#1:03pm

[dimlightprincess]

Mukhang buong September lang talaga ung kulitan namin ni kezz. Wala na ngayong Oct. Hays kalungkot. Mamimiss ko siyang kakulitan. Nagsoundtrip na ako ng malungkot kagabi. Kasi nga wala masyadong reply as in ilang pirasong reply lang, na hindi naman niya ginagawa dati. Hahaha! (Naghahanap ako ng time eh friends lang naman tingin nya sakin, kapal ko din eh noh. Hahaha!) tas un pag gising ko kaninang umaga may message na. Sunday gala niya raw kahapon. Hahahaha. Di naman ako naniniwala tho. 🤣 Pero okay na. Unti unti ko ng tinatanggap at tatanggapin. Sayang gusto ko talaga siya eh. Pero sige okay na. Nice meeting you kezz. I hope lagi la maging happy. Un lang gusto ko. Salamat sa pagpapasaya ng buong September ko.

[jerodiamond]

June 13, 2024, 1:03pm #sethjfitness #sethjfitness2024

[kithtaehyung]

minted (explicit) | myg

title: minted (explicit) pairing: street king!yoongi x street cart vendor!reader rating/genre: explicit (18+) ; angst , suspense , smut ; haegeum au , gang au summary: all you do is wake up, sell your fruit on the dusty streets below your flat, and go to sleep. but everything changes when a customer you always look forward to seeing turns out to be dangerous. really, really dangerous. note: again, this wasn't on the docket for 2024 until i saw one (1) mint yoongi edit on my pinterest feed💀 anyways, this is dedicated to hali @sailoryooons for ur belated bday, nary @joonary for being a cutie pie and letting me adopt the tangerine cart girl idea in general, and luce @minttangerines for ur url and for being a wonderful friend. love you all! warnings: this series may not be for everyone, language, violence, weapons (guns/knives/chopsticks/etc.), blood/wounds mentions, drugs, alcohol, murder, gang activity, poor reader is just trying to get through the day, mint!yoongi, haegeum!yoongi, tatted!yoongi, his eyebrow is pierced, tension, slow burn, choking, reader suffers from “my cabbages” levels of disaster, slight e2l, fight sequences, multiple future explicit scenes, yoongi deserves his own warning, chains but who is ever ever shocked, graphic depictions of violence drop date: august 5th, 2024, 9:03pm est word count: 9.4k aiyaaa✌ mood playlist: here

—

—

Ever since you could remember, gang activity in your town has run unchecked. 

Anything goes. Rough fights out of nowhere, car chases busting streets, or even random delinquents snatching food on the run, dust kicking up onto stock they left behind. 

And out of all the districts, yours is begrudgingly the second worst. 

Why? You still aren’t completely sure. But you do know that the darkest is reserved for the underbelly that only slithers in rumors. A place in which you will never find yourself. 

But you do wonder what must happen there to warrant the winning title because each day here is a battle to keep yourself afloat. 

All you do is sell fruit. Why are you fighting for your life every week? Why can’t you exchange goods for money in peace? If you could compare it to the movies you grew up watching on an outdated television, it’s a grungy reflection of the wild west.

But through all the shit you’ve chosen to endure, at least one person is always kind enough to buy his wares and go.

And today is no different.

You still don’t know his name. But you yearn to. Because his hair is the color of magic and rebellion, and his tattoos really set off that bright mop of locks. 

If those lethal, piercing eyes weren’t enough.

When he lifts three long digits, it takes all your strength to nod and get his purchase together. This is the part that never changes, either.

Just like always. One, three, or five fingers for tangerines. Never two, never four, and never any other fruits. 

It’s charming, in a way. As if he’s more particular than most about what he wants—a trait elusive to many.

Like clockwork, you would hand his order over in thin plastic, and he would walk away to hitch a ride on a passing cart. Just like he does right now with a lazy gait, white tee billowing from his jeans. 

Another day. Another exchange.

In the wavy heat of summer, you sigh. Wondering if anything is ever going to change, and if you would ever get to know more about your most frequent, most mysterious patron.

After a while, you do try talking to him. 

Those looks of confusion slowly turn into little hums or grunts, then into single words that keep you going for days. Even though you rarely hear it, his voice is just as attractive as he is. 

One day, you offer him a plantain, handing it over and telling him it’s on the house. 

“Thanks,” he says amongst the clinks and conversations of the street, pocketing the food away. 

When he does, you see a flash of black metal, and you already know what he’s carrying. You’re used to seeing all sorts of those around nowadays. In this district, you’d be shocked if he didn’t have an arsenal on his person while traveling through.

Besides. Even you have a couple collecting dust in your own flat, handed down by extended family but never used.

“If you ever need anything other than tangerines,” you start with a point to his pants, “Please buy those instead.” 

He’s unmoving. Blinks are all you get so you have no choice but to explain,

“I’m so tired of eating them with everything.” 

When he huffs in amusement, your heart flutters thrice. There’s no reason for a sheen of sweat and sticky mint locks to be so deadly. 

“Then eat something else,” is all the stranger advises before walking off. 

Well.

Even though you don’t have much of a choice, the guy does have a point. You wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest if his aim’s just as straightforward as his wit.

Once one exchange lasts longer than a sentence, the two of you start little conversations during his visits. Which prove more fatal than normal since he’d rest his tattoos on the top shelf of your cart. 

From what you can make out, there are creatures stretching in beautiful teal and vivid orange, and even striking white on his other arm. They ripple so well with his veins, a canvas that sways and hypnotizes with every drum of his fingers. 

You know what they symbolize, though it’s unique to have all of them together. 

Taboo, even. 

But you can’t hold back your admiration because of the sheer beauty. What would they feel like if you just… 

“You always stare this long?”

Shit. “Oh, sorry. I just… I rarely see anyone’s ink up close.”

To your dismay, he takes his arm back. “I don’t have a lot of time today, princess.”

“Right, sorry. Hold on,” you respond, cringing hard at blurting two apologies in a ten second span. 

Meanwhile, your way too handsome regular cocks a brow, clearly comfortable making you squirm as you hand over his bag. 

Effortless. In your chaotic life, It’s almost intoxicating feeling someone this resolute in their whole demeanor. If only you could be so commanding and assured one day. 

But here you stand instead, pretending to count fruit you one hundred percent know the stock of already. “Your art is really nice, by the way,” you admit to your inventory. “All the high-powers. I like what you picked.”

“Didn’t choose these.”

Ah. Way to assume things. 

Raising your head, you make to apologize a third time.

But he’s already retreating with his tangerines, hand stuffed in a pocket and beautiful waves a little less vibrant than you recall. 

“What.” 

“I worry sometimes.” 

His gaze lifts. “About me?” 

“Yeah.” 

You don’t know why you choose to say that of all things. But it’s honest. You always wonder about him and think about the weapon in his jeans. Does he use it? Does he ever need to? 

Maybe you should pick up a hobby or two.

Fingers resting dangerously close, he asks with a tilt of his head, “What would you do, doll? If something happened to someone like me.” 

Someone like him? What does that mean? 

Great. Now you have even more to wonder about, as if he knew that was your exact predicament.

You stare, roaming along his arms before meeting his eyes—almost. “Find someone else to buy my tangerines.” 

Huffing, his brows tick up with his mouth. “I respect that.” His attention doesn’t leave your face as he slowly takes his purchase. “See ya.” 

“Bye,” you whisper back, watching him go. More thoughts and concerns bouncing around your mind in the sticky heat of midday. 

These little nicknames he’s using also aren’t helping your issue in the slightest. 

It starts when you hear shouting from a block down.

“Here they come!”

“Bunch of idiots this time.”

“What do you mean this time?”

Rough raiders this early? They should know it’s almost time for Dragon’s sweep. Bold.

After you hear the telltale yells, clanks, and bangs, your section of the street braces for impact. 

And it swoops in like a whirlwind, ruffians tearing through, pillaging and stealing and swiping goods into thick woven baskets. 

Baskets? The usual suspects always carry leather bags. You assume because of their sturdiness and inconspicuous nature, but what do you really know.

Here it goes again. 

As your fruit is taken right from your cart, you sink to your toes, mourning the regular loss of your menu.

No use fighting. Like every other time, you all let it happen because there’s no point in trying to protect anything that isn’t valuable. Perishables and small homemade goods aren’t worth getting gutted over. Truly, the worst losses you suffer are when—

Your cart shifts violently before thieves topple it over, cracking one of your wheels and splitting the wooden boards in three places.

Springing to your feet, you douse the perpetrators in anger, “What the hell!”

“Oh, this was yours?” Someone chides while his cronies run past. “Thanks for the oranges, love!”

“They’re tangerines!” you correct at his retreating back, kicking your cart before yelping at your bad decision. “Damn it…”

Back to your knees you go. Head drooping, arms encircling, and disappointment pooling around like a shadow.

More shouts and feet in the road rampage through. Then it gets quieter. And quieter. 

Then it’s done.

After silence swells in the wake of chaos, groans start making their way down the street. 

“What’d they get from you this time,” you ask your neighbor, a charming old man selling anything from bowls to wide, round frying pans. 

Looking over his little wreckage, he blinks hard. “They got my woks. Nothing as bad as yours. You okay?” 

Walking over to help clean his mess up first, you bend down with a sigh, “I’ll be alright. But it still sucks.. My poor tangerines..” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Not much to do about it now,” you resign, all your energy taken from you, too. 

A little bit of time passes as you complete your usual round of help, though this raid was worse than others. As they all give their thanks, you keep thinking about how to make the whole situation better. Moreso for them than you because you’ve always been one of the least vulnerable ones on the block.

“You should find another place to sell, dear.” 

In disagreement, you slip into a saddened smile. “I can’t leave you guys,” you explain to the lady you’re holding pails for. “Who will help clean everything up?” 

“Don’t underestimate your elders now.” 

“Fair,” you respond through a chuckle, handing her one of the metal buckets. “If only better protection was an option around here.”

“You know the rules,” another shop owner drones through lingering spices, “Dragon won’t protect us if it isn’t in their own interests.” 

Unfortunately, he’s right. Every single raid that hasn’t coincided with a gang sweep goes overlooked. Even the city police don't bother coming down your street anymore, which is another issue in itself.

If only Tiger or Crane had been the high-powers in place instead. 

At least they seem to be more fair.

After you finish helping, you finally venture back to your own cart, realizing that the trek is a lot further than you thought. 

Did you really walk so far this time? The damage was dealt for much more than a block at this point. 

Not like you need to sprint back, though. What’s left to steal? Everything you got swept into those woven containers.

Still so odd…

But not as odd as the sight that greets you on your return. 

Because instead of seeing your wreckage of a cart tilted and abysmal, it’s upright and being mended.

By none other than your favorite set of hands.  

What the hell? What’s he doing here? You quite literally have nothing to give so there’s no reason for him to spare a second at your broken stand. 

Fast-walking, you hastily try to halt his help, “Oh, shit, you don’t have to—” 

“Course I don’t.” 

That shuts you up. In your split second of silence, you note with agony that his hair is messily tied in a minted bun. Are his sleeves bunched at his biceps, too? Great. What were you even telling him again? 

Ah, yes. You were telling this mystery of a man that he doesn’t have to literally put your stand back together. “Seriously, I got it.” 

“Don’t sweat it.” 

“But it’s my cart, I don’t need your—”

With one look over his shoulder, your mouth snaps shut. And suddenly can’t move to argue again. 

What the hell is up with today? 

Forget all that. What’s he doing? At least you’re familiar with all the shop owners and vendors on your block, though you can’t say you wouldn’t do the same thing for someone you don’t know. But this guy has always been so standoffish and barely approachable. So how is he lending both hands to help you right now? 

Whatever. If he’s gonna be as stubborn as this heat, you can be, too. 

Scanning the area for scattered tools, you find a sun-warmed hammer and get to work, fixing one end of the cart while he works on the other. When you feel his gaze on your working shoulder, it takes massive strength to ignore him—even if you wanna know what his issue is and why he smells really, really good this afternoon.

Looks like you need more nails for this board to fit. When your eyes find a couple on the ground, you clinch a second piece between your teeth while hammering in the first. 

Sounds stop at your side, but you wait until you pluck the metal nail from your mouth and stamp it in to look over.

Oh. He’s eyeing the hammer. Not you. Obviously. 

You wordlessly hand it over, arm slicked with exertion. Because after the day you’ve had, you don’t feel like everything needs a spoken sentence attached. 

It takes the guy a bit to take it from you, but when he does, he holds your stare. “Thanks.” 

You simply nod, eyes sticking to him as he works on the tattier side wait it looks almost new. Better than it has in a very long time. Did he really get that much done in the time you were gone? There’s been great care taken during his repair if that’s the case.  

Hmm. You finally learn something about your favorite customer. Maybe he’s just been a mechanic or carpenter this whole time? 

Contemplative, you get up on sore legs to walk to your cooler—something thankfully missed by the rough raiders. Digging through the clinkage, you retrieve a local beer you recently procured from the restaurant across the street. 

It’s not much. Absolute bottom shelf. But it’s all you got other than a few pieces of oni-coin, so he’s gonna have to deal with it.

When you offer the glass, your regular eyes it for a moment. More than enough time for you to get a good look at his striking floral top.

Well. Mechanic and carpenter are out of the question because that one piece of clothing looks more expensive than your entire apartment building.

Who even is this guy? Now you feel destitute handing him something so cheap.

Just when you think he’s gonna refuse, he takes the beer and smoothly shucks it open, suddenly making you wonder how a bracelet can do that and why it was so attractive.

God. You need to walk straight to the nearest inlet stream and dunk your head right in.

“Thank you,” you whisper, gulping at his full swigs. “You really didn’t have to do all this.” 

“Got some time to kill,” he shrugs. Standing, the man takes another sip, peering along the street with sunlit eyes. With the bottle near his mouth, he murmurs, “You really need to set up somewhere else, doll. This street’s turning into a hot spot.” 

Squinting up at the long lines of clothes and curtains floating in the breeze, you sigh at the building nearest. “I live close,” you sulk. “And this is the easiest place to get to.” 

Those are excuses. Just tell him the real reason you won’t venture out and plop yourself somewhere more profitable. Well, maybe not all of the reasons, but the main one. 

Leaning back on your cart, you stare at the loose dirt, swiping some with your shoes. “Maybe I’m just used to it at this point.” 

He won’t respond. Or he’ll respond in his own way, which is mostly silence. 

But a bright strand falls over his face before he hums, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

Many people have warned you at this point. It’s basically your stubborn and spiteful nature that’s making you stay in the first place. Why would you move when you chose to be here? Why leave a place you actively choose to call home? 

Fighting spirit quelled, you nod right to your stand as you count what’s salvageable. “I know, but I like it here.” When he lifts an unbelieving brow, you look away. “It’s true. But trust me, if there was a way to just make it all stop, I’d take it.” 

He takes another swig, both of you looking into the street and watching things slowly get back to normal pace. Adults and kids alike are back to wandering around, buying what’s left and offering condolences. 

“I’m not fixing another cart,” your patron turned repairman grunts, motioning to your wheel as he steps back. “So don’t fuck this one up.” 

Huh? It wasn’t your fault! All the accidents and chaos that blow through aren’t something you can control oh he’s grinning. Why is he grinning? Why do you feel hot all over? 

His teeth shine in daylight. “I’m messing with you.” 

Ah. 

This version of him is not good for you at all.

When he starts to walk away, you blurt out a quick, “Wait!” 

Shit! Why did you do that? What are you possibly supposed to say right now? All you wanted was to see him a little longer… And while staring at his backside would be more than enough, you kinda wanted to actually talk. 

What do you do? He stopped; he’s waiting. 

And he looks impatient as hell. 

Snapping into action, you round your cart and trot over, offering your name as if you didn’t just give up where you lived. 

Then—without thinking—you ask for his with the most curious, innocent, “What’s yours?” 

Silence has never been so booming.

In the dusty swirls of your street, you wait with a back that’s getting sweatier and colder with each passing second. 

Was that not okay to ask? Did you fuck up with a single question? 

Perfect. You just blew your one good thing about being out here. Wincing, you crush your words so hard you think your teeth will break into dust, drifting off into the very breeze wafting his striking locks. 

After a condescending puff, he only smirks.

Then he takes one step. And another. And another.

The air around you melts, weighing on your shoulders while lighting them aflame all at once. It’s a feeling you can’t describe to anyone else, because they would just need to stand next to this man to believe it. 

Checking to see if the street is clear, your best customer leans over. Slowly. Purposefully. “Yoongi,” he offers with a voice so handsome you’ll think about it for days. “But don’t fucking tell anyone.” 

Oh. 

Why did… you kinda like that? 

Blinking, you swallow. “I won’t.” 

This is when he’s supposed to just leave. He’d walk away, bag swinging with his strides. But ever keeping you on your sore toes, the man just chuckles low before rasping out the most devilish sentence in existence, 

“Always took you for a good girl.”

Then he backs away, turning on his heel and leaving you a statue in the street.

Yoongi. 

For a hardened soul, his name is so… 

Tender. 

For the next sixty days, you don’t get ransacked once. 

But there’s also been no sight of Yoongi. 

As the weeks trudge by, you can’t decide which outcome is worse.

The skies are magnificent today. But obviously at a molten price.

“Thank you for trying,” you say to a lovely wares owner before venturing back out into simmering streets. Exhaling, you wipe sweat from your brow, squinting before choosing to walk left or right. 

Left seems promising. 

You’ve been searching for hours now, perusing through shops, checking out vendors both nice and catty. But after a whole day’s search, you still haven’t found what you’re looking for. 

It’s nothing urgent or pressing. But you would at least like to be prepared. 

Since your initial mission is a bust, hopefully your next one makes up for it before you melt right into gravel and dirt.

Find a meal.

Walking along the busy roads, you pass a few options and keep them in mind, making sure to greet a fellow tangerine cart vendor with a smile. Hopefully they do well today.

A couple steps further, a giant cooler catches your eye. Seafood of all types lie inside along cubes of ice, and you weigh the pros and cons of smelling like fish just to have a cool head.

But before you can make any choices, the smell of spices and hearty soup softly pull your feet inside the restaurant nearby. 

What’s here? Noodles? You’re always down for that. Apparently even in scorching weather.

After ordering, you take your seat at a random middle table in a chair facing the entrance. 

Always facing the entrance.

Damn. You really need to accomplish what you set out to do. But sunset is fast approaching these days, and you aren’t anywhere close to home. All you have time for now is eating and heading out. 

