gone back to Barry. To coke. To everything that almost killed him before. You pull up to Barry’s place, stomach churning. Rafe’s truck is parked haphazardly outside, and your heart skips a beat.

He’s dealing with this alone, and now he’s gone back to Barry. To coke. To everything that almost killed him before. You pull up to his place, your stomach churning. You can see Rafe’s truck parked haphazardly outside, and your heart skips a beat.

He’s here.

He’s here, and he didn’t come to you.

You sit there trying to calm down, trying to figure out what the hell you’re going to say when you see him.

You get out of the car and practically run to Barry’s front door. You know this place, the people who come here and what they’re looking for. You’re pretty sure your dad spent half his life here back when Barry’s dad still ran the business.

You don’t bother knocking. You push the door open.

Barry’s on the couch, looking up when you walk in, and you see Rafe—sitting in the corner, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched.

He looks like a ghost.

Barry snickers from the couch, taking a drag from his joint. “Well, well, look who it is. Didn’t think I’d see the two of you here together.”

“Shut the fuck up, Barry,” you snap, crossing the room. Your eyes are locked on Rafe. “What are you doing here?”

“W-What?”

“Baby, look at you.”

He tries to stand, his movements slow, his body isn’t responding the way he wants it to. His eyes are bloodshot, unfocused, pupils blown wide, and he’s swaying.

“I just... I needed to clear my head,” he mumbles, slurring. His hand goes to his hair, trembling, and he can’t meet your eyes. “It’s not—”

“It’s not what?” You feel your heart breaking with every word, the cracks widening as you take in the mess of him.

His clothes are disheveled, his face pale, his hands twitching.

“I d-didn’t... didn’ wanna...” His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “Didn’ want you t’see me like... like this,” he slurs, voice scratchy and low. He finally meets your eyes for a second before dropping his gaze again. “Didn’ want you thinkin’ I was still..."

“You’re not that guy anymore,” you cut in softly, even though right now, he looks so like him. “But you’re acting like him.”

is head drops. Shoulders sag. “Didn’ know... wha’ else t’do.”

“And you didn’t think to come to me?” Your voice cracks. “You went to Barry instead of me?”

“Hey now—”

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” you snap, glaring at Barry. Then softer, back to Rafe, “You always come to me. Why’d you run here? Why would you go back to this?” You glance around, disgusted. “You’re better than this. Come on. Get in the car. We’ll figure it out.”

Rafe shakes his head slowly, blinking hard, trying to clear the fog. “C-Can’t... can’t do this right now.”

“Yes you can. Why would you run here? Why would you go back to this?” You glance at Barry, who’s watching the whole scene with a smirk on his face, enjoying every second of your heartbreak.

"Can’t… can’t be with you right now.”

“Why?” 

“Jus’... too much,” he breathes. “Hurts too much. I—” His voice breaks. “Didn’ wanna you t’see... me like this.”

“Then get in the car,” you plead. “We can figure it out together.”

He sways again, holding onto the couch. “I... I can’t,” he whispers so quietly you barely hear it.

It pushes something inside you.

You'll regret it later. If he doesn’t want your help, he doesn’t want you. And if he doesn’t want you right now he doesn’t deserve to want you when he’s better. 

"You can either get in the car and fight with me, or you can stay here. But if you stay—”

“Y-You’ll... you’ll leave?” he mumbles, squinting like it’s taking all the effort in the world just to stay present. “Leave me?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“E-everyon leaves...right?"

He’s never said anything like that to you before.

“I’m not leaving you, but if you stay here, with him,” you jerk your head in Barry’s direction, “I can’t help you. I can’t pull you out of this if you don’t want to get out.”

You know you can’t fix it for him. He has to make that choice willingly.

“I love you, but I won't watch you destroy yourself.”

You think you’ve gotten through to him, because his eyes soften behind all that darkness in his pupils. But then he shakes his head again, looking at the floor, making his decision.

“I... I don’ wanna hurt you,” The words are sticky, they’re fighting to come out. “I dunno how t’stop.”

Your heart breaks a little more at that.

“Yes you do, baby. You do. You just need to believe it.”

If he doesn’t come with you, you don’t know where this ends for him.

He’s stuck—frozen in place and time, trapped by whatever war is raging in his head. And you realize, as much as it kills you, no matter how deep your love runs, you can’t force him to choose you.

“You have to decide,” you say quietly, voice breaking. “Me or this. You can’t have both.”

Rafe lifts his head, eyes red and glassy. For a second, hope blooms pitifully in your chest. Maybe he’ll say something—anything—that makes this okay.

Except, he doesn’t. He just stands there, torn apart by his demons, his lips pressed into a thin line.

You feel the pit in your stomach grow deeper.

“Okay,” you nod, holding back tears. “I guess that’s my answer.”

You turn and walk out the door, heart shattering with every inch of distance you put between you and him. You don't look back, knowing that if you do, you’ll drag him out yourself, and you can’t do that.

As you get into your car, the sobs come anyway. You don’t want to leave him. God, you don’t want to. But he didn’t choose you.

Rafe doesn’t register the sound of the door slamming behind you.

To him, he's watching everything happen from somewhere far away, body senseless. You said something, you were upset—he knows that much—but the words never hit him, only floated around. He sinks back down into the chair, staring at the floor, heart racing but completely detached.

The room is spinning a faster, but he can’t feel anything. Can’t let himself feel anything. It’s better this way. Safer.

You left.

He knows it happened, but it doesn’t mean anything to him right now. He can’t process it in this state, when the drugs are still in his system, making it seem like he's underwater. He blinks a few times, trying to get his brain to catch up, but it’s not working.

Barry’s voice is somewhere in the background, laughing about something, he doesn’t hear him either, the world’s on mute. His body’s still buzzing from the high, fingers twitching, but inside? He's as empty as he gets.

Hours pass, maybe. Time doesn’t exist here when he’s this far gone, but the light changes through the window, it could be minutes or days for all he knows. He drifts in and out, his head heavy, eyes closing, but sleep never comes, only darkness. He did too many lines.

At some point, Rafe wakes up—if you can call it that. His body feels like it weights over two hundred pounds, his head is spinning, his mouth dry and sour. He blinks against the light, his vision blurry, trying to recall where the fuckl he is. 

It takes a second for everything to catch up.

To realize he’s at Barry’s.

It hits him all at once. You. You were here. You were mad. And then you were gone.

A sick, sinking feeling crawls up his throat. He sits up too fast, nearly thowing up in the process. Fuck. He drags a hand over his face, his thoughts still sluggish. Y

ou left. You walked out, and he… he didn’t stop you. Didn’t try to.

Why didn’t he stop you?

Before he can dwell about it, Barry saunters in, a easy-going grin on his face, holding a beer in one hand, a joint in the other. He takes one look at Rafe, slouched and disoriented, and lets out a mocking laugh.

