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strawberry-bubblef · 2 months ago

Note

Just found your blog after seeing the Overblot students reacting to causing serious harm to the reader/their partner and oof the angst is strong there! Excellent stuff all around and the way that several of them have symbolic injuries suited to each is fitting-

Like Vil pointed out the irony that his attack blinded them (likely disfiguring too)

Leona missing the arm that never hesitated to reach out for him.

Jamil making his S/O unable to stand without them, needing his support.

For some reason, it all reminded me of the Jekyll and Hyde musical (not at all accurate to the original work but the music is pretty good) particularly the Confrontation song, where Jekyll and Hyde have a musical number ripping into the other.

Imagine if the Overblot guys (whether merely haunted by their memories of the event or tying into your original post about permanent injuries inflicted to the person they loved most) have nightmares confronting those versions of themselves especially in regards to the harm that could have (or did) happen to their S/O. Only to get hit with “can’t you see were the same” but maybe the OB’s are mild yanderes towards the S/O or point out easier it is to keep them by his side, that he’s willing to take the risks to keep them around unlike the “good boy” persona some of them keep up.

OB students having nightmares of themselves after hurting their s/o

Part 1: Ob student unintentionally hurting their s/o

Aww! Thanks for the sweet words 🥲🫶 I'm glade you liked it !

Riddle Rosehearts

The halls of Heartslabyul are silent after curfew. Moonlight cuts silver through the tall windows, casting the checkered floor in sharp, cold contrast. It’s late, but Riddle isn’t sleeping. Not really. Not anymore.

He jolts awake again, breath shallow, red eyes wide. He stares at the ceiling, but all he sees is the moment he can never take back.

Your voice, cracking as you tried to reach him.

The way the vines coiled around you, cruel and tight,his vines.

How you cried out.

And the silence after. The absolute silence.

He’s by your side now, and you’ve forgiven him. You told him as much, your voice gentle, your hand on his. But that forgiveness tastes like ash when he remembers the look on your face back then,not fear, not anger, but disbelief. As if you couldn't quite believe he was the one hurting you.

It clings to him like a second skin.

And every night, the dream returns.

The maze is dead now. No more vibrant red blooms or the sweet scent of petals. Only twisted thorns and rotting leaves, the sky above a bruised, stormy purple. The air is heavy with guilt and magic.

In the center of it all sits his throne.

That version of him is waiting, legs crossed elegantly, sipping black tea that stains the porcelain cup like ink.

“You're late,” the Overblot says. “But I suppose shame slows the feet.”

Riddle takes a breath. “I’m not here for your games.”

“Ah, but we’ve played such lovely ones, haven’t we? Tea parties and rules and hearts cut clean in half.”

He steps closer, circling Riddle like a cat. “Do you remember how quiet they became after we were done? No more backtalk. No more chaos. They obeyed. Isn't that what you wanted?”

Riddle flinches.

The Overblot leans in, voice silken and low. “You wrapped yourself in rules because your mother left you no room to breathe. So you did the same to them because love is terrifying when it’s free, isn’t it?”

“I was wrong,” Riddle says. “That wasn’t love.”

“Then what do you call it?” the other hisses, the smile gone. “You think your bouquet of apologies rewrites what you did? You think gentle words and shared tea make up for the way they screamed?”

Riddle’s hands tremble. He can’t meet his own eyes,those cruel red eyes staring out of a mirror cracked by power and pain.

“I didn't mean to hurt them.”

“But you did.” The Overblot’s voice turns almost tender, almost sad. “And I-we will always live with that.”

Silence falls like snow.

And then: “But at least I was honest. At least I did what had to be done to keep them close. You fear they’ll leave. I made it impossible. Maybe you should be thanking me.”

Riddle recoils. “You turned them into something fragile.”

“I turned them into something ours. They stay because of you, but they flinch because of me.”

A pause.

“Can’t you see?” he whispers. “We’re the same.”

The dream ends with Riddle reaching for his collar, choking on petals that pour from his mouth,crimson, velvet, suffocating.

He wakes with a cry.

It’s still night, the room quiet. He reaches for you instinctively, but the sheets are cool, the space beside him empty. Panic strikes fast and cold.

He finds you on the balcony, bathed in moonlight. Wrapped in a soft robe, you’re gazing at the stars. Your arm is wrapped, supported. Some movements are slower now. But your eyes are bright as ever.

You turn as he approaches.

“Another nightmare?”

Riddle says nothing. He only stands behind you and hesitantly slide his hand into yours. His grip is tight,not crushing, never again but desperate in its quiet plea.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

“You don’t get to decide that alone,” you reply softly, placing yourhand over his. “You made a mistake. A terrible one. But you changed. You’re trying. That matters.”

“I see him every time I close my eyes,” Riddle admits. “He says we’re the same.”

You turn, gently cupping his face with the only hand that you have left. “Then prove him wrong.”