The service here is quick, at least. You’re already thanking the owner for sliding a bowl in front of your sweaty form. 

With a head full of thoughts, you stare into nothing, stirring your noodles and waiting for the heat to die down. 

Maybe you should’ve just walked a shorter distance and checked the shops you originally wanted to browse. If things went to plan, you could’ve been back by now, freshly showered and curling up on a worn down bed. 

But instead, your feet are sore, your head is anything but washed, and you have to trek home empty-handed—on the first day off you’ve had in months. 

Defeated, you sigh, going back to your bowl and watching sliced vegetables swirl in aromatic broth. 

At least the food in this area seems good. And the fading decor really adds to the… 

Ambiance. 

Wait. 

Dragons. A lot of them. 

You can’t pull your eyes away from the crew walking in, bringing heat from the sweltering sun in their eyes and donning their telltale, striking teal. 

But you can only kid yourself for so long because the one that truly has your gaze tethered is the man in front. The one you haven’t seen in weeks. The one looking right back at you with a visage so shadowed you feel like moving tables to let him pass. 

…Yoongi? 

His jacket. The colors.

He’s in Dragon?

Suddenly his hair makes terrifying sense.

As his guys stalk through, you swallow hard, not expecting to see him and having no earthly idea what to do with this harrowing information. There are so many thoughts overlapping each other that they all amalgamate into one huge batch of sludge. 

Aren’t you smack dab in Crane territory? There’ve been white suits peppering the streets everywhere. 

So what the hell is Dragon doing here?

From the slight confusion pinching his forehead, you know Yoongi didn’t expect to see you, either. Which makes it even weirder when he slowly takes your chopsticks right from your fingers. 

Hold on, what—

“What are you—”

A lone, long digit over lips is the only response you get, silencing you immediately before you whip your head around to watch him rush past. 

All of them waste no time tearing up the stairs, a myriad of blues blending with gritty paint and smoke. 

And just like that, your reunion is over. 

Home. You need to go home. Leave, leave, leave, because something is bound to be going down upstai—

A thud faintly shoots out into the staircase, and you spin around again in your chair, eyes snapping to the ceiling. 

Shit. 

Even though you’re on high alert, you realize with a quick sweep that no one else is noticing. Or moving. Or even paying attention to anything else but their own company. 

Does no one else care about the commotion? Do hits happen in this area that often? 

Mind running, you can’t decide what to do. Because even though Yoongi’s guys have plenty of weapons, he clearly had nothing since he needed to borrow your damn eating utensils.

Another crash rains dust on conversations around your shoulders, causing you to look up one last time. 

Go home, go home, go home. In what universe would Yoongi himself ever need your help here? 

With one more look at your noodles, you curl your lips before biting a side. 

Already yelling at yourself for choosing to book it towards the back staircase. 

Shit shit shit this is so stupid. This is probably the worst decision you’re gonna make in your life.

But your gut is churning thinking about Yoongi. Even a seasoned swordsman needs expertise to wield mere chopsticks and win. 

Fuck, if you succeeded in your search today, you probably could’ve been a little more useful. 

Swiping your own set of red from a nearby cup, you hightail it up, slowing as you round a corner and immediately hear multiple clangs and scuffles beyond the last turn.

Stop. You can go back. You can still turn around and go home.

An inhale.

Your feet propel you up and into a dark hall. As you slowly slide along the wall, your gut churns and churns. At a bang, you crouch with a skipped beat of your heart.

This is really, really dumb. But you can’t stop yourself and you have no clue why.

Nothing happens around you. So you keep going. With each careful slide of your foot, you get closer and closer to the noise.

Approaching the corner, you very slowly stick your head out for a peek.

And it’s pure commotion. Pure chaos. Holy shit, what is going on? 

Fuck, there’s already a body lying limp on the floor meters away—

Your chopsticks. You wanna hurl.

But a man flies out of a room ahead before he grips and wrestles with another, and you reel yourself back to avoid being seen by either one.

Where is Yoongi? Is he okay? Did he leave already?

You give one more peek, scanning the long raucous corridor as swift as you can to see any sign of.. Mint.

He’s still here. How’s he just walking so nonchalant as his crew fucks shit up? Crap, he just went into a room and out of sight. 

“Where’d they go?”

“Upstairs!”

Fuck, that was in the restaurant! Get up get up you have no choice but to hide now. 

With pounding steps, you rush forward and book it, entering a large room to dive behind some steel shelving and large, woven baskets right as more Dragons come in behind with fists clenched.

Breathe. Steady. Calm the fuck down.

The grunts rush to the hallway to join the fray, and you wait in the now pungent solitude of your room. With only a still body to accompany you. 

What do you do? What even can you do? 

Just as nerves grip your stomach like a vice, Yoongi strides into the open area, heading right for the exit and not even sparing his kill a glance. 

Go. Go now. Why can’t you move? Why aren’t your hands letting go of your cold confinement? It smells like death and blood and you need to leave with the only person you know—or don’t—so why can’t your feet just fucking—

Someone else slithers into the room. A man in brown with a knife. A knife, a knife, a knife he’s getting faster and Yoongi doesn’t hear him the guy is too quiet fuck! “Yoongi!” 

It all happens before your brain can paint the bloody picture. Shooting out from your hiding spot, you race towards the assassin, slamming into their lanky build just in time.  

Both of you topple to the ground, your target roaring in pain and twisting like hell to fight back fuck you didn’t get him how you needed to he’s got you—

Pain erupts in your hip as you’re grabbed, the room spinning as you’re thrown to the side and your ear hitting concrete right before chopsticks ping down. Thinking quick, you knee the guy as hard as you can, scrambling to finish the job because if you don’t, you’re gone gone gone.

“Bitch!” Your opponent clutches your shirt right as you reach for the nearest red pair, seizing your throat right as you grip and swing them around to stab the other side of his neck with a yell.

Luckiest timing of your life. 

“Hng!” Fuck, he’s still holding down hard and choking, choking, squeezing. “Fuck you!” 

Fight back. Keep the weapon inside he’s too strong finish him finish him. 

Darkness. Ink drops in water. Your vision taints as your grip loosens, and you can only hope that Yoongi got away safe. He had to. At least you… Were able to do… 

This one thing… 

…

Oxygen and life rush back into your lungs, color burning through your esophagus as you gasp for sweet sweet air. Right as you come to, all you witness is the heavy heel of a boot twisting the forearm latched onto you. 

And when the shoe leaves your vision. Lifeless eyes stare back.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck that was close. Oh god. You actually did it. Oh fuck. 

Coughing, you rush up as you get tugged and pulled right against chains and embroidery, your ears ringing with a gravelly command and glass breaking in the nearby corridor,

“Don’t say my fuckin’ name so loud.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Yoongi roughly lets you go before pinning you with pure anger. Not to say thank you. Not to tell you any words of gratitude at all. The only other thing he finds the need to say is simply, 

“You shouldn’t be up here.” 

What the fuck. You just murdered someone for him and this is all you get? Eyes welling, you feel your body slick and sticky with crimson when you turn, coughing and spitting out regret before you wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, “That’s—that’s all you have to say?” 

Dread swirls around your stomach like poison.

But the sternness from before completely vanishes as Yoongi lifts your chin. His eyes scan your throat and chest, and you rip your head away from his touch because he is not excused just yet. 

“It’s not mine,” you snap, knowing exactly what he’s looking for and what you must look like to him. Dirty. Gross. Certainly a far image from the girl selling tangerines.

But your face is gently held again, and somehow this softer turn carries more strength to swivel you forward. 

Why is Yoongi still looking? Now he’s holding your gaze as if he’s never seen you before. What’s that about? You’re still the same, the same, the same.

…Are you?

More crashes and shots are heard down the hall, and Yoongi snaps his head up in an instant. 

God, you smell. You reek. Your nose is tainted and your hands even more so. There’s no way he’s gonna have anything to do with you now. 

But you get the shock of the century when the man commands you to come along. “Let’s go.” 

Absolutely not. This is all you got in you for a lifetime. “What? No, no, no. No way, I’m going home.”

“And they’ll follow you the whole way back.” 

“I—I didn’t mean to—” 

Shots ring out before grunts barrel out into the short hallway. All of them piling out from crevasses and hidden passages. 

You give one more look at the two men now crumpled on the ground, bile rising up and threatening to spill. 

“Tough shit, princess. You did, now live with it.” 

Live with it. How poetic. 

You were protecting him. You did what you had to do. But you have blood on your hands again and now Yoongi will see you as something else besides a fucking street vendor. 

“Are you coming or not?”

You’re gonna puke your guts out.

With a stilted cry, you bend to snatch your weapons up yet again—gagging at the squelches and much deeper red—before following Yoongi’s long steps. 

Your hands. They’re shaking so bad you can’t even pocket the chopsticks properly. But you finally get them down, crushing your palms and squeezing just to stop them from rattling. 

When you wait behind Yoongi checking the corner, you turn around to make sure you aren’t being followed. And seeing the hallway still a moving mass of broken glass and hard swings, you think you’re safe. 

The stairs feel so different on the way down. Is that because you feel completely changed? There’s no coming back from this. Another side of you died right alongside those two people upstairs. 

No time to think about that. You have to follow his lead. And he’s slowing down why is he slowing down? 

Oh. Normal. Be normal to not garner suspicion. You have to do the same. 

Wait. You can’t go down there with a shirt full of stained evidence! Grabbing him and pulling back, you whisper, “Yoongi—”

His growl is so fierce your head spins, “What the fuck did I say about my n—”

“My clothes,” you panic. “I can’t.” 

Yoongi gives you a quick look before gripping the duffle strap. Brows lowered, he grits out while dumping it, “Lose the shirt.” 

“What?” 

“Do it.” 

“Where’d he go?”

“It’s gone!”

Your heads snap up before you lock eyes. And he doesn’t need to say anything to show you what he’s thinking behind those minted bangs.

As you hastily strip, your brain works in weird ways. Instead of processing how you very much need to hurry the fuck up, you lament the bra of choice today. And how sweaty you look. Because of course those are your thoughts of choice right now. 

Something’s dumped on you before your shirt hits the ground, and you think about its warmth before you realize exactly what’s on your shoulders. “You sure?” 

He’s already heading down. Oh god. You’re really putting this on shit shit shit. 

You’re quick to slip into the material before checking for your chopsticks, rushing down the rest of the stairs to meet him. Nerves firing on all cylinders, you follow Yoongi out of the restaurant with a single, disturbing thought. 

This is going too well. 

But you’re passing tables, you’re walking by the fish display, don’t fucking sob you’re out in the street now. 

Relax. You’re walking. His white tee is flawless and people have no clue you left a bloody shirt on a stairwell. Don’t fucking cry.

But suddenly.

Shouting erupts behind you both, just as a cop car rolls past the restaurant only to get surrounded. 

And with one look back, your brain freezes. Right before Yoongi sounds a little too delighted to say something so foreboding,

“Looks like you’re in it now.”

Adrenaline spikes as you burst into motion. Hot summer air stings your lungs as legs propel you forward, with nothing in sight except for your partner in high crime. 

Yoongi’s right. 

You’re in it now. 

And just like the delinquents that you despise, the two of you both kick up dust on the run. 

You’re really doing this. 

Holy shit, you’re really doing this and there’s no waking up, no jolting awake, no pinching yourself to know that it’s all a dream. The only thing pinching is your sides, fresh stings of karma with each heavy footstep through crowded streets, buildings, levels, wherever the fuck you go. 

At least Yoongi is commanding as he leads you through the city—clearly from a heap of experience. Though rattled, you follow him with more adrenaline than questions. Because running is all you know. Run, run, run, escaping is your only objective and you cannot let up even once.

Your feet pelt down a staircase before you leap onto a disposal bin, impact denting as you follow Yoongi’s long strides across the colorful tops. Shouts and metal pings echo behind you as your chasers catch up, and you grit your teeth so hard they rattle as you jump to alley ground. “Fuck!”

Searing, searing pain rushes through your legs as you twist and wind through busy corridors, squeezing into the gaps Yoongi finds as he barrels in front. 

“Get back here!” 

“You fuckers!”

Who’s following you? Are they even Crane? You don’t see a shred of white on their clothes at all so are they working for some random guy Yoongi stole from?

When you watch him turn at the shouting, all thoughts vanish as your gut churns. 

He’s grinning.

You just killed someone for him. And he probably has more blood on his hands than you can imagine. 

And he’s… enjoying this? 

You feel sick, mind blazing with a million red warning signs. How could you ever have had feelings for h—

You bounce off a passerby as you run, grunting at the sudden pain in your shoulder when another person rams into your back and topples you over, dirt scraping into your palms and knees. 

Shit shit shit it’s so dusty on the ground and all you see are traveling shoes where are you? Where is he did he leave did he even see you fall? It’s too condensed here there’s no way he’s not taking the next chance to disappear.

Forget all of that, they’re coming. The chasers are coming and you see them see you down get up get up get up what the fuck get up now.

Ripping out a groan, you rush to your feet as soon as someone swoops in, bashing someone right behind you with someone’s crate of fruit. 

Yoongi? He waited for you?

“Go!” 

Both of you hightail it with you now in the lead, and your eyes buzz as you slip through holes in the crowd. Left, left, right, around, left again, between. 

An intersection ahead. Yes. Lose everyone in the vehicle traffic or hitch a ride with a stranger. Fascinating how the survival tactics that spawn from your block develop in real time on the run.

Almost there, almost there, almost there—fuck! 

Whiffing in front of your nose, a metal weapon smacks the ground at your toes. 

Flailing, you dodge the next swing, ducking before you see a black duffle smack your assailant in the face. 

Keep going. Finish him and get away. As Yoongi shifts left, you lunge forward, sending a swift punch to the guy’s ribs that hurt like hell goddamn oh fuck someone brought a knife!

“Yoongi!” Just as the surrounding civilians yell and clear out, you rush toward his aid before you’re tackled, air whooshing out of your lungs as your back pummels into gravel. Fuck fuck fuck this masked woman also has a dagger. A thick one. Don’t let her win don’t let her win hold on for dear fucking life. 

Did you think you’d find yourself in a grudge match to keep metal from sinking into your chest today? No. Ever? Also no. 

Your arms are shaking. Shots ring out. Sweat is your enemy. The street is in uproar. Where’s Yoongi did he hear you? Fuck, the metal tip is pricking you now this is— 

Mercifully, your attacker yelps as something slams into her side, dark brown clothes crumpling before you’re hoisted upward and dragged back into the crowd. 

“Let me go or I’ll kick your ass—”

“You good?” 

Oh, it’s Yoongi. Again. Okay. Eyes swirling, you lock onto the gun held flush in his other hand before you nod. “I—I think so—”

“Then keep up.” 

Winding between people, you’re only focused on getting away. But when you catch glimpses of him, he’s back to his glint. He’s exhilarated.

If only you were both doing anything else. If only you weren’t so queasy and guilty and loathing of your own self.

Right as you finally burst into bustling traffic, Yoongi boldly stops a taxi at its hood, motioning you to follow him inside. 

Shocked but head reeling, you open the door closest to your sweaty legs and slide in. 

And before you can even greet the shouting driver, Yoongi pulls you to his side and rushes something out in your ear, 

“Kiss me.” 

“I said get out!” 

“What?” 

“Come here.” 

You’ve kissed before. Not many times, but enough to know that this man knows what the fuck he’s doing because you feel like your soul just abandoned you to exist in this car forever. You don’t know why this is happening or where this came from, but his lips feel as soft as his name and as deadly as the gun he’s pulling on your driver—

“Han Station,” he drawls, halting time and space. “Or your papers are burned by morning.” 

Oh. 

You were just… Oh. 

Lips puffed and head swirling, you sit frozen in your spot, marinating in the realization that the best kiss of your life was a mere distraction. And as you watch Yoongi keep his aim straight, you assume he probably didn’t even think much of it, either. 

“…I thought you looked familiar,” the driver slowly grits, hands gripping his wheel before he shakes his head. “You’re a little far from home.”

You think that’s all he’s gonna say. But his eyes are sharp in the rear view mirror, knowing a gun is pointed straight at his dome. “Aren’t you.”

What is he getting at you need to leave fast—

“Agust.” 

…Huh? 

Agust? 

This is the first time you feel a heartbeat against your arm, and you hold a breath as Yoongi tightens his fingers on the gun. 

When he doesn’t reply, the car fills to the brim with tension, and you feel crushed by its liquid weight. 

Don’t you have to go? Aren’t you in a chase? Are you getting a little too hot?

When you go to slide to your own side of the car for some space, the hand around your shoulder squeezes. 

And you’re more confused, exhausted, and thrown off than ever. 

“Han Station,” is all Yoongi—Agust?—repeats, voice ice. “Now.”

To which the taxi driver stares, standing his ground until he breaks eye contact first to obey. 

“Fuckin’ Dragons and their useless whores.”

Oh, fuck that. 

Before you can lunge forward to outright strangle the man, Yoongi does something that has your eyes magnifying into saucers and hands shooting up to your mouth.

He fires the gun straight at the man’s thigh, yelps leaving both the driver's throat and yours holy fuck! 

“You bastard—”

“You’ll live. Drive.”

“Fucking—fuck!”

The car shifts through traffic, swerving left and right and cutting off slower vehicles. When force smushes you closer into Yoongi’s side, you can’t help but notice how fit he is, and how calm he’s being despite the whole chase. Despite that spike in adrenaline. Despite blowing a hole in a stranger’s leg for six words.

He also feels really, really good against your side, but you can’t let that matter anytime soon. There’s absolutely no way you can let this dangerous man in, especially after this entire nightmare of a day. 

So you swallow, trying to compartmentalize because you’ll reach insanity if you don’t.

Does anyone out there know you took a life minutes ago? Or hours ago? You just kissed a criminal five and a half minutes ago. Would they care about that, too?

The window is suddenly much more interesting than any of your wandering, slingshot thoughts. 

Wait. It’s very pretty in this area, and you finally can tell some semblance of where you are. Because you only know of one part of the city that looks like this, and it’s deep in Crane territory. 

Did you both really make it this far? 

Carefully tended to, it’s a lot greener on the sidewalks, and more open on the roads. And it’s on one of these roads that you finally notice the sunset, gold accents shining on sleek street signs and the tops of buildings that seem much more at rest than you do. 

Rest. Sleep. Home. 

With the luck you’re having, it would be a miracle and a half to reach even one of the three. 