“Good mornin'," Barry drawls, leaning against the doorframe, “Look who’s finally awake. You done fucked it up, Country Club.”

Rafe doesn’t say anything.

Barry raises an eyebrow, taking a drag from the joint, shaking his head. “Damn, man. Thought you were smarter than that.”

Rafe just stares at the floor, his stomach twisting. He can’t remember exactly what he said to you. But the look on your face… he can’t forget that. The disappointment. The hurt.

Barry chuckles, settling down on the couch across from him. “What was it? You running your mouth again, or did she just get tired of you being a fuckup?”

The shame is settling in, creeping up his spine. He doesn’t want to hear this. But Barry keeps going.

“Should’ve seen it coming, man,” He continues, “Girls like that? She was bound to leave eventually.”

If he felt strong enough to move, he would’ve pummeled that joint out of his mouth, his teeth following next.

Who the fuck did he think he was? He knows Barry’s trying to get under his skin, it’s working. He feels sick.

“You done fucked it up, Country Club,” Barry repeats, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. “You’re back here. Same old Rafe.”

Same old Rafe. 

He told himself he’d never end up here again. He swore he was done with this. Done with the drugs, done with the guy he used to be. Now he’s right back where he started. He let you see it.

He doesn’t know how to fix this. Doesn’t know if he can fix this. But the one thing he does know? He should’ve crawled after you.

Rafe doesn’t say a word. His hands are already moving, reaching for the small bag of coke on the table. His fingers tremble as they close around it, the weight of the plastic barely registering in his hand. 

Barry watches him, that same shit eating smile never leaving his face, taking another drag of his joint, exhaling a cloud of smoke with a low chuckle. He’s not surprised.

"Of course," Barry mutters, shaking his head in amusement. “Of course, you're takin’ that shit with you.”

Rafe’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t fight him. He can feel Barry’s eyes on him, feel the judgment radiating off him.

He stuffs the bag in his jacket pocket, standing up on shaky legs, stumbling toward the door. His mind is on autopilot, moving without him.

"Attaboy, Country Club," Barry calls after him, voice dripping with condescension, laughter bubbling up from deep in his chest. “Just keep runnin’. That’s what you’re good at, right?”

Rafe’s hand tightens on the doorknob, teeth grinding together. He can’t look at Barry—he can’t look at any of this—so he does what he always does. He walks away, out of the door, into the night, the bag burning a hole in his pocket.

It’s been two weeks since you last saw him.

Fourteen endless days of silence. Your messages unanswered and unread. You told him you were leaving, but it wasn’t a threat or a goodbye. You only wanted him to choose himself.

You can’t stop thinking about him. It physically hurts.

Rafe's everywhere and nowhere all at once. He’s in the spaces he used to fill, in the empty side of your bed, in the mirror when your face crumples before you can stop it.

You ache with it, not figuratively. It’s a dull, consuming throb behind your ribs that refuses to let you breathe.

You think about where he might be. If he’s safe. If he’s even conscious. If you still cross his mind—or if he’s already let go.

You miss him. God, you miss him.

You’ve haven't been doing well at work. When you try to concentrate, a memory of him sneaks in—wild-eyed, unreachable—and your hands start shaking. Twice you’ve called in sick just to lie in bed and cry until your chest physically hurts. It’s pathetic.

You reached out to Sarah a few times. She was trying to be honest, but it didn’t help. “He’s gone off the grid,” she said a week ago. “Not talking to anyone."

That was a week ago.

Here you are—perched on your bed, phone in hand, debating whether to try again. One more message or one last call, it can’t end like this. Rafe's the love of your life. That hasn’t changed.

Sarah’s name flashes on the screen, and you nearly drop the damn thing. “Sarah?”

“Hey,” You can hear it immediately—something’s wrong. “Are you home right now?”

Your stomach knots. “Yeah. Why? What happened?”

You hear her inhale shakily. “It’s Rafe. He’s—fuck, it’s bad. Really bad.”

“What do you mean bad? What happened?”

“Dad’s calling his private doctor,” she says, her voice beginning to crack. “He thinks he might OD.”

You go cold.

“The doc's not answering,” she rushes on, “Dad’s freaking out. Rafe’s been using nonstop—he’s not making sense anymore. I didn’t know who else to call. I thought maybe if you—"

"I’m coming,” you say, cutting her off, already on your feet.

You hang up and bolt out the door, keys in hand, not fully aware of the motion. The drive to Tannyhill is a quick. You can’t feel your hands on the wheel. You can’t hear the road beneath your tires.

If Sarah is calling you…it's bad.

You’re already sprinting up the steps when the door swings open.

The house is quiet.

Sarah’s by the stairs, face blotchy and eyes bloodshot. She nods toward the living room.

And that’s when you see him.

He’s slumped on the couch, his body limp, eyes half-open but glazed over, he’s not even seeing what’s in front of him. His skin is clammy, his hands twitching every few seconds, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Ward’s pacing the room, his phone pressed to his ear. “I don’t care if he’s busy, get him here now. He’s going to fucking die.”

“Rafe?”

Nothing.

No flicker of recognition. He’s not seeing you—he’s not seeing anything.

Sarah’s standing behind you now, “He won’t talk to us."

You drop to your knees beside him, swallowing back the panic, fingers brushing his arm.

“Rafe,” you breathe. “It’s me. I’m here, okay? Look at me.”

But there’s nothing. Just silence.

His head lolls to the side, his eyes flick to yours—but they’re vacant, it's like looking into someone else’s body. The person you know, the person you love, isn’t there. You keep whispering his name, pleading for him to wake up, to do something, but nothing works.

Ward's still on the phone, his voice a angry hum in the background.

His eyes flick over to you every few minutes, but he doesn’t say anything. Sarah’s standing off to the side, her arms wrapped around herself, face puffy from crying. You can see how scared she is, you’re glad they got Weezie out of the house before she could see this. 

After what feels like an eternity, the doctor rushes in, followed by a paramedic with a bag of medical equipment. He's already kneeling beside Rafe, muttering instructions, checking his pulse, prying his eyes open.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “He’s lucky he’s still breathing.”

The paramedic starts unpacking equipment, slipping an oxygen mask over Rafe’s face as they move with urgency. You try to stay calm, try to keep your hand on Rafe.

Ward ends his call and stands there, watching as they hook Rafe up to monitors and prep him for transport.

“Is he going to be okay?” he asks, voice strained because god forbid he shows more emotion.

The doctor glances up, his expression grim. “We’re stabilizing him now, but if this had gone on much longer… we’d be having a very different conversation.”

You're going to be sick.

They move fast, lifting him onto the stretcher. His limbs dangle uselessly. His body looks small, somehow. Beaten.

Ward steps forward, watching his son being carried away. For the first time, you see it—real fear in his eyes. 

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he says eventually. “Should’ve stopped it. This is on me.”

You feel something snap inside of you.  