Did you get followed? You don’t know how much longer you can run, so you really fucking hope not. 

“Almost there,” Yoongi whispers, voice scratching your ear in the worst and best ways. “When we get out, move your ass.” 

When you watch the wary, heavy breathing driver in his rear view mirror, you bite out, “I know how to get out of a car, thanks.” 

“Just listen to me.”

“Why?”

“Do you trust me?” 

“No.” 

That came out quicker than you could stop it. But Yoongi only lets silence come between you before he squeezes your shoulder. When he speaks, you can hear how carved out his smirk is without even seeing it, 

“Good girl.”

And you spoke the truth. It wouldn’t have come out so fast if it weren’t. But you know to at least follow his advice here because he’s kept you alive thus far. He didn’t need to drag you out and protect you the whole way, so it’s not like he would steer you wrong here. Right? 

Right? 

“Here,” Yoongi orders before the car slows to a stop. 

That wasn’t so bad. You can get out normally now so why did Yoongi say—

Right as your foot hits ground, the taxi peels out, forcing you to throw yourself out of the side before the rest of your body leaves with it. 

Fucking hell that hurt what the fuck was that for? 

Dirt and dust coats your tongue before you do anything to spit it out. Saliva rushes from your glands as you cough and hack, all while feeling every muscle group in your body begging to not stand up. 

But you feel rough, commanding hands on your arms. “You good?”

“Yeah—”

“Then get up. Get up.”

Straining and wincing like hell, you follow Yoongi’s lead yet again. Because you hear cars rolling up with bad intentions and that means you have to sprint again. 

What the fuck did Yoongi steal? And how the hell are these guys still on your tail? Their resources have got to be as good as Crane’s and yet, they don’t feel the same at all. 

You’re hobbling, but you’re going. You’re rushing. You’re going to get through this alive. 

Instead of heading into the underground, you find yourself ascending a flight of steps. Rumbles and rattles hit your ears as you realize exactly what kind of station this is—one you haven’t seen anywhere in your district. 

Han Station is a floating railway? 

Holy shit, where are you?

Yoongi skids around a corner before you plant hard to stop yourself, only to see him clash with someone before something connects right with your stomach, and you crumple before you feel a solid hit to your head. 

Oh.

The world spins and moves as you hear vibrations, slowed sounds that could be shouts. Gunshots? Or maybe songs? You don’t truly know but your head is aching—

Your arm rushes up to block something before your body follows, and you scream before gripping whatever you can and flipping a whole body forward. 

Reality crashes back into your ears as you snap out of your head. 

You haven’t had to do that maneuver in forever. Was muscle memory more than enough?

“Come on!”

Go. Go, follow him, both of you need to get to the rail shit it’s leaving!

The blaring reverberates through the air, pinging off metal and wheels screeching on the track lines as you bolt for the open doors.

Mid-stride, Yoongi swings to look at the people barreling up the stairs. “One more time: do you trust me?”

“No!”

“Good”—his hands grip your waist—“Jump!”

Head empty, you leap onto the railcar right as it starts to pick up speed, and you watch in horror as Yoongi empties his clip behind him until he can’t anymore. 

“Yoo—” Fuck, what was his name? He seems to not prefer the one you call him and that has to be for good reason. What was it?

You’re leaving. He’s gritting his teeth while hitting the bottom of his gun but he needs to get up! What was his fucking name! 

“Agust!” 

Yoongi finally whips his head around, dashing to the end of the train and straining to carry the duffle. 

He needs to launch it or leave it behind. There’s no way he’s not being weighed down so hard. “Here!” you yell, knowing that look is only reserved for people he doesn’t want to trust. It’s normal. But it still stings. “Hurry up!”

After one more second, he swings it around and flings, leaping onto the side handrail after you get blasted by the bag holy fuck that hurt. 

He was running with this the whole time? No wonder his shoulders are so cut this is heavy.

Straining, you peek out into the wind, seeing Yoongi holding on and scooting along thin steprails towards your awaiting hands.

Shit, this is dangerous. Buildings and the city below fly by, and a parallel train whooshes and roars past as you finally tug him inside with shaky wheezes.

Just like that.

You made it out.

What the fuck. You did it. No one else was able to get onto the train. You’re safe for now. 

Finally, finally, finally able to breathe. 

But goddamn, you both stand out like blood on a blank page.

As you struggle to fully stand, you notice everyone else on the train—well-kept, carrying themselves in sleek linens and lush outfits, hair done beautifully and to perfection. 

Which makes it unsurprising that plenty of them regard the pair of you with suspicion and morbid curiosity. While intrigue covers the one with an unfairly handsome face, zings of jealousy and judgment fire your way. 

You feel so out of place. You are so out of place. But that doesn’t give anyone the right to look at you like filth. The words from the taxi driver pierce your brain again, and you feel rage and pain bubble up to your tongue,

“Anyone got something they wanna sa—”

But Yoongi does something that has your brain chemistry altering because he casually bends a knee in front of you while holding the top rail, forcing you back into the side of the train car and only seeing his jewelry. 

When your eyes snap to his, he regards you before peering outside. “Stop,” he mutters. “You're causing a scene.”

“Me?” Oh, he has some nerve. “What did I do, you’re the one—”

“Quiet.”

Ridiculous. Huffing, you let disagreement tug your lips while joining him in watching the world go by. 

Realizing with a pang that you are probably never getting back home. You’re never gonna see your favorite neighbor with his woks and caterpillar eyebrows. All the produce you were planning to sell will only succumb to mold and time. 

Your tangerines… 

When a tear falls, it glints in your reflection before quickly being swiped away. 

No. Don’t do any of that here where people can see—where he can see. No one will know what the hell you just went through today. Be normal, strong, normal. 

The ride lasts a little longer, with people coming and going during each stop. When there are seats open, neither you nor Yoongi move to take them. The two of you stay glued where you stand.

Silent, together, and covered in hidden blood.

The next stop seems to be in a quieter sector of the city. All around you are buildings you’ve never seen before stretching miles into the sky, and the streets are so neatly paved you’re convinced they’re fake. 

“This is us,” Yoongi whispers, hand guiding your hip to move toward the doors.

Skin scorching under his touch, you can only nod.

Where are you now? Where are you getting off? 

You both exit the train with a few others, and you watch with heightened curiosity as they carry satchels and wear shoes that look horribly uncomfortable. As you move down the steps, you keep craning your neck to take everything in, and more questions fill your head than answers. 

But the truth remains even as you and Yoongi stop in front of your destination.

You cannot run anymore. Even if more of whoever those guys were showed up, you may just choose to sit down instead of take another stride. Besides, your body is still running a thousand steps even though you haven’t moved since getting on the train anyway. After today, the chase may never stop.

“We’ll stay here.” 

We? Stay? 

“Here? This place is…” You keep peering up and up, the top of the building so high your neck hurts. It’s so foreign and magical your only adjective is a quiet, “Nice.” 

At your side, Yoongi seems annoyed when he asks, “Expect something different?” 

“Yeah, like… I dunno, a secret lair or something.” 

Air whooshes from his nostrils, but there’s a stark absence of a smile. Looking up at the building, too, he explains something that you’ve never heard of before,

“We’re in a grey zone. No one will follow us here.” 

Right. Because that somehow makes sense to regular civilians like you. Because you are one, are one, are one. “Allegedly,” you scoff, not knowing what to believe anymore.  

Yoongi pauses before heading up, and his agreement makes you look. “Allegedly.” 

Mm. 

After taking the tiny steps to the entrance, you wonder what he must be thinking bringing your haphazard look in tow. 

Because he could’ve left you behind at any point in time. But he didn’t. What does that mean? Why is he keeping you alive and at his side?

While you’re taking in the opulent and vast lobby, Yoongi guides you toward the front desk, shifting the duffle on his shoulder. 

This place is gorgeous. Nothing like you’ve ever seen. How were they able to install a waterfall in a building? What kind of money does this so-called grey zone have? 

Yoongi nods toward the concierge, who quickly nods back and scurries away and into a room.

If you weren’t so tired, you could probably make something of that exchange. But you are very much exhausted so frankly, you don’t give a shit right now. 

Although. You do give a shit about the fingers suddenly interlacing with your own. As your hand is held, you shoot your best client a look so potent he stares back. “What now,” you snip, question low and dripping with distrust. 

Unfazed, Yoongi slowly pulls you into his side, a steady hand coming up to wrap around your tired hips. So nonchalant, so lax, so confusing as he murmurs,

“Just wanted to.”

Your heart trips into the next beat.

On sore legs, you wait until the concierge comes back with a key, eyes swiping over you as if they finally noticed your existence. Which seems to perplex them as they hand over the metal device.

And Yoongi just takes it, not a word said before he directs you across the lobby to what look like elevators.

Even these look fancy as fuck. Wherever you are and whatever this place is, you feel even more out of place than on that judgy train. 

A hotel worker bows before he motions to the opening doors. “Nice to see you again,” he murmurs to the ground, seemingly expecting the same non-response given to the front desk. “Would you like the usual, Mister—” 

“No,” Yoongi clips him off. “Not this time.” 

“Understood.” 

Brows pinched, you’re starting to get a weird feeling. 

How does everyone know Yoongi so well here? He said this was a grey zone, which you’d think would be akin to a neutral or non-threatening one. So why does it feel like he’s got this area on lock? Who exactly are you getting into an elevator with? 

…Who exactly did you save? 

Yoongi was right when he said you’re in it now. But faced with more questions surrounding him than anything or anyone else, you’re starting to wonder what pit of hell you dropped yourself into. 

Especially after catching the look of utter panic from the serviceman. 

Right before sliding doors shut the world out. 

—

—

⟶ what do we feel! | 🥢 join the taglist 🥢 | masterlist

a/n: thank you all for being so patient as i work through this! it was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but i like, need characters to get to know and learn about one another before heading into spice lmao. I NEED PLOT OK. THERE WILL BE LOTS OF SMUT I PROMISE DSHFKDSF we just gotta get through the slow burn first >:)) a/n 2: if there's something you liked about this or a line/scene/whatever thing you enjoyed, feel free to let me know! feedback is never expected, but always appreciated. if the interest level is high, that adds motivation like no other. thank you all for reading! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ minted masterlist

[psformybss]

You Said You Loved Me

drew starkey x costar!secretgf!reader

warnings: emotional whiplash, betrayal, heartbreak, mental health themes, self-harm mention, panic attack, regret, heavy emotions

a/n: tumblr isn’t letting me answer the request like usual but here is this one requested by @kieeslove . this is one is probably one of the most heartbreaking one-shots i’ve written to be honest but i love how it ended up coming out. please please please read the warnings before reading it.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

You’ve had the whole day to yourself—no call time, no script changes, no wardrobe fittings. Just a long, open stretch of silence that you’d usually welcome.

But today, it’s been anything but peaceful.

You’ve barely moved from the couch since noon, wrapped in the hoodie Drew left on the kitchen chair last night, half-watching a show you’ve seen before just to fill the space. Your phone rests in your lap, screen dim, but your mind hasn’t stopped racing for hours.

You saw it this morning.

The story.

Odessa’s.

It popped up right after breakfast, when you were still groggy, sipping coffee on the balcony. You tapped through mindlessly until you froze on a video—shaky, close-up, her voice giggling behind the camera.

Drew.

He was leaning against a trailer, smiling—no, laughing. That wide, rare kind of laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes. She flipped the camera back to herself, grinning like it was an inside joke between just the two of them.

And maybe it was.

The next slide was a photo. A candid. He had his head thrown back, laughing at something you couldn’t hear, while she stood beside him with only half her face in the frame.

But it was enough.

Enough to make your stomach twist.

Enough to make you stare too long at the caption.

“Set life with this goof 🤍”

The cast knows about you and Drew. Everyone on set does. You’ve stopped pretending around them—stopped hiding the way you slip into his trailer during breaks, how he kisses your temple when he thinks no one’s looking.

But outside of that circle, no one knows. No Instagram posts. No red carpets. Not even soft launches in the comments section.

And you understood why at first.

Keeping it private felt safer. Cleaner. Something just for you two.

Until moments like this.

Moments where he looks like someone else’s.

You scroll back through the texts—between you and Drew, between you and Odessa.

There’s nothing wrong, not really. But there’s a shift. A subtle unraveling.

He doesn’t say “I love you” before bed anymore. Doesn’t kiss your forehead when he leaves for work.

And Odessa—your best friend, the person who once felt like your other half—she’s been on set more and more. Not because she has to be. Just because.

You used to think she came to see you. To hang out between scenes, raid craft services, sit on your trailer floor and gossip about everything and nothing.

But lately, it feels like she’s there for him.

You told yourself not to overthink it. Not to read too much into the way her hand lingers on his arm when she laughs, or the way he seems more awake when she’s around.

But today, alone with your thoughts and too much time, the pit in your stomach hasn’t let up.

You pick up your phone again and scroll to your thread with Odessa.

No new messages.

She didn’t text you today.

Not after she posted those stories. Not after she spent half the afternoon on the same set your boyfriend was working on.

You’d texted her earlier—just a casual “You on set today?”—but it’s still sitting there, unanswered.

You switch to Drew’s messages.

You (9:42am): Miss you today. Hope the scene went okay.

You (12:16pm): Odessa still there?

You (3:03pm): Are you home late tonight?

All read. None replied to.

The front door opens at 1:14 a.m.

You don’t even flinch anymore. You just pull the hoodie tighter around you and pretend the tightness in your chest isn’t there.

Drew walks in with slow, tired steps, jacket slung over his arm, hair tousled from a long shoot.

You look up at him, soft but cautious. “Hey.”

He pauses at the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey. You’re up?”

“Didn’t have any scenes today,” you say, voice quieter than you mean. “Just stayed home.”

He nods, distracted. Opens the fridge. Grabs a bottle of water. Doesn’t ask about your day.

He scrolls his phone, thumbs moving quickly.

“Long shoot?” you ask after a moment.

“Yeah,” he says, cracking open the bottle. “Ran over like an hour. Just wrapped a little while ago.”

You hesitate. “Was Odessa still there?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “For a bit. She left before we wrapped.”

Another beat of silence.

You want to say more. You want to ask why she’s always there lately, or why he hasn’t said I love you in four nights straight.

But your throat closes around the words, like saying them out loud would make it worse.

Drew glances at you again. “I’m gonna crash. Early call.”

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

He disappears down the hall. No kiss. No touch.

And again—no I love you.

You stare at your phone until the screen fades.

Open Odessa’s story one more time.

Watch the way he laughs like he’s weightless. The way she looks at him like she knows something you don’t.

They don’t look like they’re hiding anything.

But you feel like you’re the only one being kept in the dark.

You wake up to an empty apartment again. Drew left early for set, just like he said, but something’s different today. You didn’t have to film any scenes today either, so you stayed home, hoping maybe things would feel normal again. Maybe Drew would come back and the silence wouldn’t stretch so thin between you two.

But that’s not how it goes anymore.

You scroll through your phone, trying to shake the heaviness. You glance at your messages—nothing new from Drew, just the usual short replies.

Your eyes flick to Odessa’s name, the friend you’ve known for years—the one who always seemed like your sister, the person who knew you better than anyone. But lately, even she’s become distant.

You tap her name and open your texts.

“Can’t wait to hang out tomorrow! Dinner and drinks like old times?” you typed a few days ago. No reply. Just like the other texts since then.

The next morning, you woke to a curt text from Odessa: “Had to fly back to LA today. Sorry, last minute. Hope you understand.”

No call. Just a text.

Your stomach dropped. You’d been looking forward to that night all week, but now it was gone—just like her.

You tried not to overthink it, telling yourself she was busy.

She returned, just a few days later but didn’t tell you. You found out the worst way possible.

You were walking past the trailers on set when you saw them.

Drew and Odessa.

Laughing together.

Close.

Too close.

The easy way they leaned into each other—like you used to, all three of you—felt like a punch to the gut.

You stopped, heart hammering in your chest.

They looked up and caught your eyes. Drew smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Odessa’s grin faltered for a moment before she turned back to him.

Your throat tightened.

You blinked, trying to tell yourself you were imagining things. Maybe they were just friends. Maybe you were just overthinking.

But deep down, the pit in your stomach grew.

The distance between you and Drew had been growing too. More than growing—it had widened into a chasm you didn’t know how to cross.

Your conversations were clipped, like you were just two roommates trying to coexist rather than the couple you once were.

You found yourself wondering if maybe you were the problem.

Maybe I’m too much.

Maybe I’m not enough.

You replayed every conversation, every look, every silence between you two.

The way Drew would zone out when you talked about your day.

The way he spent more and more time texting someone you couldn’t see.

The way Odessa—your best friend—pulled away too, her responses short and distracted whenever you tried to ask if she was okay.

One afternoon, you caught her alone near the trailers.

“Hey, you’ve seemed… different lately. Is everything okay?” you asked, voice gentle.

She glanced up at you, eyes guarded.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” she said, but you knew better.

She was closing off, just like Drew.

You wanted to reach through the walls that were building around her, but you didn’t know how.

The days blur together, each one heavier than the last.

You watch the calendar pages turn—slow and unforgiving—but the distance between you and Drew feels like it’s growing faster by the day.

He’s quieter. More distracted. Even when he’s in the room with you, it’s like you’re separate islands sharing the same space.

It’s been over a week since he kissed you.

Not a single brush of lips, not even a quick peck in passing.

You catch yourself waiting, holding your breath for the moment it will happen. But it never does.

You try to convince yourself it’s just stress. Long shoots. Exhaustion.

But when the lights go out and the apartment is still, the silence screams louder than any excuse.

One night, you find yourself standing in the bathroom, warm water streaming over your face, blurring your vision.

You don’t want him to hear the quietness of your tears—so you let them fall only in the shower, behind the locked door.

The water carries the ache away for a little while.

Later, when Drew leaves for set—his phone forgotten on the kitchen counter, screen unlocked—you hesitate.

Curiosity gnaws at you.

You pick it up, fingers trembling.

His messages open to a thread with Odessa.

You scroll through, the words soft but sharp:

“Missed you today.”

“Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

There’s nothing explicit. No promises or declarations.

Just the kind of words that linger in the spaces between.

Your chest tightens.

You close the phone carefully and set it back down.

Staring at the ceiling, you wonder how long this has been going on.

How long you’ve been standing on the outside looking in.

You want to confront him. To demand the truth.

But the words catch in your throat.

The apartment is quiet again.

That terrible, airless quiet that makes you feel like even the walls are watching.