“I’m sure it fucking is.”

He doesn’t say anything, only stands there like a fucking idiot.

Sarah’s beside you now, her hand a small pressure on your arm. “Come on,” she whispers. “We need to go with him.”

You nod, swallowing as you follow her out of the house, leaving Ward standing there alone.

You and Sarah sit in the car, neither of you speaking. You watch the ambulance disappear down the driveway, sirens off.

“I’m scared,” Sarah admits. 

You shut your eyes. “Me too.”

You have to remind yourself to breathe.

At the hospital, everything moves in slow motion. You’re ushered through paperwork, redirected by nurses, given vague updates. Eventually, you end up in a waiting room—those hideous, rigid chairs that feel like they were made for purgatory.

Minutes drag by like hours. You scroll through your phone without seeing it. Sarah bites her lip raw, blinking too fast. Every time you close your eyes, all you see is him—slumped, slipping away. After what feels like forever, the doctor finally comes through the doors, and Sarah and you jump up at the same time. 

The doctor looks exhausted, his face lined like he’s delivered this kind of news too many times already today.

“We got to him in time,” he says, voice low. “He was close. Closer than I’m comfortable with. But he’s stable now. We’ll keep him under for at least twenty-four hours.”

You finally take a deep breath, it shudders on the way out, not doing much to ease the knot in your chest.

Sarah’s already moving when the doctor finishes speaking. She doesn’t ask where his room is—she doesn’t need to. She has to see him. You don’t follow. Your legs feel like they’ve turned to stone. If you try to stand, you’ll collapse.

As much as you want to be with him, to hold his hand or just… see him breathing, you’re not sure you can stomach it—seeing him like that again. You've been walking a tightrope for weeks, bracing for a call like this.

What you need more than anything is to get out of here, close your eyes for more than a minute without the image of him passed out burned into your brain. You need sleep. You need to feel something other than panic. He’s gonna be okay. 

Rafe's alive, that’s enough for now.

You leave the hospital, but the image of him doesn't leave you.

You come back the next morning.

Just outside his room makes your stomach churn. You grip the handle, remind yourself you have to go in, he’s still here, he needs you.

He’s awake.

Propped up by the pillows, pale and worn down to the bone, but his eyes find you the second you step through the door. It’s like he doesn’t believe you’re real.

“Hey,” You manage to say, You don’t trust your voice to be strong enough to say something more.

His eyes widen faintly. “You came.”

You take a cautious step closer. “Of course I came, Rafe. Where else would I be?”

He’s genuinely shocked, he thought you’d just walk away from all of this. His eyes flicker away from yours, settling on the IV in his arm.

“Sarah called me. She didn’t know what to do.”

His jaw tightens. “She shouldn’t have.”

“She shouldn’t have had to, Rafe. You scared the shit out of her—out of everyone. I’ve been sitting here for two weeks, waiting for you to say something, anything, and you just—” You stop yourself, throat closing up, biting your lip to keep from crying. “You almost died.”

You can see his chest rising and fallin, you don't think he's going to answer at all—until he speaks.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he admits quietly. “I didn’t want you to see how fucked up I am.”

Your heart twists. You’ve already seen it. Every fractured, spiraling version of him—and you’re still here. Because you’ve seen it and you love him anyway.

Rafe shakes his head, his hands gripping the blanket.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You step sit on bed, “Don’t say that,” you murmur, reaching for his hand. He flinches but doesn’t pull away. You link your fingers with his. “You’re gonna be okay. We’ll get through this. I need you to let me help you.”

He closes his eyes, his face twisting in pain, “Ward wanted us to meet mom and I just—”

You’ve never fully understood what his mom meant to him, or maybe what losing her did to him, now you do. The deep-rooted pain that calcifies in the bones and takes root in the places people don’t talk about.

“I didn’t want you to see this mess. I don’t want anyone to. I’m a fucking disaster. Every time I try to fix something, I make it worse. I just—” He breaks off, trying to swallow the rest of his words, the ones he can't confess out loud.

“You spent years sober, that’s not easy,” You scoot closer, wrapping your arms around him carefully, “Baby, I know you’re hurting. But I’m not going anywhere.”

“You should,” He confesses, “I hurt you.”

“You have,” You murmur into his shoulder,  “But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving. I’m not gonna give up on you.”

Rafe looks away, like he doesn’t believe you, he's waiting for you to walk out of that hospital room and never look back.

Instead, you squeeze his hand.

"I’m here because I love you."

“You shouldn’t.” he whispers.

You shake your head, leaning in, your hand resting on his cheek.

“But I do, Rafe. Together, okay? One step at a time.”

He nods, barely, but it's something. It’s a start.

[r3starttt]

LET SILENCE SPEAK

PAIRING: Caitlyn Kiramman X reader

SUMMARY: Caitlyn comforting you after a depressive episode :(((( and kissing u a lot

CW: angsty but very comforting. Ren writing after months of not doing so.... yeah

TAGLIST: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @patronagrona @halle5s @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight @ss

It begins quietly, as it always does.

Not with a bang or breakdown, but a hush—a gradual softening of color, of voice, of presence. It doesn’t announce itself. It slips in through the cracks, makes a home of your silences, and settles beneath your skin like fog. It comes and it goes, weaving itself into your routine until you barely remember what life felt like without its weight. Too late to stop it, you’ve built a home out of it. A shell that mimics safety. A pause that pretends to be peace.

Your mind is a field of static—over-slept, overrun, far from anything resembling reality. The world moves in front of you, but it’s muffled, dulled. Words wedge in your throat like stones. Each vowel distorts, each consonant collapses into noise. You nod at every question out of habit, avoiding elaboration, rationing your energy for when you have to perform. You save your voice: for the smiles, the polite laughs, the act of presence.

Even food loses its color. The thought of eating fills you with a vague disinterest, like everything else. Even your bed—your supposed haven—feels suffocating now. The sheets too cold, the pillows too loud. You want to rest, but even the act of surrendering feels wrong. Minutes blur into hours. Hours into days. And soon, you don’t remember what it felt like to feel like yourself.

It always comes back like this. But no matter how many times, it still manages to catch you off-guard—sneaking in through routine, wrapping around your ribs. You don’t see the shift until the mirror doesn’t look like you anymore. The skin is yours, the hair, the eyes—but the soul inside doesn’t fit. You move, but from a distance, as though watching your body go through the motions from some quiet corner of your mind. Detached. Lost.

People speak, but their voices are foreign now. Not cruel, not unkind—just weighty, each word pressing in until the air thickens around you. Conversations become minefields. Smiles feel like lies. You don’t mean to drift away. You’re not trying to hurt anyone. But everything feels like too much. Every interaction demands more than you have to give. And the more they reach, the more you shrink back, terrified of being truly seen. Because when others have seen you like this before, they recoiled. They turned away. They asked for less, or worse, nothing at all.