Your phone buzzes.

You almost don’t check. You’ve been trying to be good—trying to stop torturing yourself by scrolling through Instagram, through posts with her name tagged beside his, through photos where his eyes don’t even look like his anymore.

But the name on your screen is one you can’t ignore.

Odessa.

Your pulse jumps. You hesitate. Then you open it.

“I told Drew I’m in love with him. He feels the same. I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The air leaves your lungs in one slow, numb exhale.

You reread it once. Twice. A third time, as if the words might change if you look hard enough.

They don’t.

No emoji. No nervous laughter. No gray area.

Just a quiet confession and a knife between your ribs.

But you don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t even blink.

You just sit there on the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, the message open on your screen, the cursor blinking like it’s daring you to respond.

You don’t.

The front door opens not long after.

You hear it before you see him—his key sliding into the lock, the door creaking open, boots hitting hardwood.

He walks in humming, like he’s had a good day.

Like the world didn’t just drop out from under you.

Then he sees you.

And the humming dies.

“Hey,” Drew says slowly, careful. His voice is soft, uncertain now. “You got her text.”

Your head turns slowly toward him. Your eyes are glassy, unreadable.

So he knows.

Of course he knows.

“She told you she was going to send it?” you ask, voice flat.

He nods once. “She said she felt guilty. She didn’t want to lie anymore.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“And you let her?”

“I didn’t let her,” he says, stepping closer. “I tried to stop her, but—”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. It sounds like something breaking.

“She said you feel the same.”

Drew hesitates. “That’s not what I—look, it’s not black and white, okay? It’s complicated—”

You stare at him. “Complicated,” you repeat, the word like acid in your mouth.

He moves toward you, crouching beside the couch, reaching for your hand.

You flinch before he can touch you.

He freezes.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says quietly.

Your hands shake as you stand, your voice rising without warning. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

His eyes go wide. “I—”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back. “You don’t get to say you didn’t mean to. You chose this.”

“You think I wanted to hurt you?”

“You did hurt me.”

The fury rises in you like a tide—faster than you can stop it.

“I’ve been here,” you whisper. “Every single day. Loving you. Waiting for you to love me back the way you used to.”

You grab the photo from the coffee table—the one from Paris, the one where you look happiest, safest, most certain of him.

You throw it across the room with every ounce of strength you have.

It hits the wall and shatters, glass and memories scattering across the floor.

He flinches.

“You were supposed to love me,” you say, voice cracking now. “Not her. Me.”

Drew steps forward like he’s trying to fix something already broken. “I do love you—”

“No, you don’t,” you snap. “Not really. Because if you did, this wouldn’t have happened.”

He tries to hug you, arms reaching for you like he still has a right to them.

You let him.

But not out of love.

Out of exhaustion.

His chest presses to yours, and for one brief second you remember the comfort that used to live in that space.

Now it feels foreign.

He murmurs, “We can fix this. Please. I’ll cut things off with her. We can go to therapy or—”

You press your hands to his chest and push him back gently.

“No,” you say. “This isn’t something you fix.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Well, you did.”

You walk to the door. Open it.

His breath catches. “You’re really kicking me out?”

You nod.

“I need space. I need you gone.”

Drew just stands there, stunned.

You look him straight in the eye.

“Come back for your things when I’m not here.”

“Please,” he says again, voice cracking. “Just let me explain—”

“You already did.”

And then you close the door.

Not hard.

Just enough to say this is final.

The click of the lock is the only sound in the apartment now.

The kind of silence that feels like grief.

Weeks pass.

The days don’t feel like days anymore.

Just hours strung together like dim beads on a thread you didn’t ask to hold.

You’re back on set.

Back in makeup chairs and wardrobe trailers. Back in long shooting days and artificial sunsets. Back in scenes where you’re supposed to smile, touch, kiss. Where you’re supposed to cry in the rain, shout until your throat is raw, crumble in someone else’s arms like your heart is breaking.

Pretend.

You move through it all like a ghost.

Quiet. Efficient. Detached.

You say your lines. You hit your marks. You laugh when the script says you’re supposed to. You kiss him when the camera rolls. You sob against his chest on cue, let your voice crack in that way the director loves. You even slap him in one scene—your eyes glassy, your voice trembling as you yell through clenched teeth.

But nothing touches you.

Not really.

You feel like someone’s removed your insides and left only the outline of you behind. Something hollowed out and left on autopilot.

Between takes, you sit by yourself.

No music in your headphones. No books cracked open. Just silence, staring at nothing, like you’re afraid to fill the space with anything real.

You used to light up on set. You used to steal the crew’s snacks, laugh between takes, tease Drew when he flubbed his lines. There was always an energy around you—light, warm, full of spark.

Now, the spark is gone.

And everyone feels it.

They don’t say anything, not directly. But you can feel the stares. The too-gentle hellos. The quiet way people check on you like they’re afraid you might shatter if they speak too loud.

Even Drew notices.

Especially Drew.

You don’t look at him unless the scene requires it.

You don’t answer when he says your name off camera.

You don’t sit near him at lunch, don’t meet his eyes when the director gives you blocking notes, don’t flinch when you’re told you’ll be filming another kiss today.

You just nod.

And do it.

Like it doesn’t hurt.

Like it doesn’t kill you every time his hands touch your waist, every time he looks at you like he remembers what it used to feel like to be loved by you.

The worst part is—he still looks at you like he’s in love.

Like he’s sorry.

But sorry doesn’t undo the wreckage.

You’ve already learned how to carry the debris.

Today, there’s a scene. You’re arguing. The kind that gets rewritten the night before for “heightened emotional stakes.” You scream at him, tears in your eyes, spit flying as you shove him in the chest. Your voice breaks in all the right places. The crew holds their breath.

"Cut."

You step back. Wipe your face. The tears vanish as fast as they came.

You turn away from him without a glance, your expression flat. Cold.

Drew just stands there, stunned. Still catching his breath from a fight that wasn’t real—at least not on paper. Still staring at you like he’s waiting for something soft to return to your face.

But your face is steel now.

Sharp angles. No trace of the vulnerability from a moment ago. Just rage simmering under the surface, quiet and controlled and utterly unreachable.

Like flipping a switch.

And that’s what terrifies him.

The way you can drop the emotion like it never existed. Like he doesn’t exist.

Between takes, you walk off set. You need air. Space. Anything that doesn’t feel like recycled heartbreak.

You step out behind the trailers, where no one’s watching.

Your hands tremble as you pull a cigarette from your jacket pocket. You haven’t smoked since college, since a messy breakup you thought nothing would ever top.

Funny.

You light it with shaking fingers, inhale, exhale, trying to find some kind of calm in the burn.

You don’t hear Rudy approach.

But you feel him.

He walks up slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes kind.

Without a word, he reaches out and gently takes the cigarette from your fingers.

You don’t fight him.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance at him, just barely. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

It’s the kind of question that should come with a dozen follow-ups. But he doesn’t push. Just asks it like he’ll believe whatever answer you give him.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

It’s a lie.

He knows it’s a lie.

But he lets you have it anyway.

Rudy looks at you for a long moment before dropping the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

Then he slings an arm loosely around your shoulders.

You don’t lean into it. But you don’t pull away, either.

You just stand there.

Side by side.

Quiet.

Because some silences don’t beg to be filled.

Some are just there to be witnessed.

The moon is a sliver above the water—ghostly and thin, like it’s watching but too tired to shine.

Drew finds you sitting at the edge of the dock, legs drawn up, arms locked around your knees like if you let go, you’d come apart completely.

You haven’t moved in what feels like hours.

He stands behind you for a while, saying nothing. Just… watching.

You look so still.

Too still.

So he steps forward, wood groaning beneath his weight, careful not to scare you. Not that you react. Not even a glance. Your eyes are locked on the black water, the surface rippling quietly like it’s holding your secrets.

He settles beside you, close but not touching. The wind brushes through your hair.

For a moment, all he hears is the hush of the waves and the far-off echo of laughter from the house.

He thinks maybe you’re calm.

Then he hears it.

That faint, stuttering breath. The wet sound of someone trying not to fall apart.

He turns to look at you—and sees it.

Your shoulders trembling.

Your jaw clenched so tight it’s trembling.

The soft, broken sound clawing from your throat as your lungs fail you.

You’re crying.

But it’s not just crying.

It’s a full-body unraveling.

He shifts closer, alarm rising in his chest. “Hey. Hey, breathe. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Your body hunches in tighter, shoulders shaking harder as your breath gets faster, shallower—like you’re trapped under something heavy.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Drew tries again, voice soft. “Just… follow me.”

He reaches out carefully, fingers brushing your wrist to anchor you, like he used to do back when things were simpler—back when that touch meant safety.

But this time, the contact makes you flinch.

And still, his hand closes gently around your wrist—and that’s when he feels it.

His fingers still.

Then tighten—just slightly.

Because he knows what he’s touching.

Scars.

Fresh ones.

Fainter than they used to be, maybe. But new. Raw.

His entire body goes cold.

“Please…” His voice breaks, a whisper edged in panic. “Please tell me those are old.”

Your head snaps toward him.

Your eyes—red, wide, furious—are like a slap.

You rip your arm from his grip and clutch it against your chest like a secret.

“I told you I wasn’t doing that anymore,” you snap, voice cracking. “I told you I was okay.”

“I thought you were,” he says, stunned. “You promised—”

“You think I wanted to start again?” you explode. “You think I wanted to go back to that?”

Your voice is all rage and ache and grief. “Do you know what it’s like? To sit in a bathroom with a towel under you and a razor in your hand, and you’re shaking so bad you can’t tell if you want to die or just want it to stop?”

He’s silent.

Paralyzed.

“I stopped for you,” you say, trembling. “I stopped because you made me feel like I was enough.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “But then you weren’t mine anymore. You were hers. And I couldn’t breathe, Drew. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

You stand up so fast he can barely react.

You stumble backward a few steps, chest heaving, arms wrapped around yourself like a shield.

“If you were just gonna fall in love with my best friend…” Your voice cracks. “Then you shouldn’t have asked me to be your fucking girlfriend.”

He rises slowly, hands out like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

“I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“But you did!” you scream, backing away. “You knew how fragile I was. You knew. I told you everything. I told you what it felt like to want to hurt myself. I told you what it cost to survive it.”

Tears streak your face, wild and fast.

“And you still chose her.”

He tries to reach for you. “Please—just talk to me.”

You shove his chest with both hands. Hard. Then again. And again.

“You were supposed to love me.”

He doesn’t stop you. He just stands there and takes it.

“You were supposed to be different,” you cry. “I trusted you with everything. I gave you every broken piece and you just—God—Drew, you left me there.”

More footsteps. Fast ones. The house has gone silent behind you, but now someone’s running.

Rudy reaches you just as you collapse forward.

He catches you in his arms, sinking with you to the dock.

Your body shakes with silent sobs, all strength gone, all resistance dissolved.

Madelyn grabs Drew, her expression unreadable—fear and fury clashing behind her eyes.

She pulls him back, away from you, away from the collapse.

“What happened?” she hisses, voice low and sharp.

But Drew can’t answer.

He’s crying too.

Watching the way Rudy holds you like something sacred and shattered.

Your voice, small and hoarse, cuts through the stillness.

“I really loved you,” you whisper, like you’re trying to remind yourself it mattered. “I really did.”

Rudy closes his eyes, jaw tight, hugging you closer.

“And I tried,” you say, your breath hitching again. “I really tried not to hurt myself. I really did.”

The only sound left is your broken breathing and the water moving beneath the dock.

No one knows what to say.

No one knows if anything would help.

And Drew—

He kneels in the shadows, hands shaking, the words I’m sorry caught somewhere between his heart and throat, knowing they’ll never be enough.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

The room is cold. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting pale shadows across the long table that stretches between you and the others.

You sit at one end, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the wood, knuckles blanching with pressure.

Across from you, the cast shifts uncomfortably in their seats—Jonas standing at the head of the table, his hands resting on its surface like an anchor, eyes serious and tired.

Drew sits near the middle, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed on the scuffs in the floor.

The silence hangs like a storm about to break, thick and unyielding.

Jonas clears his throat.

“We can’t keep filming like this,” he says, voice low but steady.

“This tension, this… distance. It’s hurting the work. And it’s hurting all of you.”

He looks around the room, then back at you.

“We all want to move forward. But that means you and Drew need to talk. You need to clear this, or at least try.”

Your throat tightens, words lodged in your chest like shards.

You stare down at the table, tracing a scratch in the grain with your finger.

Drew finally speaks, voice hesitant, raw.

“I never meant for things to get this messed up. For me to fall for Odessa.”

He looks up, meeting your eyes briefly.

“I wasn’t trying to use you, YN. I swear. You have to believe me.”

You swallow hard.

Bitter words claw at your throat, but they spill out before you can stop them.

“You promised me everything.”

Your voice breaks, trembling like a frayed wire.

“Paris. A house with a garden.”

“Kids. Marley from the pound.”

You close your eyes and press your palms to the table to stop them from shaking.

A cold certainty wraps around your words, unshakable.

The room is still.

Drew’s shoulders slump, a bitter twist in his chest.

“Do you really think I fell for her just to hurt you?”

His voice breaks like glass, fragile and jagged.

You don’t answer.

You don’t want to.

“You think you’re the only one hurting?”

He shakes his head, voice rising with desperate frustration.

“You think this is easy for me?”

The words are raw, ragged.

You lean forward, voice cutting through the thick silence.

“Easy?” you scoff. “You and Odessa? The perfect little couple who ruined me?”

Jonas steps between you with a steadying hand raised.

“Enough.”

You lift your head slowly, voice low and final.

“I can do the scenes. But Drew stays away from me.”

“Odessa stays away, too. If she ever visits, I don’t want to see her.”

The words fall like a decree, clear and unyielding.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping hard against the floor.

Your breath catches—sharp and uneven.

The door slams behind you.

Leaving behind only silence and the lingering weight of what’s broken.

Time passes in strange ways after everything breaks.

The apartment is quieter now. Not silent—just… softer. Like everyone’s learned to move around the wound without touching it.

You’ve stopped crying in the bathroom.

You still avoid him on set.

But you’re functioning again.

You wake up with the sun instead of dragging yourself out of bed at noon. You drink water. You make your bed. You sit on the balcony in the mornings with a journal in your lap and your knees curled to your chest, scribbling down thoughts you won’t say out loud.

You don’t live in the old apartment anymore.

You couldn’t. Not after everything.

The quiet was too loud there. The walls still held the shape of him—his coffee mug on the counter, his laugh echoing in the hallway, the soft imprint of a life you built and lost all at once.

So you packed it all up and left. New place. New routine. Smaller, lonelier, but yours.

No ghosts.

Just space to breathe.

Sometimes, you paint again. You drag an old easel out to the balcony and lose yourself in blues and golds and soft, wide brushstrokes. Your fingers end up stained for days.

Sometimes, you laugh.

Mostly with Rudy. He’s your shadow now. Always close. Always watching.

He knows when to joke, when to distract you, when to sit in silence and just breathe beside you.

JD brings you coffee every morning from town, no matter what. It started as a quiet gesture. Now it’s a ritual. He doesn’t say much—but you know it’s his way of reminding you you’re seen. Still wanted. Still here.

The cast has adjusted. They don’t talk about what happened. Not in front of you. Not in front of him.

You and Drew still share scenes. Still work together like professionals.

But off-camera? You orbit each other like broken planets.

Not friends.

Not enemies.

Just… nothing.

And maybe that’s worse.

Drew keeps his distance, like you asked. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t try.

But he watches you when he thinks you won’t notice.

From the far side of the room, across the lawn, just past the camera setup.

Always just out of reach.

You caught him once, lingering in the doorway as you laughed too hard at something Rudy said, your head thrown back, hair messy, eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks.

He didn’t smile.

He just stood there, quiet and still, his expression unreadable.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel anything.

Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

Some days, you think you might hate him.

Other days, you ache just thinking his name.

But mostly—you’re just tired.

Tired of missing someone who’s still right there.

Tired of feeling haunted by a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore.

And Drew—

He wonders how it got like this.

How a joke at a table, a few lingering glances, a shared hoodie and some stupid, unspoken boundaries turned into something he’d ruin with a single mistake.

How he lost the girl who loved him enough to break for him.

He watches you from afar, regret curling in his chest like smoke.

You’re still beautiful. Still brilliant. Still trying.

But now, when you smile—it’s never at him.

And he doesn’t know if it ever will be again.

[dakusan]

How skz texts you when you're upset

stray kids ot8 x reader | comfort, emotional support, quiet love, soft boys with warm hearts

🌙 synopsis: you're not alone. not ever. eight boys, eight different ways of showing up when the world feels too loud. some send you memes. some send you playlists. some just send a quiet “i’m here.” when you're unraveling at the seams, they don't ask you to hold it together. they hold you instead—in texts, in voice notes, in the silence between words. this isn't about fixing you. it's about loving you exactly as you are—soft, sad, and still worth everything.

💌 a/n: hi hello yes. i promise i have a job (whilst looking for a new one) but i am also a girl with free time and nothing to do, so i write for you people. plus, i just think everyone deserves to be comforted like this, okay?? anyway. if you’ve had a hard day, I hope this felt like a warm hoodie straight from the dryer. or like… a text that says “u up?” but emotionally stable. as always, thank you for reading my little delusions 💗 p.s. i know it’s a short one but like... short and sweet, right?? i hope it’s sweet??? idk anymore 😭 p.p.s. YES I KNOW MY PIC AESTHETICS ARE WEIRD AND DON’T MATCH OR WHATEVER I’M TRYING… I SEE THE VISION IN MY HEAD OKAY THE EXECUTION JUST BE SUFFERING. leave me alone. smh. p.p.p.s no, i haven't made any songs to match this vibe. lmfao, soz •ᴖ•

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎶 Now Playing: "Star Lost" — Stray Kids

Bang Chan // 방찬 the gentle leader energy

[3:14PM] Hey, angel. I know today’s rough. I won’t push, but I’m here. Want to hop on call? We can sit in silence or talk, your pace. [3:17PM] You’re not alone in this. I promise. (You wake up to a Lo-fi playlist he made just for you, titled: “for when your heart’s tired”)

Lee Know // 리노 silent acts of care

[4:52PM] What do you need? Be honest. [4:54PM] I can cook. Or just sit with you. Or send you mean messages about the universe. [5:01PM] Here. Cat pics. Instant serotonin. (He drops off warm food at your door with a post-it: “Eat. Or I’ll be annoyed. 😒”)

Changbin // 창빈 aggressively loving

[5:03PM] WHO. UPSET. YOU. [5:04PM] I will fight them. Emotionally. And maybe physically. 👊 [5:07PM] Also… I’m proud of you. For just… being you. (He sends voice notes of him beatboxing silly rhythms with your name mixed in. Pure serotonin.)