You know Caitlyn isn’t like that. She never has been. But even she isn’t immune to the blade of your breaking. You love her fiercely. And precisely because of that, the idea of unraveling in her arms feels dangerous—like cutting both of you open at once.

So you do the only thing that feels safe. You hide.

Tonight, it’s the couch. You’re curled into yourself at the far end, knees drawn up tight, a shape too small to belong to a whole person. You sit like you’re trying to disappear. Rain whispers against the windows—soft and persistent, like the universe is trying to hum a lullaby just for you. It’s the only thing that doesn’t ask anything of you. The only sound that doesn’t hurt.

You don’t hear Caitlyn approach at first. Lately, she’s been more hesitant—watching you from the doorway with furrowed brows and clenched fingers. She used to rush to you at the first sign of quiet. Now she watches. Waits. She has learned that not every silence is an invitation. Not every tear means come closer. And so she honors it, as best she can. Until she can’t anymore.

She crosses the room slowly, her eyes scanning the outline of you. The way your body folds into itself. The way your breath comes shallow, like you’re afraid of being too loud, like even oxygen is borrowed. Her gaze lingers on your shoulders, on your face.

And she aches.

“Love,” her tone comes quieter than a breath.

You don’t look at her. But you feel the shift as the cushion beside you dips, her weight settling gently into the space you left open. She doesn’t touch you—not yet.

You stare at the floor. The words are there, somewhere inside you, trapped.

But then, after a moment, you lean—slowly. Not quite an embrace. Not quite an apology. Just the smallest plead for her to not leave.

Caitlyn exhales like she’s been holding her breath all week. She wraps an arm around your back, tentative, gentle, and you sink into her touch like a tide returning to shore.

And in that moment—though you know the silence will return, though you know this isn’t a cure, something inside you lets go. The tension in your spine eases. Your fingers unclench. Your breath deepens.

"You know that I love you, right?" The words you pronounce–each one of them, alongside your tone, too quiet and honest–it makes her cup at your cheeks. Her cold skin cradles yours almost in desperation. "Listen, I know you. I've seen you, all of you." She's insistent on her last words, leaning to press her lips against yours. It's brief, but gentle enough for your eyes to meet hers for once. "I don't mind staying like this if its what you want-" Her nails gently brushed some baby hairs away from your face, using it as an excuse to just stare and touch like she'd wanted.

“I hate feeling like this. It’s like my body’s here but I’m not.” You announced in a murmur, allowing yourself to be held by Caitlyn. To try your best and say what's been burning on your throat lately. “I want to be better. I just don’t know how to get there... anymore.”

"I think you are getting better." Her lips parted slightly into a smile, that cocky playful grin reserved to make you smile too. "Maybe you don't notice, but I do."

Even though her words and her smile and her touch and just her were supposed to make you feel lighter. It didn't work, it felt like a bench of excuses to make you grow out of this– it made you mad on yourself.

"I don't want to drag you with me."

Caitlyn stared in silence, pulling you closer to her chest until she could feel your heavyness herself. "I hate seeing you like this." Her perfume felt like it could satiate you alone, her arms and the soft fabric of her clothes hugged you with her tenderness. You really felt loved, even with all the sad blinding you, you felt loved. "Trust me, you won't drag me with you– and if you did, I wouldn't mind. As long as you stop dealing with this alone." She brushed your hair away from your neck, leaning in to press soft kisses all over the exposed skin. "I love you."

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

Chapter 2: Somewhere Between Gin and Chaos

———————————————————————————

If someone had told Y/N she’d be walking through central London in a pink tracksuit that read Hot Bitch Ready To Party, she would’ve laughed them out of the room.

But here she is—hood up, sunglasses on, bottle of gin in one hand, half a Greggs sausage roll in the other—walking with her two teammates like they’re a band on tour. A chaotic, mildly tipsy band with no musical ability and a terrible sense of direction.

They’re only two pubs in, but Y/N already feels the city spinning in a strange, hyperreal way. Not drunk—yet—but loosened. Her anxiety still hums beneath everything like background static, but it’s muffled by the ridiculousness of it all.

“We should be vlogging this entire thing,” ArthurTV says, spinning the camera toward Bach, who’s trying—and failing—to convince a stranger to swap shoes with him. “This is quality content.”

“Mate, please. I’ve got plantar fasciitis,” the stranger protests, eyeing Bach’s bright pink trainers like they might give him a disease.

“Respect,” Bach says, backing off. “I wouldn’t either.”

Y/N leans against a lamppost, laughing, trying to steady the giddy lurch in her chest. There’s something freeing about being this visible. Normally, she hates standing out. She prefers to blend, observe from the edges. But today, dressed like a walking punchline and surrounded by people who don’t seem to care about how they’re perceived, it almost feels... safe.

“Okay, team,” Arthur says, scrolling through the bingo list. “Outfit challenge—check. Two pubs down—check. Failed the shoe swap. Should we try the wild animal next?”

Bach’s eyes light up. “Let’s find a squirrel.”

“Do squirrels count as wild animals?” Y/N asks, eyebrows raised.

“If it can bite me and give me rabies, it counts,” Bach insists.

“By that logic, George counts too,” she mutters before she can stop herself.

Arthur snorts into his drink. “Oh damn.”

Y/N groans. “Ignore me. That was... nothing.”

But the moment hangs in the air for a second too long.

It was nothing. And yet—it wasn’t. She keeps replaying the way George leaned in, the way his voice dipped when he called her shirt “very accurate.” It was harmless teasing. Probably something he does with everyone. Still, it lingers.

She doesn’t have time for that kind of distraction. Not now. Not when she’s still trying to prove she belongs here.

“Alright,” Arthur says, saving her from herself, “we’ll circle back to the animal. Let’s hit pub three.”

They keep walking. More pink. More laughter. A random tourist stops them to ask for a photo, clearly thinking they’re some kind of performance art. Bach poses like a runway model.

By the time they reach the third pub, Y/N’s legs are starting to ache, and her drink has settled into a warm buzz just beneath her skin. Inside, the pub is dim and a bit crowded, the kind of place that smells like sticky floors and good stories.

They order pints, squeeze into a booth, and spend the next ten minutes trying to convince a guy at the next table to do a shot with them.

Eventually, Bach pulls out a fiver and slaps it on the table. “That’s my final offer.”

The guy considers it for a beat, then shrugs. “Alright.”

The whole pub cheers when they clink glasses. Y/N throws her head back and laughs, cheeks flushed with the kind of joy that comes from being in the moment and nowhere else.

She feels her phone buzz in her pocket.

Chris

> Pub 4. Team Sad Lads are ahead. Hope you like losing.

Y/N shows the message to Arthur and Bach.

“We need to pick it up,” she says, draining the rest of her pint.

They step back onto the street, and almost like the universe is laughing at her, they immediately run into the other team—Chris, Arthur Hill, and George—lounging outside a pub bench, mid-pint and mid-laugh.

“Ahhh, the Barbie Brigade returns,” Chris calls out.

“Did you guys even try to change clothes, or did you just raid your granddad’s closet?” ArthurTV asks, nodding at George’s tweed jacket and matching flat cap.

“We’re going for sophisticated chaos,” George says. “It’s high fashion. You wouldn’t understand.”

Y/N tries not to stare, but George does actually look unfairly good. The tweed makes him look like a countryside villain in a murder mystery. Smug. Relaxed. Teasing.

“You look like you own five boats and cheat on your taxes,” she deadpans.

He grins at her, slow and wide. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Before she can think of a response, Chris claps his hands. “Alright, let’s do a mini challenge. First team to convince someone to let them jump in a fountain wins a bonus point.”

Everyone groans. It’s still early spring. The idea of swimming in London water is... vile.

But Bach’s already scanning the area like he’s dead serious.

“No way,” Y/N says, shaking her head. “There’s not enough gin in the world.”

George sidles up next to her, just a little closer than necessary. “Scared?”

She doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t look at him either. “I just have standards.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Keep those. You’ll need them around this lot.”

His voice is different this time. Still teasing—but softer. Like he meant it. Like he’s offering something more than just flirtation.

She looks at him then, eyebrows raised. But before she can say anything, Arthur Hill lets out a whoop and sprints toward the nearest fountain like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.

Chaos erupts. Chris follows, shouting. Bach yells something about filming it for TikTok. ArthurTV is already pointing the camera and running after them.

Y/N stands there for a moment, blinking. And then—laughter bubbles out of her chest. Real, unfiltered laughter.

She turns back to George, who’s still watching her, not moving.

“You’re not going to jump in?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I don’t need to. I already won.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but the smile won’t leave her face. She hates that he’s good at this—at getting under her skin in ways that feel both infuriating and... weirdly comforting.

The rest of the group is soaked and breathless by the time they regroup, laughing and dripping all over the sidewalk.

As they all head toward the next pub, the teams split again.

Y/N trails behind for a moment, her fingers brushing the hem of her ridiculous pink shirt.

She’s not sure what she expected when she agreed to this. Maybe just a fun distraction, a video to be edited and forgotten. But it’s starting to feel like something more.

And George?

Yeah. He’s going to be a problem.

---

Masterlist

——

I’m basically writing this for myself

[comatosebunny09]

back on my leon bullshit. @blessdunrest @vaaaaaiolet @zozo-01 tagging you because this is your fault.

Leon takes you on a nice, laid-back date somewhere low-key.

You’re used to luxury—six-course meals, restricting dresses, smiling all alluring amid politicians and the scum of the underworld. But with Leon, it’s…different.

It’s easier to drop your defenses. Just a little bit. 

Leon makes you smile without really trying. He’s a gentleman beneath the teasing and the cockiness. Looks amazing in a suit. Feeds you bites from his plate, profusely compliments the dress you got off the rack of some quaint little boutique, and he keeps you laughing all stupid throughout dinner.

Simplicity is nice. Especially when it’s with someone who makes you feel like the center of their universe and not like one of its many, insignificant moons in orbit.

Your mind is already made up—you intend to thank him for his patience, kindness, and company in the only way you know how: with sex.

He can’t be too oblivious. He acts like he doesn’t know what you’re hinting at sometimes, but you suppose that’s just him being chivalrous.

You rented a room near the restaurant he took you to. Something downtown. Comfortable, charming, unassuming.

He chuckles as you tug him from the elevator, stumbling behind you to keep up with your quick, smaller strides.

“What’s this about?” he asks against your ear from behind, smiling like an enamored fool with his hands falling to your waist as you open your hotel room’s door.

You flash him a smile over your shoulder before you push inside, dragging him along with you. He stands in the entryway, admiring his surroundings—the lush bedding, the posh decor, the ambient lighting. Hands on his hips, his gaze slides to you as a smirk crooks his lips.

“Well, at least you bought me dinner first before you tried to get into my pants.”

You snort from across the room, slipping out of your coat and kicking off your heels. You turn away from him towards the balcony, sweeping your hair over one shoulder, and peering back with a gaze that burns like cinders.

“Help me take off my dress?” you beseech, playing all coy.

Leon owlishly blinks at you, unsure what to do with his hands. They open and close a few times at his sides. His eyes are round, mouth spilling open. It takes him a few seconds to process your implications before he covers the distance between you in slow, shaky strides.

“Uh, sure.”

The warmth of his body permeates through your skin. There’s static and pheromones sparkling between you as he cautiously clasps your zipper. He has a hand on your waist to keep you steady, and it’s like being burned by fire. The sound of your zipper dropping is the most jarring noise in the room.

You sigh, relieved, when the give of your dress loosens. You cast Leon a playful look as you slide the straps off your shoulders, teasingly slow.

He gets a look at your back. Sucks in a breath at the scars littering your pretty skin, yet they don’t at all detract from your beauty. His fingers twitch near your spine with the urge to touch, but he hesitates.

This thing between you doesn’t have a name. Not yet. Sure, you’ve kissed and held hands and played house. But he isn’t one to jump to conclusions, and it’s damn near infuriating how patient he’s been with you while you took time to figure yourself out again.

He’s still a man. Still has desires, and he’s not afraid to appreciate pretty things. So, forgive him for being a little breathless and taken aback as you shimmy the dress off your waist and down to the floor.

He can’t help himself this time. Completes his thoughts, dragging his knuckles down the notches of your spine, down your bra clasp, and ending his study at the small of your back.

Did you really wear this cute little set for him? Black, lacy bra. Matching thong. He chuckles inwardly. All for him, huh?

You turn in the midst of his ruminating, and your eyes bleed sin beneath the feigned innocence. You slip your hands onto his shoulders, standing on tippy-toe, and your lips pan in before claiming his in a rush of breaths and heat.

You nearly knock him off kilter. But he’s got a handful of your hips, and you’re pressing all warm and pliant against him, singeing him down to the bone. He groans something strained into your mouth, feeling like he’ll never get his fill of your taste. You snake your arms around his neck, fingers sifting through the fine hairs at his nape, and when your tongue seeks out the wet glide of his, he nearly loses it.

His mind’s all foggy, so he doesn’t fight back when you suddenly pull away, taking him by the lapels of his jacket, and shoving him towards the bed. You don’t give him much time to adjust to the change in scenery because you’re climbing onto his lap like a dangerous little feline. Sealing your lips to his, all pretty and perfect in his lap.

When you’re winding your body like that, baring down on his lap, pressing your full breasts against him, he can’t think. You’re robbing him of all thought and reason, smudging his lips and chin with the dangerous rouge of your lipstick. Tearing through his hair, sighing and moaning into his mouth like you’ve never wanted anyone or anything more.