Hyunjin // 현진 the poetic soft boy

[2:27PM] It’s okay to crumble sometimes. Even stars need to rest. [2:29PM] You are still whole, even when you don’t feel it. [2:34PM] Do you want a drawing? Or a distraction? I can write you a silly haiku. (You receive a photo of a messy sketchbook page with your initials in soft florals.)

Han // 한 chaotic comfort personified

[3:59PM] I see you’re feeling like 🍞 soggy bread. [4:00PM] BUT GUESS WHAT. YOU’RE MY FAVOURITE TOAST. [4:02PM] I’m gonna spam you with memes until you smile or block me. (He sends 17 voice memos. One is a fake commercial for “Anti-Sadness Spray,” voiced by him in 4 accents.)

Felix // 필릭스 human sunshine, through and through

[1:36PM] Hey, beautiful. I felt something was off today… Do you want hugs, words, or just my presence? [1:40PM] You deserve kindness even when your mind says otherwise. (You get a video of him baking cookies, captioned: “Saving one for you, always.”)

Seungmin // 승민 realist with a warm heart

[6:18PM] I know you think you’re being dramatic. You’re not. [6:21PM] Want comfort or tough love? [6:25PM] You’re handling more than most would. Let yourself feel it. (He sends a carefully curated playlist titled: “not okay, but surviving.”)

I.n // 아이엔 the shy but intuitive one

[5:40PM] Hey… are you okay? You don’t have to answer. Just wanted you to know I care. [5:46PM] Do you want to watch something later? I’ll even pretend not to hate romcoms. [5:49PM] You matter to me. Just… wanted to say that. (You later find out he stayed up playing your comfort game just to send you tips.)

[currrentfixations]

the cut that always bleeds 2 — park hu-min

pairing: park hu-min (baku) x gotaksister!reader

genre: just fluff tbh, they deserved a happy ending.

word count: 2,115 words

note: friendship?? they love each other, your honour. also thank you so much for all the love on my first fic it means a lot 😭🫶, hope you guys enjoy this one as well!

part 1

you were woken from your slumber by your phone buzzing next to you.

hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ flashing on your phone screen, before the screen went black again.

you had fallen asleep slumped against the door. your eyes swollen from crying, and your body stiff and sore from the rigid position it had been frozen in for the last couple hours. slowly getting up, you reached for your phone.

your head was throbbing, like someone had struck it with a hammer. tapping your phone, you checked the time. 11pm — you had been out for almost 2 hours. under the time, you noticed all notifications you had missed.

4 missed calls from hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ 1 voicemail from hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ 6 messages from hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ 2 messages from seo jun-tae 🙇‍♂️

nothing from hu-min. you never deleted his number. the last time you messaged him was the day of hyun-tak's accident, wondering if he'd seen or heard from hyun-tak. he never replied.

pushing the thoughts about hu-min aside, you opened up jun-tae's messages first.

seo jun-tae 🙇‍♂️ [9:42pm]: hey, it's jun-tae! seo jun-tae 🙇‍♂️ [9:43pm]: hyun-tak was worried bc you're not answering, call me or him when you get this 😊 delivered — read at 11:03pm

you loved jun-tae — he was a recent addition to your brothers friend group. he was absolutely adorable, and had won you over with his polite and respectful nature. tapping on his contact, you hit the call button. the phone rang 6 times before it went into voicemail.

with no response from jun-tae, you decided to check your brothers messages.

hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ [9:17pm]: hey idiot hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ [9:18pm]: sorry i haven't messaged or called, just got caught up with friends hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ [9:18pm]: call me when you get this hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ [9:36pm]: hey don't purposely ignore me hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ [9:36pm]: i know for a fact you're stuck to your phone 24/7 hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ [10:59pm]: ok did something happen, call me when you get this delivered — read at 11:06pm

wow only 6 messages, that was a new record for hyun-tak. better than the time he had messaged you a single word at a time causing your inbox to inflate with 248 messages. you clicked on his contact, checking what time you had missed his calls.

hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ — 2 missed calls at 9:20pm hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ — missed call at 9:38pm hyun-takie ⛹️‍♂️ — missed call at 11:00pm

you giggled, it was just like him to call you 2 minutes after messaging because you didn't immediately answer. tapping on the voicemail, you gave it a listen.

"hey baby sis, are you okay? i'm worried that little miss glued to her phone isn't answering. anyways whenever you get this, call me back. also don't be mad, i'm at the hospital."

were you really related? your brother was a dumbass. instead of assuming you were asleep, the first thing he thinks is that something is wrong.

wait. hospital. what?

you shot up, panic flooding in. running into your room, you grabbed a small bag, shoving your phone, wallet, keys and headphones inside.

running back out to the entrance, you forced shoes onto your feet. as soon as your shoes were on, you sprinted outside to grab a taxi. the drive to the hospital felt endless. you were beyond scared, imagining all different types of scenarios.

thanking the taxi driver, you rushed inside the hospital and upon entering you heard hyun-tak's voice.

"man, you crybaby. did you cry again?"

and hu-min's voice.

"i didn't."

"si-eun, don't worry he cries all the time." — "i didn't cry, jerk."

hyun-tak sounded completely fine. speeding up a little, you reached the group of boys. seeing hyun-tak with no injuries, you wrapped your hands around him, a sense of relief washing over you. he's okay — your brother was okay.

wait, you were supposed to be angry.

pulling out of his grip, you smacked hyun-tak on the shoulder. "owww, what the hell was that for?" he whined.

"what the hell was that for!?" you said, your eyes bulging. you smacked him again.

"you're an asshole, do you know how worried i was? why on earth would you end the voicemail with 'i'm in the hospital' when you're perfectly fine! you scared me!".

you wanted to smack him more but your body betrayed you, wrapping your arms around him once more.

"i'm sorryyyy —" hyun-tak said, smiling and gently patting your head. "the voicemail ended before i could say anything else. i was going to include that i was in the hospital to see si-eun".

"i'll deal with you at home." you huffed, pulling away from him. forcing a smile, you turned around.

"hi jun-tae, long time no see!" you said to the boy who stood to the right of you, giving him a side-hug.

"hi si-eun, i hope you're okay. nothing serious right?" you asked, giving him a polite wave. si-eun wasn't much of a hugger or talker, especially with those he didn't know well. but he knew he could trust you, you were like a mini hyun-tak.

"i'm okay, just a minor accident. only a few scratches here and there" si-eun replied, smiling softly.

"i'm glad" you responded, mirroring si-eun's smile.

"hey ___". you were surprised hu-min was talking to you, considering he hadn't acknowledged what you had said to him while he was leaving.

you almost didn't want to respond to him, but feeling the eyes of your brother and his friends on you, you settled for a simple 'hi'.

you stared at hu-min in silence, waiting for him to say something. but instead juntae cleared his throat, "i'm going to drop si-eun back to his room. let's go si-eun." — "i'm gonna go with them" hyun-tak added.

they hadn't left because they weren't uncomfortable. they'd left to make you feel comfortable, to give you the privacy you needed. hyun-tak had told them about your past with hu-min, how you had been harbouring feelings for each other, both afraid to do anything about said feelings. how his accident was the tipping point for you.

watching their silhouettes disappear, you felt a hand grab your wrist. you looked up at hu-min with a confusion expression that translated to 'what are you doing?'.

holding onto you, hu-min led you outside. the cold wind hitting your face as you exited the hospital. "what do you think you're doing?" you asked him. "i need to talk to you. sit." you slowly lowered yourself onto the wooden bench.

the frosty air settled on your skin making you realise that you'd forgotten a jacket. out of the corner of your eye, you saw hu-min removing his hoodie and before you could refuse, it is in front of your face.

"i'm fine, it's fine."

"just take it, you're shivering like crazy" he exhaled, placing the zip-up over your shoulders. you, unconsciously, pulled his hoodie closer to you, feeling his lingering warmth in the fabric.

"what did you wanna talk about hu-min?" the cold weather was making you impatient causing the words coming out sharper than intended.

taking a deep breath, hu-min gathered his courage. fighting with other boys, easy. talking to the girl he likes, no thanks. he'd rather fight a 100 boys than feel the emotions he was feeling right now, ever again.

"your brother forgave me, why can't you?" he whispered. he was right. hyun-tak had forgiven hu-min — technically he had never blamed hu-min to begin with. so what about you, what was holding you back for forgiving him?

a heavy silence settled between you. "nevermind... forget i said anything, i'm sorry". hu-min was getting restless, shifting his weight from foot to foot, wondering if he'd said the wrong thing.

"no... you're right, i'm sorry hu-min." you've gotten this far, now it was time to just rip the bandaid off.

tapping the space next to you, you silently invited hu-min to come sit down. he had been standing the entire time, worried that being too close would make you uncomfortable.

"i'm not angry at you —" you spoke slowly, trying to keep your voice steady. "i mean i was angry, initially i did blame you for what happened to hyun-tak. all i could think was, had he not been friends with you, he won't have gone through what he did".

taking a deep breath, you continued explaining how during the first two months of hyun-tak's recovery you were so so angry at him and how by month four, it had become tiring.

not only did you not want to hate the boy you love, you'd realised you were incapable of it.

"soon after, hyun-tak had picked up on the fact that i wasn't speaking to you. and you know what he said to me?" you let out a quiet laugh. "don't hate hu-min too much, the guy is a bit of a dummy. just go talk to him". what you had tried so hard to hide, your brother had picked up on in seconds.

after hearing those words from your brother, you realised that the anger and resentment you had held towards hu-min for being the "cause" of hyun-tak's accident had dissipated. and the real cause was something else altogether.

"the reason i've been upset with you is something else. did you think i was angry because of what happened all this time?"

"yeah..." — "well do you get why i was actually upset?" hu-min shook his head 'no'. you were starting to believe that he did, in fact, have a 99iq.

"hu-min!" you slightly raised your voice, slapping his shoulder. "can you please explain to me why you were actually upset with me?" he asked, with the most innocent look on his face. "are you serious?" was he trying to tease you?

"i was upset because you didn't reach out to me. after i walked past you in the hospital you didn't try to contact me. not once." you sighed, taking a breath to prevent tears from welling up in your eyes.

"i felt abandoned. i thought i meant more-" hu-min pulled you into a hug before you could finish. 'i'm sorry' he repeatedly whispered, like a mantra, his voice full of regret. you pressed your lips together, trying your best to not cry, but it was too late. tears had began to slide down your face, dampening hu-min's shoulder.

"hey, you're making me look bad, why are you apologising? i'm the one who is sorry hu-min, it was wrong of me." you spoke, your voice muffled.

"ialsomayhavebeenupsetbecauseyoudidn'tfeelthesamewayaboutme" you quickly murmured under your breath, praying he hadn't caught onto what you said.

but he had. hu-min pulled back just enough so he could see you, his eyes softening at the sight of your slightly puffy eyes. "oh dear, my poor baby —" he said in a teasing tone, wiping the remnants of your tears. " ___, do you have 99iq or do i? i think we both do."

"i like you".

"i like you so much. my every waking thought is about you. hell, even my dreams are about you." you were speechless, your brain was short-circuiting. "i was worried that baek-jin would go after you so i thought the easiest and safest thing to do was to stay away. i'm sorry i should've told you."

"please say something."

without a second thought, you wrapped your arms around hu-min.

"i like you too, god we're both idiots." you laughed, with a final few tears making their appearance. hu-min hugged you tighter — "guess we are" he mumbled, laughing softly.

"c'mon lets go inside". standing up, you laced your fingers through his. "give me a minute, you head in first" he replied.

you nodded and made your way towards the hospital entrance. realising there was one important thing you forgot to tell him, you turned back around.

"hey baku" you yelled with a grin on your face, "you know you're not alone right, you have me, hyun-tak, jun-tae, and si-eun. try not to hold the burden all on your own, i don't want my future boyfriend to get squashed. now hurry up and come inside".

hu-min hadn't realised how much he yearned to hear that nickname from you. and for the first time in a while, hu-min smiled. not a polite one to show everyone he was okay when he wasn't, but a genuine one.

turning back around, you headed inside. you felt happy, happier than you have been in the past year. even though there was still the whole union mess to clean up and even though you technically weren't dating yet, you were happy. you didn't mind waiting for hu-min for a little while, not when he had waited for you.

for @bloodysxxl who wanted a second part 🫶

and as always lmk your thoughts!! :)

[rae-writes]

tight schedule

nsfw || something something Barbatos brainrot

The pitch black void of Barbatos' time crevasse was a little disorienting but nothing could pull your focus away from the way your boyfriend was pounding you. 

His tail was coiled around your waist tightly to keep you as close as possible, hands gripping at both your chest and your throat. The sounds he made- growls and near whines- were completely unlike his typical composed demeanor, but he just couldn’t help it— 

Barbatos stared down at his phone for a couple of seconds, heart practically beating out of his chest. 

‘Need you. Please.’ sent 1:03pm 

You never asked for hardly anything when you knew he was on duty. The heat between your legs must’ve been torture if you were begging for him now. 

He had to serve the young master’s tea in seven minutes…but not if time..stopped. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you, sweetheart.” Barbatos breathed raggedly, thrusting into you sharply. He shuddered at how tight you felt, probably from how pent up you’d been because of his piled on duties. 

“‘S o-okay..just needed you—“ You gasp, always so sweet and understanding for him. 

But he didn’t want you to be understanding right now, he wanted you to selfishly snatch up the pleasure he was giving you, to scream out his name and feel what you’ve been craving for who knows how long. 

“Take it then— take whatever you need. No one will find us here, they’ll never even know we left. Right now’s about you, sweetheart- just tell me what you want me to do. Please, tell me what you need.” 

[thatbuddie]

after buck and eddie get together, eddie starts giving buck absentminded kisses all the time.

kiss on the forehead after he passes him his morning coffee. kiss on the cheek while buck is cooking dinner. kiss on the back of his hand as buck drives them to bobby’s house for a family bbq. kiss on top of his head while they cuddle watching a documentary. kiss on his shoulder while they sit on the station couch reading in between calls.

but buck’s favorite kisses? the ones edde blows him from a distance. when no one is looking during a call and they have to separate, buck doing evac and eddie treating some minor burns. when buck is pulling out of the their driveway to go meet maddie and jee for lunch and eddie sees him off from the front porch. during their family night out at the movies with chris in between them before the action film their son chose and they’re both probably going to hate begins.

every single blown kiss is always followed by eddie mouthing “i love you” at him, and every single time buck feels himself start to blush, the butterflies in his stomach staging a very chaotic and uncoordinated flash mob.

there’s something so exhilarating about knowing that no matter how close or far away they physically are eddie always wants to be kissing him. like eddie knows just as well as buck does that his lips were always meant to graze buck’s skin and leave behind goosebumps for hours to come.

even when they can’t see each other at all, buck knows eddie is thinking about it too because eddie does not go more than 3 hours without sending him little 😘 emojis. he doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t contextualize them because he doesn’t need to. it's just random 😘 throughout the day, scattered in between the rest of their texts.

buck [3:33pm]: got caught in traffic, chris and i will be there soon! eddie [3:33pm]: ok, hen and denny just arrived eddie [6:03pm]: 😘

&

eddie [11:27am]: can you write “chris dentist appointment” on the kitchen calendar for 10/17? buck [11:31am]: done! eddie [11:32am]: thanks, baby eddie [2:16pm]: 😘

&

buck [10:08am]: we also need eggs! buck [11:43am]: remind me to replace the lightbulb in chris’s bedside lamp eddie [1:14pm]: 😘 eddie [3:09pm]: your amazon package just arrived buck [3:09pm]: yaaaaaaay eddie [7:24pm]: 😘

&

eddie [6:02am]: 😘 eddie [8:56am]: 😘 eddie [9:07am]: 😘 eddie [12:31pm]: 😘 buck [3:17pm]: 😘😘😘

[yunjinified]

Wonwoo fic recs

✿=personal favourites

note: this list will constantly be updated. In all of these fics the reader is either gender neutral or female.

Good To Me by @moonhoures series warnings and genre: non-idol!au, smut, fluff, shower sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, pet names, multiple orgasms. word count: 1 300

9:03PM by @moonhoures series warnings and genre: smut, unprotected sex, finger sucking. word count: N/A

✿Bloodily Safe by @starlightxsvt series warnings and genre: psychological thriller, camgirl!au, college!au, smut, toxic relationship, blackmailing, drinking, descriptive domestic abuse, death, manipulation, threatening, fingering, slapping, choking, marking, cum eating, degradation, virgin sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, humiliation kink, pain kink, psychopathic behaviours, descriptive violence, blood, rape attempt, arson, murder. word count: 18 500

✿Game On! (bloodily safe 2) by @starlightxsvt series warnings and genre: psycho!Wonwoo, ghost face kink, scream movie references, sir kink, degradation, choking, fingering, squirting, unprotected sex, rough sex, breast play, knife play (no cutting or marking), implications of violence, blood. word count: 6 000

Work Husband by @bitchlessdino series warnings and genre: office!au, smut, mentions of alcohol, exhibitionism, manhandling, unprotected sex, creampie, pet names. word count: 3 900

✿Twisted Fate by @smileysuh series warnings and genre: murder, blood, vampire!wonwoo, yandere subthemes, kidnapping, biting, blood play, throat grabbing, manhandling, begging, praise, dirty talk, mean dom!wonwoo, multiple orgasms, finger-licking, chocking, unprotected sex, size kink, gentle spanking, dumbification, hair-pulling. word count: 14 300

Mine by @gyupinkys series warnings and genre: Degradation, daddy kink, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving) , gunshots, pet names, breeding, edging. word count: 1 500

Getting closer by @multi-kpop-fanfics series warnings and genre: Joker!Wonwoo x Chief Inspector!reader, angst, smut, horror, minor fluff, blood, mentions of weapons, minor injuries, cursing, hatefucking, marking, hair pulling, choking, face-slapping, major character death, slight yandere behaviour, mentions of mental illness and insomnia. word count: 6 100

✿Red lights by @multi-kpop-fanfics series warnings and genre: smut, angst, fingering, overstimulation, marking, unprotected sex, choking, possessive and jealous Wonwoo , cursing, toxic relationship. word count: N/A

Good to Me by @multi-kpop-fanfics series warnings and genre: fluff, smut, a bit of comedy, sexual tension, soft dom!Wonwoo, use of restraints, dirty talk, praise, oral sex (f receiving), edging, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare. word count: 5 000

horror game by @myung-heee series warnings and genre: fluff, smut, pet names, oral (f receiving), face sitting, crying, protected sex. word count: 2 500

✿rich girl by @blushnote series warnings and genre: smut, blowjob, face fucking, overstimulation, squirting, dirty talk, shower sex, pet names. word count: 6 708

6:30pm by @cheolhub series warnings and genre: unprotected sex, mentions of masturbation, degradation, hard dom!wonwoo. word count: 755

off limits by @hinaaspanda series warnings and genre: brother's best friend!Wonwoo, swearing, crack, smut, fingering, protected sex, dirty talk, praising. word count: 9 907

✿Cat and mouse by @wonusite series warnings and genre: bad boy!au, smut, descriptions of minor injuries, mutual pining, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, riding, multiple creampies, overstimulation, mating press, aftercare. word count: 5 600

Your games suck by @onlymingyus series warnings and genre: smut, unprotected sex, teasing, fingering, pet names. word count: 2 700

distraction by @hwanghyunjinenthusiast series warnings and genre: established relationship, pwp, Dom! Wonwoo, Sub! Reader, dirty talk, breast spanking (f. receiving), nipple play (f. receiving), praise kink (f. receiving), fingering (f. receiving). word count: N/A

✿The bore next door by @ncteez series warnings and genre: dom!wonwoo, bratty/sub!reader, face fucking, pussy eating, nipple biting, finger fucking, squirting, dirty talk, protected sex, dirty talk, praise, hair pulling. word count: 8 800

[kithtaehyung]

would u? (3tan717) | myg

3tan717 drabble #1: would u? pairing: 3tan!yoongi x reader(f) series: masterlist | three tangerines | 3tan717 rating/genre: pg (18+) ; fluff ; brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au summary: you see a certain fruit-centered trend online.. and decide to test it on yoongi note: i am so so so sorry this is out on the very last day of feb but things have been absolute bananas lately! tbh i’m surprised this is even getting posted on time and i have even more to do after this is shared but eff it shibal!!! note 2: as promised, this is dedicated to the people that submitted the answers i’m using for this drabble: anon, grapes / @yoongrace, and apryl @aprylynn for this idea hehehe! also i literally just finished this so it's legit unedited so i'm sry for any mistakes! off to go prep for events now! warnings: 3tan yoongi as always, working yoongi??, kitchen, period cramps suck but yoongi to the mf rescue drop date: feb 29th, 2024, 10:03pm est word count: 2.3k

-

-

Ugh. 

Why does this have to happen every fucking month. Why can’t it happen every three? Or six? Or never ever ever? 

Groaning, you roll over, burying your face into the pillow on Yoongi’s side. 

To some degree, you feel placated, probably due to his scent still lingering next to your dismay. He had to get up early to finish a track, but he assured you can be in the room. 

You can hear a little bit of what he’s working on as it bleeds through his headphones, and even just this sliver of sound gives you chills. Not just because of what it sounds like, but the sole fact that Yoongi’s letting you even listen in the first place. 

Huffing out a bit of amusement, you remember the last time Yoongi let you stay while he worked—albeit at his place while he went to the studio. 

Damn, how much you’ve grown since then. All those memories, those quiet times and tumultuous times, everything leading up to now. How time has molded you with knowing hands. 

However, no matter how much has changed all these months, some things have not wavered, like the fact that you needed to be sure he was okay with it—and his answer making you absurdly shy. 

Did he really have to say that you’re either staying or he’s gonna leave? That scheming motherfucker! 

Some drum beats hit your cheek before you realize the menace himself is playing multiple different ones. It’s only a couple hits before he moves onto the next, and you’re about to lift your hea—

“Fuck, where the hell is that kick?” 

Your laugh is stifled by cotton. As tickled as you are to hear Yoongi like this, you don’t wanna do anything to distract him. 

But by doing so, that causes your body to tighten and fuck, it hurts. It hurts to move, it hurts to laugh, it hurts to just exist. God, you want him to come back and join you so bad, but you don’t wanna be that person. 

…Yet. Maybe if it gets so bad you can’t even sleep? 

“Found you! Fucking finally. Thought you could hide from me, huh?” 

Oh, fucking hell, he’s adorable. 

Yeah, there’s no way you’re making him drop everything right now. This is too precious of an afternoon to stop. 

Exhaling a mile long breath, you fight through your pain and feel for your phone, groaning as you shift yourself. When in position under sheets and warm sunlight, you cycle through apps as a distraction. 

Scrolling. Scrolling. Smiling at some animal videos a bit before scrolling again. 

After all of five minutes, you start to see a trend on your feed, and suddenly get the idea to try it on Yoongi. It’s simple and harmless, right? 

You [3:30pm]: would u peel an orange for me 

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, and you lift your head slightly to see if he looks at his phone. 

When he does, he checks it really quick before setting it back down on his desk, back to clicking on his screen. 

Ah. Damn. He must really be in the zone because… 

Uhh. 

Blinking, you watch as Yoongi rolls his chair out to get up, setting his glasses down and heading out of the room with a light swing of his chains. 

Uh. What just happened? Did you upset him? You’re so stunned that his swift exit has you wanting to get up and follow him.  

But ow. Ouch. It’s maddening how much your cramps are getting to you. 

Bearing the punches to your gut, you start sliding out of the bed, straining and sucking in sharp breaths just to stand and pull Yoongi’s comforter over your tension. 

Padding out the bedroom, your worries make your steps tiny and heavy, and you regret sending that text because you literally just said you weren’t… gonna…

On the dining table—quiet—lie three tangerines, peeled and placed next to vibrant scraps while your lover peels a fourth with diligent, devoted hands. 

And you can’t even form words that match how you feel. 

Your vision swims right as Yoongi looks your way, his body stilling before he puts the fruit down. 

When he approaches with concern, you answer his silent questions through hiccups, “I—I thought you left cus—you were mad.” 

“Huh?” 

“I don’t even know,” you swallow, gesturing to all of your lower half and feeling him hold the slipping blanket. “It’s just… this, I guess.”

“Does it hurt?” 

“Like a motherfucker.” 

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, doll. Hold up.” Handing you the comforter, Yoongi goes to his cabinets in the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of medicine before walking it over. “You gotta take something as soon as you feel it. Don’t let it get this bad.”

“I know,” you groan, resting your head on his shirt and inhaling his healing presence. “I didn’t wanna bother you.” 

Your forehead is kissed. “You’re not bothering me. Especially with something like this.” 

“Okay.” 

He walks away again to grab some water, and you watch as he pours some into an electric kettle before starting it up. 

Glancing back at the fruit, you sigh, clutching the bottle of pills while feeling the weight of his comforter. He’s probably not pleased with the way it might drag on the ground, so you gather it and pick the end chair to sit on. 

And then you sigh, “Sorry for making you peel those. I didn’t even plan on eating anything.”  

“Too bad. You’re gonna eat what I make you anyway.” 

Wait, he’s cooking? He has work to do! “You’re working, though. Don’t worry about me right now.” 

“It’ll be quick.” 

“What are you making?” 

A glass bowl and pan are procured from random places before Yoongi blinks in place. “Uhh.. You’ll see.” 

As he clunks them onto his counter and stove, you watch with hearts for eyes as he bustles around the kitchen space. Even doing things as simple as washing his hands, opening his fridge, and simply grabbing a knife gives you pause. 

And this is when you realize that you can watch Yoongi do absolutely anything and be amazed. 

Even when he stands, watching you with a look that’s wait why doesn’t he look—

“Take the medicine, baby girl.” 

Oh. 

Snapping out of your trance, you nod. “Sorry.” 

Yoongi continues to give you glances until you swallow down the painkillers, satisfied enough to continue his cooking venture when you take the second one. 

As the sun paints the apartment in marigold and light, you keep watching with a smile as he brings the kitchen to life. Butter sizzles in a pan, tangerines are getting halved on a board, and something is getting mixed with a whisk. 

Who knew that the neighborhood fuckboy would have a whisk on hand? Not the younger you, that’s for damn sure. 

But here Yoongi is, in the flesh, whisking away with veiny forearms that have you thinking the most absurd thoughts during this time of the month. The only thing that would cut through the raging horniness would be getting up to see what the hell he’s making. 

It’s starting to smell familiar though. But he put the tangerines in the pan so you don’t even know what to expect right now. 

Walking up—blanket left behind—you observe the kitchen before peering over his broad shoulder. “Mm.. Smells like pancakes.” 

Yoongi doesn’t answer, but when you see the consistency of the batter, you realize you’re correct. “Oh, it is! I’m smart.” 

“You are,” he laughs. “But you didn’t get it all the way right.” 

“No?” 

“Nope.” Yoongi then gently gets you to move before he pours the batter over the slices, and you crane your neck to watch as he evens it all out. “Just one tangerine pancake.”

“Oh, okay,” you scoff, earning a laugh at your side. “Whatever, chef.” 

“We’ll see what you say in a bit.” 

Is he gonna leave it or flip it? Probably the latter. 

“K. Gonna flip that once it’s done.” 

Nice. You smile to yourself, loving how you’re starting to really be on the same page. Nudging him, you keep watching as he lowers the heat and sets the lid on the pan. “What now?” 

“We wait,” he responds, dusting his hands together before cleaning up his mixing bowl. “And I’m gonna see if we have any sugar.”

Damn it, Yoongi cannot keep saying that two-letter word. It’s starting to be detrimental to your health. “I can help.” 

“S’ok,” he assures, nose upturned. “Just watch me work.” 

“Oh, I’m very good at doing that.” 

At this, Yoongi turns and gives you a smile that immediately reminds you of summer, and you almost feel like crying again. 

“I’ve actually never tried this, but. We’ll see if this works.” 

With nothing snarky, or teasing, or fake to say, you reply with a smile and a genuine, “I’m sure it will.” 

When he keeps staring, his eyes lower to your lips, and you don’t care that you probably look like a wreck, or feel like one. Because the way he’s looking at you now makes you glow. 

If only the kettle didn’t decide this was the moment to stop boiling. 

You were probably about to get the kiss of your life. 

But Yoongi halts in his tracks before shifting to get a mug, setting it down with a thud before checking on the pancakes. Pancake. Whatever that delicious-smelling thing is gonna be. 

“There’s some tea packets in that right drawer. Help yourself cus I’d rather you pick.” 

Chuckling, you oblige before scooting over. After seeing a small jar of granules on the counter, you start rummaging through the drawer, exploring the various options while hearing the sound of a plate behind you. 

Ah, Yoongi’s flipping it. 

As you turn, you’re just in time to watch the muscles in his back protrude through his shirt as he flips the pan, impressed as he sets the plate down because holy hell that looks great. 

“Sugar, sugar, sugar… Suga, suga, suga.” 

Laughing, you interrupt his silly search as you grab the jar you just saw. “Suga suga, how you get so fly?”

Yoongi stops to see what’s in your hand, and he huffs through a grin before grabbing it. “Thanks, doll.” 

You keep humming the song that’s now wedged into your head as you watch him sprinkle bits on the pancake. 

“I don’t have a blowtorch,” he admits, “But I do have this.” 

Rolling out a drawer, Yoongi takes out a long lighter before holding it to the sugary top, humming the same song you were just singing without even knowing it. As the sugar slowly but surely heats, you both keep humming and basking in a calm afternoon. 

And you don’t even feel the pain anymore. 

“Go ahead and sit, babe.” 

“You sure?” 

“Uh huh.” 

Following instructions, you make your way to the table, cocooning yourself in his comforter again as you await the cutest meal you’ve had in weeks. Months. Lifetimes. 

Speaking of lifetimes… You hope every version of you meets every version of him. No matter when. No matter where. Because you want every version of yourself to find happiness, and Yoongi has been the one to help you finally find it. 

And he certainly passed whatever the hell this orange theory thing was supposed to be. 

Plates are set down to break you out of introspection, and you glance up with eyes sparkling. 

When Yoongi raises a brow, you just smile. When he asks what’s gotten into you, a chuckle escapes before you shake your head, 

“Nothing, baby. Just didn’t expect all this from that text.” 

As he plops into the next chair, you love the way the sun settles on his skin. Highlights his hair. Shimmers in his eyes. 

“Don’t even need to ask, babe.” He captures your attention with a calm look. “I was waiting for any distractions anyways.” 

So this was for him, too? Good. 

Grabbing your fork, you giggle. “Sounded like you were having a little trouble over there.” 

“I was! This is what I get for not saving my shit.” 

Both of you sit back in laugher as you throw your hands out. “Do that!” 

“I’m lazy!” 

“Tough shit!” 

“I know!” 

Grinning, you loll your head before waving your fork out. “You’re gonna save those sounds, and you’re gonna remember this day and thank me.” 

Yoongi just tightens his lips in a smile, eyes creased and glimmering. “Maybe.” 

“Yes. I’ll stand there and watch you until you do it.” 

"Really.."

For the rest of the afternoon—with full bellies and clear minds—you rest on the edge of Yoongi’s bed, forcing him to find the files he needs and watching him groan his way through saving everything. 

Constantly laughing at the ridiculously random names he’s assigning them.

When he’s done, you watch as he spins around in his chair, heart thumping with anticipation as you’re met with a waiting pair of eyes.

Breathtaking. 

When he leans in, you feel incredibly shy. Always, always, always. This will forever remain the same.

And—just as well—Yoongi's kisses will forever taste like tangerines. 

Three of them, to be exact. 

-

-

fin. :)

-

how did the first 717 drabble go! | join the discord hehe

a/n: nothing much to say other than i love y'all so much! i will try responding to anything when i can (there's literally still all the 3tan12 feedback to get to) but i do read all the commentary sent in and it keeps me going strong :'))) so thank you again for being here and being amazingly patient with me. off to work on more things but i shall be back once the wild weeks are over!

a/n 2: suga suga how you get so flyyyy hahaha

[bee-taylorsversion]

Bee's Read List 🐝✨

✨SVT✨

Interludes by sluttywoozi

seventeen as dads headcanons by bbyobbyo

svt reactions by wifeyoozi

SEUNGCHEOL

11:59 PM by cheolhub

Have My Baby by seokgyuu

on my knees by sescoups

Call Out My Name by dearlyjun

heads up! by nonranghaes

possessive ends by cheolism

[ 1:08 am ] by soonyoungs

dating seungcheol by wannabelife

denial by giraffenamjoon

seen by casuallyimagining

dark protector by smileysuh

lusty gallant by onlyseokmins

babymaker by onlyseokmins

scoups x brat reader by hannieehaee

gym rat roommate!seungcheol by hoshifighting

lowlifes by milfgyuu

(Boy)Friend Material Part 1 by sluttywoozi

(Boy)Friend Material Part 2 by sluttywoozi

Kinktober Day 20 by sluttywoozi

idol csc x reader by pochaccoups

opposites by gyubakeries

Whatever You Like by highvern

[12:29 am] by soonyoungs

bsf!seungcheol watching you ride by hoshifighting

co-parenting hcs by keij0h

dilf!seungcheol by hoshifighting

All Through The Night by sluttywoozi

here and now by mminghaos

bottle service by smileysuh

JEONGHAN

boyfriend!jeonghan headcanons (sfw & nsfw) by buntateen

JOSHUA

Beautiful Day, Sunday Morning by sluttywoozi

Petty by synthetickitsune

distracted by eomayas

Anklet Adorned by hoshifighting

Not According to Plan by the-boy-meets-evil

city lights series by hannieween (currently reading)

Joshua's reflection in the oven glass by sluttywonwoo

Unveiling Hearts: The Law of Attraction by idyllic-ghost

college fling!joshua by hoshifighting

joshua + fake saints by hoshifighting

sinfully sweet by gyubakeries

dulcet desires by gyubakeries (part 2)

HOSHI

[2:22am] by secndlife

make me feel by secndlife

[12:03pm] by secndlife

You. Always. by sailorrhansol

make me by seungk1

love me right by seungk1

high-rise by sluttywonwoo

WONWOO

wonwoo x gn!reader by gi4hao

April Shower by sluttywoozi

nerdy boyfriend wonwoo by nonuify

soft dom!wonwoo x fem!reader by sluttyminghao

Chat, is that Rizz? by sailorrhansol

birthday by rebeccarose0315

wonwoo helping you study by wifeyoozi

endpoint by highvern

10:14 by kwanisms

Bloom with You by minniesfiles

daylighter by smileysuh

WOOZI

bakery owner reader x vandal woozi by hoshifighting

Paper Rings by sluttywoozi

Lover: Paper Rings Part 2 by sluttywoozi

MINGYU

Love, Cupid by smileysuh

mingyu bf texts! by gyuswhore

Lilac Lace by starlightxsvt

prompt by domjaehyun

Honey Boy by chocosvt

2:14 AM by gyucheolslut

fwb!mingyu by sluttywonwoo

mingyu + foreplay by catboyieejeno

Over My Head by hannieehaee

Over My Head Pt.2 by hannieehaee

Bloom for Me by sanakiras

Little Bird by milfgyuu

twenty-five by yuzukult

Sit Down by gyuswhore

Statistically Speaking... by gyuswhore

we don't usually hold hands by yuzukult

sushi and soft kisses by boorines

Show 'Em How It's Done by svtiddiess

daylighter by smileysuh

Red Card by highvern

DOKYEOM

seokmin biting your back during sex by hoshifighting

Shut Up (don't) by gyuswhore

VERNON

husband! vernon by canoneventparttwo

✨NCT✨

JOHNNY

Comfort Cuisine by smileysuh

ghostie by smileysuh

Definition of Hate by ncteez (currently reading)

love me now by epinebleue

apartment complex by smileysuh

JAEHYUN

romanée-conti by yougotthatbilly

HAECHAN

forget him by smileysuh

MARK

Real Talk by smileysuh

Kiss U Right Now by domjaehyun

[sincerelyrki]

MINI SKIRT

↳ thirteen : jakey jakey eggs and bacey

warnings : profanity.

a/n : i’m fixing my taglists accordingly to my perm taglist so if you’d like to be removed or whatever please message me ♡ also i noticed that i literally always post around midnight, it’s 11:03pm rn

previous | masterlist | next

SYNOPSIS ⮕ You know Jake Sim and you love Prada, it was already a perfect combination. You just happened to always be in the same place as him, at the same time. And that place just happened to be the Prada store. It’s not your fault that your Prada collection expands as your interactions grow. Especially not considering that Jake couldn’t stop himself from fawning over you (and your mini skirts).

taglist is OPEN ! send an ask or comment to be added xoxo

taglist one (1) : @vousty @iheartjayke @kgneptun @woninluv @memooooca @rosas-in-the-garden @thea-herondale @letters2won @certified-ni-ki-lover @wonpoem @eunbiland @hae-luvr @t00miee @bbangricz @tytrackfebreze @cafeyuns @aerivrs @seunnimg @enhytan @enhaz1 @neocockthotology @jiawji @miumiuestmoi @sophi-ee @cha0thicpisces @manooffline @glassesyunjin @rinahch @jaklvbucb @rikizm @ilyjxdz @mnxnii @n1k1mura @hhoonsbaby @xiaoderrrr @artstaeh @nikisuar @who-tf-soddhi @jakeslvt @hohohobo @natsukee @fakeuwus @ramenoil @aeminju @lanapaz @seunghancore @heartswonn @jakeyverse @l1lyanah @sunpov @yoitsrach @jessicadacollest @h4918ymc @jeongintwt @oldjws @herebyaccident0 | bold = can’t tag

[slimepuparibaba]

Chaos in Linkon Social Media AU [Rafayel's Birthday]

Part 5: Inciting Incident

Aria got a call from Rafayel and seems a little preoccupied. But maybe she... shouldn't have left the birthday committee to their own devices?