As wonderful as you feel, and as much as he adores you, his conscience kicks in. A jarring little voice at the base of his skull like nails on a chalkboard, and he reluctantly draws back with tender hands clasped around your sides.

You blink, bewildered, gaze lidded, simmering like heated liquid. Your brows pinch in the center, lips parted and kiss swollen, and it takes all of him not to pull you back in.

“What’s wrong?” you breathe, rubbing the back of his neck. Dragging your hand down his chest, adjusting on his lap.

Leon swallows, biting back a distressed noise. You’re undeniably sexy and wonderful, and what he wouldn’t give to make you his girl. But he’s gotta be sure you’re not pushing yourself to do something you’re not ready for. Charting dangerous terrain because you feel like you should versus you wanting to.

He chuckles, all sticky and disbelieving. Smooths his hands up and down your waist, looking everywhere else but at your gorgeous face. “I just…wanna be sure you want this. With me.”

You give him a perturbed look that morphs into one of amusement before gathering his stubbled cheeks between your palms, coaxing him to look you in the eye. God, that smile you give is devastating. The color of your eyes is mesmerizing. To him, you’re like a siren ushering fishermen to their watery graves, and he supposes he’ll gladly be amongst them.

“Of course I do,” you whisper, sweet as sugar. Pull him closer until your breaths intermingle. Until you’re both dizzy from the proximity and the friction, and he shivers when your lips graze his.

He’s kissing that smile off your face before he knows what’s about. Standing with your legs wound about his hips, and how effortlessly he picks you up steals the air from your lungs. He turns to deposit you onto your back against the goose down comforter, and your eyes glaze over with lust when they find his as he kisses down the stretch of your body, kneeling at the foot of the bed.

He wants to savor this. Savor you. He doesn’t know the full semantics of what your life looked like before him. You’ve fed him bits and pieces, and he’s gleaned his own things from the way you move, talk, and present yourself. But judging by the scars on your back and the constant twitch of your fingers like you should be holding something—a gun, a knife—he knows your life wasn’t all sunshine and daisies.

So, he wants to love you slowly. Dismantle you to build you back up again. Worship every inch of skin, savor you like his final meal.

You’ve been nothing but sunshine to him. So forgive him for wanting to return the favor.

[amywritesthings]

press four for more options. | part two.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 3.5k Summary: After seeing your ex with his new girl at a work party, you take the not-so-smart advice from a friend to call a sex hotline to get over him. Your match? A baritone bossy dom named Levi.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - smut, alternate universe (modern), sex work, phone sex, dirty talk, dom!levi, light dom/sub, guided masturbation, pet names, nipple play, overstimulation, multiple orgasms Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

part one. / part three. | masterlist

2-5-1-2.

It’s an easy enough combination to remember, being Christmas Day and all.

Pressing 2, 5, and 1 is easy. The final '2' makes you second guess yourself.

You’re not sure why you’re panicking. He’ll pick up.

(It’s literally his job, idiot.)

Fuck it.

Your index finger hits the '2' and the hashtag to finalize the combination.

When you hear the line go dead, you tense every muscle in your body.

No breathing.

No blinking.

Just waiting for that silky, sultry siren song to come over and confirm your bias that it’s the single sexiest voice you’ve ever heard.

—but it’s that automated lady you tried to bypass from the menu.

“Please enter your credit card number, followed by the expiration date—”

“Oh, Goddamn it,” you groan, shouldering the phone to shuffle your purse around.

Eventually after some digging, you find your card before she can continue a second loop of her payment spiel. 

You can’t believe you’re legitimately putting your credit card information out there for anyone to steal.

Yet, if Annie’s been doing this for ages, then it ought to be safe.

Right?

After typing in the necessary numbers and confirming they’re correct, you’re so out of your own head that you don’t even realize the line switches from slight static to smooth nothingness.

“So you finally called back.”

“Shit!”

The buttery smooth greeting — or lack thereof — makes you nearly drop your phone.

You gasp and manage to catch the device just in time to hear a chuckle, graveled and low, on the other end.

“And just as jittery as last night.”

“Levi,” you greet breathlessly, straightening your outfit like he can actually see it.

You swear you hear a smile in his voice.

“Hey, baby.”

Oh sweet Jesus.

“Or do you prefer it when I call you Scarlet?”

You prefer literally anything he’ll give you, is what you want to say back, but you don’t want to automatically appear as though you’re ready to be walked like a dog at minute one.

“I’m… fine with ‘baby’,” you confess after a beat, focusing on the swirl of the marble counter below you just to dissociate to his voice.

“Thought so,” he arrogantly states before making this grunting noise, like he’s rolling his body in a chair to get more comfortable. “Are we talking again?"

"Is that alright?"

"You know it is." Levi's voice lifts, softer now. "And how's your Saturday so far?”

“Very mundane and super lackluster,” you admit. “I’m sure you’ve had a much more interesting day than me.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replies without skipping a beat.

“No?” you ask with a smirk. “I’d say getting people off with the sound of your voice makes for a pretty interesting job.”

“Who said it’s only just my voice?”

Son of a bitch.

The phone shifts from your right shoulder to your left.

“It isn’t?”

He makes a noncommittal hum, and it runs straight to your core. “That's confidential, sweet Scarlet."

"Boo," you joke. "You're no fun."

"You haven't seen me at my fun yet," he corrects. "Speaking of fun: how are you not hungover?"

“The power of heavy tylenol and H2O? Which... I have to apologize that."

"For what?"

"Uh, I pretty much poured my heart and soul out to you last night.”

He chuckles. "I didn't mind it. Feeling any better about that situation?”

“I haven’t really thought about it since last night, so you’re already a miracle worker.”

"Oh?"

"Yeah, no joke."

“Huh." He clicks his tongue. "And what have you been thinking about?”

You say it without realizing you’ve said it out loud:

“You.”

Both ends of the phone go silent.

Your eyes widen, wanting nothing more than to take a pan out of one of the cabinets to bash your head in with anguish. 

“In, like, an interested sense.”

Shit, that isn’t much better.

“An… interested sense,” he repeats, slower this time. His vowels dip deep.

“Oh no,” you bemoan. “Okay. Let me restart: I mean it in like a — you were on my mind? Today, sort of way. So I called.”

“...uh-huh.”

“Because the call ended so quickly!” you add. “I didn’t think it was going to end so abruptly at the fifteen minute mark, but I wasn’t done talking to you, so I called again.”

“You’re shit at asserting yourself, aren’t you?”

His words make you blink twice.

“Huh?”

“You don’t like making decisions or having to explain things,” he replies without judgment. “You think if you want something, then it makes you selfish.”

Ouch.

“Well, when you put it like that,” you reply in a bitter, yet lifted tone of surprise. 

You hear a noise on the other end. A ‘tch’ if you can make it out.

“Sorry," he apologizes. "Too far?’

“No! Too real,” you admit with a small laugh. “And I’m sure you don’t want to play analyst-therapist tonight, so.”

“I’m here to do anything you want,” he reminds, syrup-y sweet. 

“Anything?”

“Mostly anything,” he adds, and there’s a tiny chuckle bubbling between the words that makes your heart flutter. “Can’t hold a tune worth a damn and I don’t know how to speak some languages, so there are limitations.”

You laugh despite yourself, feeling your stress melt.

Then—

A small groan, like his head's tilting backwards. “Damn, I like hearing that.”

You turn away from your kitchen counter, subconsciously padding to your bedroom. “Hearing what?”

“Your laugh,” he explains. “It’s sweet.”

“Sweet?”

“Very.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you say, rolling your eyes playfully.

Dark hair. Gray-ish blue eyes. Sharp nose. High cheekbones.

Fit.

When your eyes flicker to your own bed, you try to picture a version of him waiting there.

He could be leaning back on his elbow, button-down shirt splayed open like a newly-peeled present.

Maybe his legs are parted.

Maybe he stares at you like you’re all he could ever want.

His voice cuts through the fantasy, causing your breath to catch.

“What do you want, baby?”

Then it drops an octave lower.

“...c’mon, be selfish for once.”

For once.

Like he can read your soul through a damn cell phone.

But Levi is right — your entire short-lived relationship with Porco and just about any other man before him has been through a small lens. Fitting in the middle seat just to never make any noise. To bend with the curve rather than against it to create your own path.

It’s just a sex hotline, but for some reason, his words resonate.

Be selfish.

Wasn’t that the point of calling in the first place?

“Anything?” you repeat a second time, much softer.

Levi shuffles on the other line then exhales like he’s getting comfortable.

“What do you need?” he asks, tone low and words slower. 

Purposeful. 

“What do you want?”

You close your eyes, drawing in a slow, steady inhale.

Are you seriously doing this?

No more overthinking.

“Should I... get comfortable?” you ask, too afraid to say what it is that you want.

What you’re about to do.

“Mm, you near a couch or a bed?”

“A bed.”

“Don’t get on it yet,” he orders, “but walk towards it. Bend over it.”

Jesus Christ.

“Bend over it?” you ask with a shaky breath of disbelief.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “You’re home from a long day. I’m home from a long day. All you’ve wanted all day is to have someone tell you what to do, right?”

As much as your face feels like it's on fire, you slowly walk to your bed and put the phone down between your splayed palms.

You press the speaker option to ‘on’, and feel a wave of arousal hit your gut when you hear him sigh through the phone.

“I thought you said you wanted me to be selfish,” you remind, bending over your bed.

“You’re allowing me to take charge,” he retorts with little hesitation. “You’re letting me take care of you the way you always should’ve been taken care of. Your ex-boyfriend has no fucking clue what he’s missed out on.”

You exhale, trying to keep it together.

“Levi—”

“I’m right here, baby,” he huskily promises. “Right here. Not leaving you.”

You feel ridiculous.

You’re so turned on it’s almost laughable.

“You ready to let me take control?” he eventually asks, and you nod like he can see you.

“Yeah, I’m— I think so.”

“I like using a red-yellow-green light system,” Levi hums. “Red’s a hard stop. Yellow is negotiating, a slow down to check in. Green means you’re in.” He pauses, and you lean down closer to your phone, bending further. “Color?”

Even on speaker, his voice rips straight through you.

“Green,” you decide, blurting before your brain can catch up.

“Good girl.”

You’re not going to survive this.

“Are your lights off?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he decides. “I want you to crawl slowly onto the bed now. Can you do that for me?” 

Your hand slides obediently, passing over the phone as you begin to rest one knee on the mattress. It dips with give. 

“All the way up to your pillows, then you can lay on your back — but keep your eyes closed.”

“Okay.”

Eventually you drag your phone with you as you crawl to the headboard of your bed, only to then slowly turn around and drop to your back.

“Are your eyes closed?”

With the phone speaker right at your ear, it almost lends itself to the fantasy of him hovering above you.

His lips dip at the edge of your ear, the static lost to you.

“Yes,” you exhale, relaxing into the bed.

“Good. You’re doing so good for me already, and we’ve barely started.” He pauses, shifting once more. “What’re you wearing, baby?”

“Something so not sexy,” you joke, and it earns a breathy laugh from him.

“Bet you can make anything sexy,” he tells you, and it shoots straight to your lower belly.

“How would you know?” you ask, your hand already reaches for the hem of your shirt. “You’ve never even seen me.”

“No, but I hear you, and it’s fucking delicious.”

Your breath hitches, and you can hear it; the smile in his voice.

“Take everything off, except your underwear.”

“Bra, too?”

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he tells you, and it’s much less breathy. It’s certain, like he wants to check in — make sure you’re just as into it as he sounds. “Would you rather I help you take that off?”

Your brain blanks.

Slowly you push your jeans off first, kicking them to some unknown corner.

Then you rise, ripping your t-shirt off of your body, until you’re sitting in your mismatched bra and panties.

“How would you take it off of me?” you boldly ask, though you can’t quite get rid of the shake of anticipation in your voice.

“Fuck, I’d love to,” he grunts, and your face burns. “I’d be so busy pressing small, slow kisses to your neck. Reach up and touch your neck for me. Feel how I’d kiss it.”

You do.

As surprised as anyone else, you reach up and press your fingers against small parts of your neck, earning him a tiny gasp and noise of want.

“Dragging down to your throat.”

You press two gentle fingers to your skin again, following his path, before slamming your thighs together to try and relieve the heat between your legs.

“My finger would just… slip, right under the right strap of your bra.”

Your fingers dance across your collarbone, slipping your middle finger just under the delicate strap to mirror.

With your eyes closed, the motions lend to an almost out-of-body experience.

Like your hand trailing down your body isn’t yours; it’s his.

You’re his, right now.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, and you nods furiously.

“Very.”

“Good. Let me pull the other one down. I wanna see how pretty my girl is.”

The praises, the way he so easily speaks this way, has you all sorts of flustered.

Slowly you raise your other hand to pull down the strap, and whimper when you tug down as far as you can.

Your breasts spill out over the cup, allowing your hardened nipples to greet the night air.

“Can I touch you?”

The words almost make you open your eyes, as if you’ll see this mystery man hovering over you.

You know he's not here.

You wish he were right here.

“Yes.”

“How do you like to be touched, baby? Show me.”

“Levi,” you whine, allowing your shaky hands to run along your breasts.

You’re afraid, you’re exhilarated, but when you finally pinch the little buds and roll them between your fingers, you’re too far gone to care.

“Fuck—”

“Feels good, huh?” Levi’s own breathy voice interrupts your curse. “You look so beautiful like this. Letting me play with you— God, I could do this for hours—”

“Want you to.”

You don’t even recognize your own breathy tone. 

Hell, you only hear him.

You only feel him.

“Need more,” you pant, and he hums with amusement.