NOTES:

This is all unofficial! Me and my friends made the script and I put this all together in Photoshop

This is an AU where the LIs know each other

Each LI also has a named MC so no one is left out or lonely!

Semi-OOC maybe probably

Originally posted on Twitter but the thread broke so WE DOING IT HERE NOW

This one is full of anecdotes, so lots more reading. Be prepared!

Read each different part here!

Cast List and Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 (You're here!) | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | BONUS

Without further ado, leggo!!

March 5th | 1:12PM (Verona Time): Lilia needs to consult Aria about some things, but it seems like Aria’s a little preoccupied…

March 5th | 1:16PM (Verona Time): Sylus made a post on his Moments!

March 5th | 1:31PM (Verona Time): Caleb’s taking a break and… oh, oh no, wait–

March 5th | 1:37PM (Verona Time): Caleb... made a post on his Moments...

March 5th | 1:45PM (Verona Time): Jasmine wants to take a break too, and...

March 5th | 1:49PM (Verona Time): Zayne made a post on his Moments.....

March 5th | 1:53PM (Verona Time): Xavier, no. XAVIER, PUT THE CAKE CATALOGUE DOWN–

March 5th | 2:03PM (Verona Time): A clueless Xavier made a post to his Moments…

<- BACK — END OF PART 5 — NEXT ->

[soakedstar]

｡･ﾟﾟ･ 𓆩★𓆪 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙣 𝙙𝙤𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙤𝙧𝙮 𓆩★𓆪･ﾟﾟ･｡

(1/2)

✦ synopsis:

a rooftop encounter.

she sketches herself like a creature.

he sees aliens in everything,

especially her.

✦ pairing:

jake x f!reader (college au)

✦ warnings:

explicit content (18+), oral sex (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, mention of squirting, discussion of disordered eating, body image issues

✦ note:

probably my most explicit fic to date.

yes, I edited it on the subway. no, I have no shame.

Jake liked rooftops.

He liked the way the air felt thinner up here, like the atmosphere had been stretched just a little too tight and might tear open any second. He liked the quiet, the wind, the electromagnetic buzz in his ears. But most of all, he liked the sky.

Tonight, the Lyrids were peaking. He’d been tracking their trajectory for weeks. He had charts. He had heat maps. He had a custom spreadsheet with possible sighting hotspots cross-referenced with recent magnetic anomalies.

He wasn’t just hopeful. He was ready.

Telescope? Check.

Thermal scope? Check.

Notebook full of poorly drawn saucers and timestamped dream logs? Double check.

Red flashlight, mango gummies, lucky rock shaped like a peanut? Triple check.

He reached the rooftop of the science building just past 11:03pm, heart thumping in his chest like it always did before these things. Just in case.

What he didn’t expect—what he really didn’t calculate—was that someone else would already be there.

She was sitting near the far edge, one boot resting flat on the gravel, sketchbook braced against her raised knee. Her hair was long and dark, falling over her face in waves that caught the rooftop lights. She had a cigarette between her fingers and piercings along her left ear that gleamed like little satellites.

She drew fast. Precise. Her pencil moved like a knife, not a brush. From a distance, Jake caught the shape: limbs too long, torso narrow, eyes exaggerated.

“You believe in them too?”

She looked up. No surprise, no warmth. Just a look. Cool, measured, unreadable.

“It’s not them.”

“Oh. Right. I mean…it just looked like—”

He gestured vaguely at the page.

“You nailed the proportions. Like, Zeta Reticulan levels of accuracy. High cranial volume, elongated bone structure, symmetrical orbital placement. Textbook stuff.”

Her voice came flat.

“It’s me.”

Jake stared.

“What?”

“The drawing. It’s me.”

He blinked rapidly, his mouth doing that thing it did when it couldn’t decide what to say.

“Oh. Wow. Okay. That’s… That’s actually kind of brilliant. Like, in a terrifying but emotionally honest kind of way.”

He nodded, talking faster to catch up with himself.

“Self-perception as metaphor. Alienation through anatomy. That’s really… intense. Cool. Smart. I mean—not cool that you feel like that. But, well, you get it.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at him for a second longer, then turned back to her sketchbook.

He tried again.

“I’m Jake.”

She didn’t respond.

“Astrophysics major. Not officially into UFOs. Well. Not exclusively. There’s actual physics, obviously, but also… you know. The other stuff.”

Still no reply. Just the sound of her pencil moving again.

“Anyway. I’m here because tonight’s the peak of the Lyrids. Meteor shower. Also, potentially correlated UFO activity if you go by atmospheric ionization rates during previous spikes—plus, there’s this pattern that suggests—”

She looked up again.

“Do you ever stop talking?”

Jake paused.

“Not really. Sorry. I ramble. It’s a thing. My mom says it’s endearing but she’s legally required to say that.”

She huffed a soft sound that might have been a laugh, or just her exhaling smoke.

Jake set up his tripod. Sat down. Left a good meter between them like a respectful dog. Silence fell, not awkward, but fragile.

Then—

“Wait—hold on,” he said suddenly, peering through his telescope.

“Right there. North-northeast. Just above that chimney. Something’s moving.”

She didn’t look up.

“It’s a satellite.”

Jake leaned back, squinting.

“No, but the speed…it’s kind of—”

“It’s a satellite.”

His shoulders dropped a little.

“Oh.”

He sat back in the gravel, chewing the inside of his cheek. His notebook flopped open in his lap, a messy page full of scribbled dates and underlined “potential sightings???”

She flicked ash off the edge of the building.

“Nice telescope.”

Jake perked up immediately.

“Thanks! It’s a Newtonian reflector, eight-inch aperture. I saved up for it for, like, two years. Birthday money, tutoring kids who hated math some of them cried, but it was worth it.”

She nodded, barely.

The rooftop quieted again. Her pencil kept moving.

He watched the sky, pretending he hadn’t just embarrassed himself.

Again.

Jake didn’t say much after the satellite thing.

He adjusted the telescope even though nothing had changed, scribbled in his notebook like he was logging crucial data, but really he just needed to move his hands so they wouldn’t feel so awkward. His face still burned. He hated getting things wrong. Especially when he was so sure.

But she kept sketching. Pencil moving like a whisper, sharp and steady. She didn’t look at him, but she hadn’t told him to leave either.

So he inched a little closer.

Not right next to her, that would be weird. Just… a little to the left. Close enough to hear her pencil scratch the page. Close enough to smell the cigarette on her sleeve.

He sat in silence, watching her draw.

Her hand was fast, confident. Her hoodie sleeve was pushed up on one side, revealing a tattoo he couldn’t quite make out. Her cigarette had burned halfway down, forgotten between her fingers. There was something mesmerizing about her focus, like she was trying to extract something out of herself before it drowned her.

And then she said it.

“Wanna be drawn like an alien?”

Jake blinked.

“What?”

She didn’t look up.

“You talk about them so much, figured maybe you’d want to see yourself like one.”

She glanced at him sideways, just enough to catch his reaction.

“Could be your intergalactic ID photo.”

His eyes lit up like a dashboard.

“Seriously? You would do that?”

“Why not.”

She flipped to a clean page.

“Just know it won’t be pretty. None of mine are.”

He nodded so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

“That’s fine. That’s better, actually. I mean, it’d be weird if I was hot and extraterrestrial, right?”

She snorted — barely — and motioned with her pencil.

“Sit still.”

Jake straightened his back like he was being knighted.

“Like… statue-still? Or like passport-photo still?”

“Alien passport. Be serious.”

He locked his posture like a kid in a school photo and kept his eyes forward. But his heart was doing weird things. Not in a romantic way, well, okay, maybe a little but more in the holy shit, she’s drawing me kind of way. No one had ever drawn him before. Not even in middle school when the art kids doodled everyone on notebook paper with weirdly round heads and stick arms.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

She was frowning slightly, lips pressed together, eyes flitting between him and the page. Her hair had fallen across her face again, hiding most of her expression, but he caught the edge of it, concentration. Focus. Like he was something she wanted to figure out.

“Are you gonna give me antennae?”

She didn’t look up.

“Maybe.”

“Or like, gills? I’ve always thought I had strong amphibian energy.”

Still nothing.

“Or maybe no mouth, so I stop talking for once.”

That one made her smile. Barely. But it was there.

The pencil kept moving. The rooftop was quiet except for the wind and the scratch of graphite and Jake’s occasional attempts not to vibrate out of his own skin from pure excitement.

He tried to sit still. He really did. But it was hard when someone like her was watching him so closely. Not like the others did not like professors or girls at parties who liked his face but not his brain. She looked like she was seeing something through him, and for the first time, he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

He swallowed.

“Do I get to see it after?”

She paused, pencil hovering.

“If you want.”

He nodded, eyes still forward.

“I do.”

Then, after a second, quietly:

“Even if it’s weird.”

She looked at him for real this time. Her gaze didn’t soften, not exactly. But it lingered.

“It’s already weird, Jake.”

And he smiled. Like maybe that was the best thing anyone had ever said to him.

Y/N didn’t say a word when she finished. She just flipped her pencil one last time, blew gently across the page to clear the smudges, and sat back against the wall like it had taken something out of her.

Jake was still statue-still. Or trying to be. His foot twitched a little, but only because he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

“Is it done?” he whispered.

She raised one eyebrow.

“Yeah, golden boy. You’re free.”

He immediately leaned over, eyes wide, trying to get a look.

“Can I—can I see it? Like, now?”

She hesitated. Then turned the sketchbook toward him, one hand still covering the top edge like it was too personal to give away all at once.

Jake blinked.

He stared at the page for a full ten seconds before reacting.

There he was. Or… something like him. His big round eyes were exaggerated, almost glowing. His face was stretched in a weirdly adorable way—elongated skull, floppy ears, slight underbite. His limbs were too thin, almost stick-like, but there was a softness to the body posture. A tilt of the head. His tail—yes, there was a tail—was curled in a loop, mid-wag.

“I’m a…” He squinted. “Is that-am I a dog?”

“Alien dog,” she said casually, lighting another cigarette.

“Intergalactic golden retriever, obviously.”

Jake tilted his head like the creature she’d just drawn.

“I thought you said you didn’t do cute.”

“I don’t.”

She blew smoke sideways.

“That’s just what you look like.”

He looked back at the drawing. Then back at her. Then at the drawing again.

“But why a dog?” he asked, still trying to compute it.

“Do you think, like, is there a reason? Do you think aliens have dogs? Do dogs come from aliens? Because now that I think about it, dogs do have that whole loyalty-above-all, unconditional love thing, and maybe that’s not a naturally occurring Earth trait.”

Y/N looked at him, unimpressed.

“Jake.”

“No, seriously,” he kept going, waving vaguely in the air as if forming a theory on the spot.

“What if dogs are like, emotional probes? Sent here by another species to study how humans bond? They’re too good. It’s suspicious. And they always know when you’re sad. That’s definitely advanced empathy sensors. Like, what if the government—”

“Jake.”

“Hmm?”

She pointed at the sketchbook still in his lap.

“Did you like it or not?”

That shut him up.

He looked down again. Really looked. The wobbly tail. The open face. The hands mid-gesture like they were about to launch into a three-hour tangent about crop circles.

And then his whole face lit up. He actually made a tiny noise. Somewhere between a gasp and a giggle.

“I love it.”

He looked up at her, glowing. “It’s so cool. I look like I belong in a weird Pixar movie where all the aliens are super smart but still need to be walked twice a day. That’s exactly the vibe I want.”

She watched him like someone watching a dog chase its own tail, slightly amused, slightly unsure how he still had energy.

“You know you wag your tail all the time, right?”

Jake blinked.

“I—what?”

“You do that thing. With your foot. Or your knee. It bounces. Constantly.”

He looked down. His leg was bouncing.

“Shit. I do, don’t I?”

She smirked and took another drag.

“There’s your answer. You liked it.”

He grinned, then leaned toward her like he was about to confess a government secret.

“Okay but now I’m picturing a whole planet of alien dogs and I want to write a paper about it. Like a serious one. What if they evolved empathy before language? What if—wait—what if that’s the reason they communicate mostly through tail movement and eyebrows? Because telepathy developed through emotion, not sound—”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no heat in it.

“Jesus Christ. Are you like this with everyone?”

He paused. Actually paused.

“Um… I don’t think so?”

Then, sheepishly,

“No one usually talks to me this long.”

She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t laugh at him either. That mattered.

He handed the sketchbook back with both hands, carefully, like it was made of glass.

“Thanks for drawing me. Even if I look like I should be barking at comets.”

“You would, though.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

Then, after a second, almost shy:

“Do you think I could—maybe—draw you sometime?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You draw?”

“Badly. But enthusiastically.”

She thought about it, then shrugged.

“Only if you promise to make me look terrifying.”

“Deal,” he said immediately.

They sat in silence again, the good kind. Above them, the sky stretched wide and unknowable. Stars blinked like distant heartbeats. Somewhere out there, Jake was sure, something was listening.

——————-

The classroom smelled like old markers and dust and something vaguely chemical, like someone had scrubbed a plastic skeleton with nail polish remover.

Jake was already there. Second row, middle seat close enough to the front to look like he cared, far enough back to avoid eye contact with the professor. His notebook was open. Three pens lined up with military precision. One blue. One black. One red, just in case something needed to be emphasized aggressively.

He was doodling a cartoon alien holding a scalpel when the door opened.

She walked in like she owned the floor.

Same hoodie. Same scuffed boots. Hair tied up in a loose, falling-apart bun. Silver piercings glinting along the edge of one ear. No smile. Just that same unreadable, vaguely unimpressed expression like the world had already disappointed her twice before breakfast.

Jake’s heart flipped.

He sat up so fast he knocked over his chair.

“Hey! Rooftop Girl!”

He waved like he was stranded on an island. “Over here!”

She paused mid-step and blinked at him.

A long, exhausted blink.

Then sighed — full-body sigh — and started walking toward him anyway.

Jake scrambled to fix the chair and clear the seat next to his.

“I didn’t know you were in this class! This is wild! What are the odds? Do you also think studying bones helps you spot body-snatching aliens faster, or is that just me?”

She dropped into the seat next to him with the grace of someone deeply tired of the world and the people in it.

“It’s an elective,” she said.

“I needed the credit.”

He grinned like that was the best answer possible.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. This is way better than sitting next to that guy who kept drawing dicks on everything last semester.”

She snorted quietly and opened her sketchbook.

Jake stared for a second. Then blinked.

“Wait… I still don’t know your name.”

She looked at him, surprised.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. You never told me. I’ve just been calling you ‘Rooftop Girl’ in my head. Or like… ‘The Artist.’ Or ’The Girl Who Drew Me As an Alien Dog.’”

She shook her head, trying not to laugh.

“Y/N.”

He lit up like someone had flipped a switch in his chest.

“Y/N.”

He tested it. Repeated it, softly, like he was adding it to a list of stars.

“Nice. That fits you. Kinda mysterious, kinda sharp. Like a comet that could kill us all but is also, like… beautiful.”

She blinked at him.

“That was a lot.”

“Sorry.”

He grinned, unrepentant.

“I get excited.”

Around them, the classroom had started filling up. Girls glanced over, whispering in corners. One girl in the row behind them leaned to her friend and muttered something that included the word “Jake” and the words “fucking unfair.”

Y/N noticed. Of course she did.

She leaned slightly closer to him and said under her breath:

“You know everyone’s wondering how I ended up sitting next to the hottest guy on campus, right?”

Jake’s face did something between a twitch and a panic.

“Wait, what?”

“You’re Jake. Everyone knows who you are.”

He looked around, confused.

“I—I don’t think that’s true. I’m just, like, the telescope guy. People mostly avoid me at parties.”

She gave him a long, slow once-over.

“Right. Just the telescope guy with perfect cheekbones and visible triceps under his stupid astronomy T-shirt.”

He went red. Like cartoon-level red. His ears were practically glowing.

“That’s not—okay, but I work out for practical reasons. I don’t do it to… look like anything.”

“Practical?”

“Yeah! You never know when you’ll need to sprint uphill with a backpack full of alien tech. Or lift a fallen beam off someone during an interdimensional collapse. Plus, cardio increases stamina for running from shapeshifters, so—”

She interrupted, deadpan.

“You are genuinely unhinged.”

“Thanks!”

He smiled, then hesitated.

“That was a compliment, right?”

She shrugged, sketchbook open in her lap now.

“Depends. You want me to draw your alien dog self again, this time shirtless?”

Jake nearly choked on air.

“I—I mean… if it helps the accuracy of the illustration…”

Y/N just smirked and started sketching.

“God, you’re lucky you’re cute.”

“You think I’m cute?”

She looked over at him, eyebrows raised.

“Jake.”

“Right. Shutting up now.”

She kept drawing. He kept bouncing his leg. The professor walked in.

Class had ended ten minutes ago, but Jake was still packing up like he had all the time in the world. He was stalling, obviously.

Y/N had already closed her sketchbook, shoved her pencils into her bag, and stood up in that effortlessly dramatic way she did everything like gravity applied differently to her body. She had one earbud in already. The universal sign for don’t talk to me.

Jake talked to her anyway.

“Hey—uh, Y/N?”

She didn’t answer at first. He tried again, a little closer.

“Hey. You busy now?”

That got her to glance back at him, eyes narrowed slightly like she was weighing how much patience she had left today.

“Why?”

He adjusted his backpack, nervous energy vibrating through every limb.

“Wanna get lunch? I mean—not like a date, unless you want it to be, but mostly I just thought it’d be nice to eat something and keep talking about… you know. Alien dogs. Or rib cages. Or both.”

She blinked at him.

“Lunch?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, too eagerly.

“I know this weird place near campus that does kimchi pancakes in the shape of stars. It’s kind of gimmicky but surprisingly good. And the ahjumma who runs it has a pet crow that sits on the counter. Like, just sits there. Doesn’t blink. I think she might be a witch.”

Y/N stared.

“You want to get lunch with me. To eat pancakes. With a witch.”

“Basically, yeah.” He beamed.

“Unless you have somewhere else to be?”

She hesitated.

Not because of the pancakes. Or the witch. Or the crow.

She wasn’t hungry. She never really was. And something about the word lunch made her stomach tighten. But Jake was looking at her with those wide, bright eyes like he truly believed lunch with her might be the highlight of his week.

She sighed.

“Fine.”

His whole face lit up like she’d just handed him a Nobel Prize.

⸻

They ended up sitting at a small table under a flickering lightbulb that hummed faintly, like the ceiling was quietly judging them. The witch-like ahjumma had, in fact, given them star-shaped pancakes, and the crow on the counter was very real and definitely staring at Jake.

Y/N had ordered the smallest thing on the menu. A miso soup. No rice. No sides. No explanation.

Jake, on the other hand, had three plates in front of him: the pancakes, some bulgogi, and what looked like pickled radish he wasn’t even sure he liked.

He dug in enthusiastically.

“Okay, okay,” he said between bites, “hear me out what if the crow isn’t a crow, but like, a shapeshifter from another planet doing recon?”

Y/N stirred her soup slowly.

“What would a shapeshifter want from a greasy pancake shop?”

“Everything,” he said seriously.

“Food is a window into culture. Plus, nobody suspects the bird.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips curved slightly.

Jake kept eating. Talking. Rambling. His usual chaotic mix of facts and nonsense and theories so wild they looped back around to almost making sense.

But eventually, he noticed.

Y/N’s spoon hadn’t touched the soup.

It was still full. Still steaming slightly. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the bowl like she was trying to find a reason to touch it.

Jake slowed down. Chewed more quietly. Then asked too casually:

“You’re not hungry?”

She looked up, startled.

“I’m fine.”

He nodded.

Then ruined it by continuing.

“You didn’t eat anything in class either. And at the rooftop you only smoked. Do you not like soup? Or maybe you don’t eat hot foods during the day? Is that like an artist thing? Or a texture thing? Some people have sensory stuff. I used to think pickles were the devil.”

She stared at him.

“Jake.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The question spiral.”

He blinked.

“Sorry. I just… noticed. And I care. I mean not like in a weird way. I just… you know, people usually eat. And you’re not. And you’re kind of pale today. Not in a bad way. Just in a pale way. Not that pale is bad. You look great. I just mean—”

“Jake.”

He shut up.

Y/N exhaled slowly and leaned back in her chair. Her spoon was still untouched.

“You don’t get it.”

He looked genuinely lost.

“Get what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the soup like it had said something offensive.

“Sometimes,” she said finally, voice quieter now, “food feels like swallowing glass. You don’t know why. You just know you can’t.”

Jake blinked.

His face softened immediately.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He looked down at his plate, then back at her.

“I didn’t mean to push or anything. I just…”

He shrugged helplessly.

“I noticed. And I talk too much.”

She smirked, just barely.

“No kidding.”

“You don’t have to explain anything. I just- if there’s ever a version of lunch that works for you, I’d still like to do that.”

Y/N tilted her head.

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Drawing lunch? Talking about lunch? Sitting in silence for thirty minutes while you drink overpriced coffee and I eat a terrifying amount of fried dumplings?”

She huffed a laugh.

“You really are a dog.”

He looked pleased.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not.”

She finally took a sip of the soup. Just one.

“But you’ve got those eyes, you know? The kind that don’t shut up. Even when your mouth does.”

Jake looked at her for a second. Then said softly:

“And yours look tired. But I like them anyway.”

She blinked. Looked down.

Didn’t answer.

Jake didn’t notice she’d started drawing.

He was too busy defending his theory that most documented “crop circles” were actually unsuccessful attempts at communication, and not pranks, like most people thought. He spoke with his hands, fork halfway to his mouth, gesturing like an over-caffeinated podcast host who’d lost his mic but not his audience.

Y/N had opened her sketchbook halfway through a rant about spiral formations and electromagnetic resonance. She didn’t tell him. She just lowered her head and let her pencil move.

She liked drawing people when they didn’t know they were being seen.

Jake was a mess of motion and light. His curls flopped into his eyes every time he laughed, which was often. His collar was uneven. There was sauce on his sleeve. He had that look — the one she’d only seen on kids who hadn’t yet learned to hide their joy. And he had no idea what he looked like. None.

She drew the way his eyebrows danced when he talked. The wrinkle between them when he tried to remember something specific. The way he pointed the fork like it was a conductor’s baton, as if his food was just another part of the argument.

He kept going.

“I mean, think about it if you were an alien species trying to get a message across, but you didn’t have sound, or maybe you did, but you knew we didn’t, wouldn’t you use shapes? Symbols? That’s universal, right? Circles. Spirals. Repetition. It’s practically math.”

He took another bite without even pausing.

“And sure, okay, some people say it’s all hoaxes, but who gains from that? Some farmer getting a laugh? Or is that what they want us to think?”

She sketched the shape of his mouth mid-word. It was always slightly open, even between sentences, like the next one was already charging up behind it.

Behind him, perched on the counter, the crow stared. Its head tilted just slightly, eyes dark and unreadable. She included it too: the glossy feathers, the hunched patience of a bird that seemed like it knew how to wait centuries if necessary.

She didn’t romanticize anything. She drew the clutter on the table. The half-eaten pancake. The chopsticks askew. The crumpled napkin Jake had used but forgot to throw away. She drew the loose thread on his sleeve, the shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders slouched slightly when he leaned too far forward, too excited.

And she liked the way it looked.

Real. Strange. Alive.

Jake was still talking.

“Also, fun fact: crows can recognize human faces. Like, actually remember them. There was this study where they trained crows to identify people who annoyed them, and years later, they still attacked the same researchers. So if that bird’s staring at me, it probably thinks I’m either a threat… or a friend.”

He turned toward her suddenly, mid-bite.

“What do you think? Friend or threat?”

Y/N blinked. Looked up from her sketchbook.

Then smirked.

“Both.”

He laughed. “Fair.”

She closed the sketchbook without showing him. Not yet. It didn’t feel like the right moment.

Instead, she picked up her spoon again, finally dipping it into the soup.

Jake didn’t say anything about it this time.

Just smiled a little, and kept talking.

Jake got home later than usual.

The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of glass coming from the kitchen. His mom always stayed up late. She said her best thoughts happened after midnight, when the rest of the world shut up for a second.

He found her where he expected: sitting at the table in a faded NASA hoodie, sipping tea, and scrolling through something on her tablet with a bored expression that only astrophysicists could maintain while reading about collapsing stars.

The light above her buzzed faintly. The air smelled like peppermint and dust.

“Hey,” Jake said, hovering in the doorway.

She didn’t look up.

“Hey, kid.”

He hesitated.

“You busy?”

She closed the tablet immediately.

“What’s going on?”

Jake walked in, dropped his backpack, and sank into the chair across from her. He rubbed his eyes, then pressed his palms against the table like he needed to ground himself.

“There’s this girl.”

That got her attention.

She tilted her head slightly, lips twitching.

“Of course there is.”

“No, not like that. I mean—maybe. I don’t know. We’ve only talked a couple times.”

She waited. Jake’s mom had a gift for silence. The kind that made you keep talking just to fill it.

“She’s in my elective. We met on the rooftop, actually. I was looking for meteors. She was drawing. She’s… strange. Kind of amazing. You’d like her, maybe. Or at least be confused by her in a good way.”

She smiled softly.

“You’re rambling.”

“Sorry.” He exhaled.

“Today we got food after class. Well, I got food. She ordered something. Just soup. But she didn’t touch it.”

His mom didn’t interrupt. She leaned forward slightly.

“At first I thought she wasn’t hungry. But it’s not that. She doesn’t eat. Or she barely does. And it’s not like I know her that well, but it just… I noticed. And I keep noticing.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“She smokes a lot. Draws a lot. Jokes sometimes, but it’s like she’s constantly somewhere else. She looks at her food like it’s… like it’s a threat. Like it’s going to do something to her.”

His mom’s eyes sharpened, but her voice stayed calm.

“And what do you think is happening?”

“I don’t know.”

Jake’s voice cracked slightly.

“I mean—it’s only been two days. I shouldn’t be thinking this hard about it. But I can’t help it. She said something weird too. Yesterday. When I asked if she was drawing aliens, she said, ‘It’s me.’ And it kind of was. Like a distorted version of her. And it stuck with me.”

Silence again. He fidgeted with a coaster.

“I don’t want to make assumptions. I don’t want to be wrong. But… something feels off.”

His mom nodded slowly.

“She might be going through something. Or she might just be someone who doesn’t talk about what she’s going through.”

Jake looked up.

“But how do I… like… I don’t want to be that guy who pushes. Or makes it about me. But I also don’t want to ignore it.”

She gave him a long look, the kind that made him feel younger than he was.

“Jake, you don’t need to understand everything to be kind.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“You’re not supposed to fix her. You barely know her. But you can be someone who sees her. Who makes space for her. That matters more than saying the right thing.”

He nodded. Quietly.

She softened.

“You always want to know the why. That’s the part of you that’s like me. You ask questions, you analyze. You want it to fit a theory. But some things don’t. Some things are just messy and human and hard.”

Jake swallowed.

“Dad would’ve probably said she was an alien.”

That made her smile.

“Your dad thought most people were aliens. That’s why he loved them.”

Jake looked down at his hands.

“She makes me feel like I’ve seen something. Like when I spot something in the sky I know shouldn’t be there. Not scary. Just… unexplained.”

His mom stood, poured him a cup of tea without asking, and placed it in front of him. Then she sat back down.

“That’s the beginning of love, you know. Or something close to it.”

“Seeing aliens in people?”

“No. Seeing the strange, and wanting to stay anyway.”

Jake held the mug in both hands. It was warm, grounding.

He didn’t say anything else.

But he didn’t leave the table for a long time.

Jake was on the rooftop first this time.

It was later than usual. The city below buzzed like a restless machine, but up here it was quiet, still, the wind brushing at his collar like a curious ghost. He had come with his telescope, like always, but tonight he hadn’t even set it up.

He’d found something else.

It was lying near the far ledge — left behind, maybe on purpose, maybe not. Worn sketchbook. Familiar cover. A few bent pages. His name wasn’t on it, but he knew it was hers. He recognized the mess of charcoal smudges on the corners, the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the paper.

He shouldn’t have opened it.

But he did.

He flipped past a few pages abstract stuff, bodies warped into shapes, eyes too big, limbs too long. Until he landed on a drawing that stopped everything.

It was him.

Sitting at the table from the other day. Three plates in front of him, chopsticks in hand, talking with his whole body like he always did. The crow was perched behind him on the counter, beady eyes fixed on the back of his head like it was judging him. The restaurant lightbulb hung low, casting that yellow wash over his hair.

But what made Jake freeze, what made his throat tighten was how she had drawn him.

Not handsome. Not romanticized. Just real. His shoulders slightly hunched, his left foot bouncing mid-air, one arm gesturing too wide, his face alive with too many thoughts at once. His eyes were open. Honest. A little tired. Full of light.

No one had ever drawn him like that.

No one had ever seen him like that.

He didn’t hear her until it was too late.

“You weren’t supposed to see that yet.”

Jake turned.

Y/N stood near the rooftop door, arms crossed over her chest, not angry exactly — more like she’d been caught naked. The kind of stillness that happens right before a person decides whether to bolt or burn.

Jake blinked quickly and wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I just saw it there and I—”

He looked back down at the page.

“Y/N, this is… it’s the most human I’ve ever looked.”

She said nothing. Just walked over, slow, and sat down beside him.

For a minute, they didn’t speak.

Then she let out a sigh that sounded like it had been waiting days to escape.

“You make me insane.”

Jake turned to her, startled.

She stared ahead, not looking at him.

“You talk like the world’s about to end but you’re excited about it. You bounce when you sit. You laugh with your whole body. And you never shut up. And I should hate it, because I hate everything lately. But you… I don’t know. You make me want to scream and melt and stay all at the same time.”

Jake blinked.

“That’s… a lot.”

“Yeah.”

She gave a bitter little laugh.

“It is. And it’s not fair. Because I don’t know how to do this. Any of this.”

“Do what?”

She finally looked at him.

Her eyes weren’t cold like they were when they first met. They were tired. Scared. Soft.

“Care. Let someone sit this close. Let someone see me, or draw them without turning them into a monster. But when I draw you…”

She looked down.

“You don’t need to be turned into anything. You’re already light. I don’t even know how to explain that.”

Jake said nothing for a second. His throat felt full.

Then:

“Why didn’t you show me?”

She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve.

“Because it felt private. Not the drawing. You. How I see you. It’s like I caught something I wasn’t supposed to see — and it scared me. Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the rooftop, and it’s annoying. I hate being this person. Soft. Needy. Hungry for something that isn’t even food.”

Jake swallowed.

“You don’t have to apologize for any of that.”

She looked at him.

“Don’t do that. Don’t make it okay too fast. I’m not easy, Jake. I’m full of static. I disappear sometimes. I ruin my own appetite and then wonder why I feel empty. I might push you away. I will push you away.”

He stared at her — at the girl who saw aliens in herself and light in him — and smiled so gently it broke something in her chest.

“I don’t need easy. I just need you to let me sit here with you.”

She bit her lip. Looked down.

“I feel comfort around you.”

She said it like a secret.

“Like the kind that makes my chest hurt in a good way. I don’t know why. But when you’re there, the noise goes quiet. It’s like I can breathe again, even if I don’t want to eat. Even if I still feel wrong in my body. You’re just… good.”

Jake turned fully toward her now.

“Y/N.”

He said her name like a prayer.

“I think about you too. A lot. More than I’ve thought about anyone in a long time.”

He reached for her hand, but didn’t touch it. Just let it hover near hers.

“And that drawing? That’s the first time I’ve ever felt like someone got me. Not because I said something. But because they looked.”

—————

It was past 1 a.m. when Jake’s phone buzzed.

He almost didn’t hear it. He was lying on his bed in the dark, scrolling half-heartedly through a forum thread about possible audio anomalies picked up off the coast of Chile. Nothing credible. Just more static, more hopeful noise. He rubbed his eyes and rolled over, reaching for his phone.

Y/N.

His breath caught.

He answered immediately.

“Hello?”

There was no sound at first. Just a breath. Then a shaky, barely-there voice.

“Can you come?”

No context. No explanation.

But Jake didn’t need one.

They stayed like that. Side by side. Not touching. Not rushing.

The wind picked up a little, and above them, the stars blinked through the clouds like they were listening.

And for the first time since they met, neither of them needed to say anything else.

Y/N’s head rested against Jake’s shoulder, her breathing shaky but slowing down. She wasn’t crying anymore, not really, but her body still felt tight. Like it hadn’t realized it could stop bracing.

Jake stayed quiet. He didn’t know what to say. He just kept his arms around her and focused on keeping his voice low and steady when he finally did speak.

“I’m glad you called me.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just leaned in a little more, like she was trying to believe she was allowed to.

Then she sat up. Slowly. Her face was blotchy and tired, but she didn’t look away from him.

“Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you really capable of loving me so much I forget I hate myself?”

The words hit him harder than he expected. She wasn’t being dramatic , she was just honest. Raw. She meant it.

Jake looked at her. Not rushed. Not overwhelmed. Just… trying to understand.

“I don’t know if I can make you forget,” he said, quiet. “But I want to try. I want to be around. Even if you can’t see what I see yet.”

She looked down at her hands, breathing in through her nose. Then back up.

Her eyes were wet again, but not like before.

She leaned in first. Slow, careful. Her lips barely touched his, testing.

Jake didn’t move. Not at first.

Then he kissed her back.

Soft. Nervous. Real.

It wasn’t a perfect kiss. It was a little clumsy, a little too still, like neither of them had kissed someone like this before, like it actually mattered.

Her fingers touched his neck, uncertain, and he moved just enough to show her it was okay. That he was here.

They pulled apart quietly. Not far. Just enough to breathe.

She looked at him.

He looked back, and said:

“I’ve never kissed anyone who cried on me first.”

She let out a short laugh through her nose. Wiped her face again.

“I’ve never kissed someone who talks about aliens this much.”

Jake grinned.

“You know, in some cultures, crying before a kiss is a sign of good luck.”

“You made that up.”

“Totally. But it felt like the right thing to say.”

She laughed again. Less tired this time.

Then Jake added, a little too fast:

“Also… if aliens ever land and ask me who to talk to, I’m pointing to you.”

She rolled her eyes. Smiled without meaning to.

“Shut up.”

“Too late. You’re their leader now.”

She shook her head and leaned back against his shoulder.

Jake didn’t say anything else.

————

Jake walked down the hill from campus, hands stuffed in his pockets, then pulled out again, then back in. He kept touching his lips with his fingers, gently. Like he was trying to confirm it really happened.

“She kissed me,” he muttered.

Then louder:

“She kissed me back.”

He smiled to himself. Then frowned.

“Wait. Did I talk too much after? Did I ruin it?”

He stopped under a streetlight, tilted his head up like the stars could give him answers.

“Why did I say the thing about aliens? ‘You’re their leader now’? Jesus Christ.”

He groaned, took a few more steps, then pulled out his phone. Opened her chat. Just looked at her name on the screen.

“Don’t text her yet. It’s too soon. Be normal.”

He locked the phone. Unlocked it.

Locked it again.

“…Maybe just something casual.”

He started typing.

Part 2