“No,” he replies, “think I’m gonna play with you a little more right here for now.”

You accidentally pinch your nipples, harder, like he’s teaching you a lesson.

“Levi.”

“What, is my girl getting impatient?”

His girl.

You don’t even know him, but you’d sure as hell like to be.

(How easy is it, for you to fall so fast from your judgmental high horse when Annie first slipped you this number — only for you to be moaning on your bed, hands groping and kneading your breasts, for a man you didn’t know?)

“Y-You said,” you stammer, “to be selfish, and I want—”

“Shh, I’m gonna take good care of you, okay?” Levi interrupts on the other end. “But you have to do something for me, too.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t want you holding back on me. No shyness. No second guesses. I want you, I want to hear what I do to you. Is that understood?”

You can’t take it.

Your one hand leaves your chest to skim down to your belly, unable to wait any longer.

“I want you to touch me,” you hiccup.

“Yeah?”

His voice wavers in the response before it strengthens. Demands.

“I want those panties gone first. Take them off and spread your knees. Feet flat on the bed.”

No need to be told twice; you hastily pull your panties down your hips, your knees, until they pool at one of your ankles.

Your knees knock together before spreading, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“I want to touch you, too, baby.” Levi swallows, coating his throat. “How wet are you for me?”

Fingertips run past your lower belly to touch the apex of your thighs, gasping with surprise and relief when you feel that familiar electricity.

“Really fucking wet,” you admit.

The groan he emits is delicious. “Fuck.”

For a moment, you feel completely out of your depth. 

This is meant to be a sex hotline, but there are lines blurred in your mind. Something about the sheer image of him leaning back into his chair, fucking a fistful of his cock while he has a phone operator headset against his ear, only turns you on that much more.

“If we had time, I’d spend all night memorizing what you taste like. What you feel like. How you let go — for me, only for me.”

“Only for you,” you promise, unable to stop yourself from drawing circles over your clit.

You moan, head bent back against your pillow.

“Fuck, you’re touching yourself, aren’t you?” he asks, and his voice seems less controlled now. It’s got a hint of raggedness, and it only quickens your pace. “You feel amazing, you know that? Such a pretty pussy, all spread and wet for me—”

“Shit, Jesus, Levi,” you gasp, knowing that you’re not going to last long.  You’re too wound up from the night before. “If you keep talking like that—”

“What, are you gonna come for me?” Amusement tickles the question. “Oh, you can come for me, baby, but I’m gonna need at least two from you tonight.”

Your fingers press a little harder to your clit, and you keen. 

“Wh– At least?”

“As if I’d ever be satisfied with only one,” he murmurs. “No, I wanna watch you come apart. Feel it on my fingers with those cute little contrac—”

That’s it.

You moan louder than you expected, the taut bowstring suddenly snapped in half. 

You arch off the bed, relentlessly rubbing your fingers against your body to ride out the insane orgasm that you — that Levi has given you.

Even if you’re blissed out, you hear it on the receiving end:

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Fuck, you sound amazing. I know it’s gonna be tough, but keep going for me, okay? Don’t stop.”

“It’s sen– ha, sensitive!” you whimper, wanting to stop your hand.

“Mm-mm, you said you’d be good. Be selfish, baby. Give me two.”

“But Levi!”

Everything is on overdrive.

Your hand; your body; your mind.

You imagine he’s hovering over you, working you with his hand with a near-sadistic relentlessness.

As you battle your own refractory period, your toes curl, teeth clenched.

You want to be good.

You want to be so good.

And somewhere in that overwhelming intensity, you feel it: the ebb and flow of pleasure returning, crawling through your veins and forcing you to not give up.

To give this to him.

Then you hear it: panting.

As if he’s getting off to this himself. Your eyes snap open, wide, to an empty room. 

When your cheek turns to the phone, you confirm that’s what you hear:

Ragged breaths, albeit softly, with added grunts of control. 

Like he’s holding back.

Something about that image of him in a chair, his hand relentlessly pumping his cock in time with your hand, your whimpers and moans, does damage.

“I need— mm— want— please.”

“I’m right here, baby,” Levi promises, though his voice is weaker. You can even hear him swallow again. “Right fucking here, wanna hear you cum so bad.”

Maybe you really were pent up enough for two, because soon you’re slipping — falling — into that blissful nothingness while your body clenches on itself, clit fluttering from a second release.

It’s less intense, but that doesn’t make it any less good.

Everything throbs in your body as you come down, panting, with a slight sheen of sweat on your skin.

You turn to your phone, totally gone in the bliss of the aftermath.

Levi has grown silent as well; only light puffs of air come through the speaker now.

“Feeling better?” Levi asks with a hint of pride in his voice.

“Shut up,” you answer with a gentle laugh of your own. “I’m… shit. I guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

That statement gets Levi to laugh, and your heart feels twice as full.

“That’s one way of pillow talk, I guess.”

The man pauses.

“Are you alright?”

As if he’s truly concerned, worried about your wellbeing.

You don’t allow yourself to fall for it, not completely.

This is his job — even if it felt so real, in the moment.

“Much better,” you promise, smiling to yourself.

“Happy to help,” he hums, his voice returning to that stormy swirl of seduction and softness.

The sobering reality of an empty bedroom should deter you, but all you can do is smile.

(When is the last time you genuinely felt giddy? Excited? Satisfied?)

“Hey, Levi,” you murmur eventually, slowly sitting up to unhook your bra and toss it away. No need to keep it on.

“Yeah, baby?”

You’ll never get over the way he sounds when he calls you that.

It’s permanently stuck to your frontal lobe, obscuring any other logic or reality.

“Am I still allowed to call?”

“Allowed?”

“Yeah, even though we…”

“What, you think you get one experience and your membership is up?”

Levi chuckles, shifting in his seat — or bed — or wherever he is.

“You can call me anytime you want.”

“Any?”

“Between company hours, yeah.”

“Even to talk?”

“Of course,” he answers, softer this time. “Always to talk. Go get some rest.”

“Mm,” you mumble, turning on your side as exhaustion takes over. “I will, but only because I want to and I’m being selfish.”

It surprises you to hear him laugh again, but it’s louder now.

More prominent. 

As if he genuinely enjoyed your joke.

Get your head out of the clouds, girl, is what you want to say to yourself, but you can’t be bothered to care.

“Good. You earned it.”

A noise emits from your tired throat to acknowledge him, too sleepy to formulate a real sentence.

Then his voice drops to a whisper, for your ears and your ears alone.

“Goodnight, baby.”

You press the ‘end call’ button and fall into the deepest sleep you’ve had all year.

.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading part two of P4! This is insane. I still cannot believe the feedback I got in part one. Seriously, you all made my June. I hope this next part has satisfied your curiosity of how Levi would be a hotline operator.

Thank you for likes, and even more love to those who choose to reblog this to help spread the word of this series or reply in the comments. ilu xo