He leans into your touch like a drowning man, clinging to the only solid thing in a storm. In your eyes, there’s still pain. Still healing. But also,somehow hope.

He’s terrified he’ll always be at war with that version of himself.

But if you’re willing to walk beside him through the thorns, maybe, just maybe, there’s a path forward.

Leona Kingscholar

The desert wind howls in his ears.

Leona stands on the edge of a dry, cracked savannah where nothing grows, under a sunless sky. The ground is stained with soot and ash, grass burned to cinders. In the distance, a pride stone crumbles into dust.

And there,at the center of the destruction,is himself.

Or at least, what’s left of him.

His Overblot form sits lazily upon a throne of twisted bone and stone, smoke curling from his mane like incense from an open flame. Those glowing eyes burn, full of mirthless amusement.

“Took you long enough,” the Overblot drawls. “What, couldn’t face me sooner? Or were you too busy watching them struggle to tie their shoes with the wrong damn hand?”

Leona's jaw tightens. “Shut up.”

“Hit a nerve?” His other self stretches, claws dragging over the arms of the throne. “I’m not the one who tore it from them. You are. We are.”

“I never meant–”

“Don’t insult both of us. You knew what that spell could do. You were angry. Jealous. Tired of always coming second. So you struck. And you didn’t stop.”

Leona’s fists clench. He can still remember the heat, the way magic surged through him like wildfire, untamed and wild. The look on your face when you collapsed, your dominant arm crushed under a landslide of sand and force.

He remembers how still you were. How you didn’t reach for him. Couldn’t.

And how the silence that followed was louder than any roar.

“They can’t write like they used to,” his Overblot murmurs. “Can’t lift a box. Can’t sketch, or braid your damn hair. All the things they used to do so easily,gone. Because of you.”

“I know !” Leona snaps. “I live with it every day.”

“Do you?” The Overblot tilts his head. “Then why haven’t you left? Why not let them go and find someone better for them? Someone whole?”

Leona’s voice drops to a growl. “Because I love them.”

The other version smiles, sharp and cruel. “No. You need them. And they need you now, don’t they? You made sure of that. No one else understands them like you. No one else will want them like this.”

Leona stares, disgust tightening in his throat.

“Come on,” the Overblot purrs. “Admit it. Part of you is relieved. Because now they’ll stay.”

“No.”

“They’ll never leave you.”

“NO!”

The Overblot lunges, claws out, but Leona doesn’t move.

Because he knows the truth: this isn’t about physical pain. This is about guilt, about possession, about fear.

And about how love can rot if left to fester.

He wakes up leaning against a tree in Savanaclaw. It's still dark, the early morning stars just beginning to fade. His hands are buried in the dirt, sweat soaking the back of his shirt. His heart thunders in his chest like it’s trying to dig out.

The scent of jasmine reaches him first. Then your voice.

“Bad dream?”

Leona looks up.

You’re seated nearby, wrapped in a blanket, watching the horizon. Your sleeve is pinned up neatly, your right side turned toward him. The scarred place where your arm used to be is hidden, but he knows its shape by memory now.

He sits beside you wordlessly. You lean into him, letting his warmth chase away the morning chill.

“It’s always the same dream,” he mutters. “Me. Him. You.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Do you still hate yourself?”

He doesn’t answer.

His grip tightens ever so slightly. “I wish it had been me instead.”

You reach for his hand with your remaining one and lace your fingers together.

“I would’ve still stayed,” you say. “Even if it had been you who got hurt. Even if it was your arm.”

Silence stretches, heavy and honest.

Leona leans into you then, pressing his forehead to your temple.

“I’m trying,” he whispers.

“I know.”

And for once, the guilt doesn’t scream quite so loud.

Azul Ashengrotto

The sea is too still.

No current, no light,only the inky abyss stretching endlessly in every direction. Azul floats weightlessly in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as if sleep could shield him from what he knows is coming.

No light,only the inky abyss stretching endlessly in every direction. Azul floats weightlessly in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as if sleep could shield him from what he knows is coming.

And then it starts.

The water shifts.

A shadow coils in the deep like smoke in water,and from it emerges himself,not in his human form, not even in his merman body. No, it’s the Overblot: bloated and grandiose, tentacles stretching into the black like roots through rot. His grin is razor-sharp, filled with oil-slick malice.

“Still pretending to be human?” it coos. “Still clinging to the mask of the poor little businessman?”

Azul doesn’t look at it.

“Did you think success would make you good?” the Overblot hisses, gliding around him like a serpent. “That if you just worked hard enough, they’d love you? Respect you?”

Azul breathes slowly, deliberately. “Shut up.”

“Oh, touchy.” “You weren’t nearly so quiet when you were begging them not to leave you. Not when they were lying there,bleeding, gasping because you made them part of your deal.”

Azul flinches.

He sees it again: the whirlpool, the crashing debris, the spell cast in desperation and greed. The way you fell,your leg crushed under the magical pressure, twisted unnaturally before he could stop it.

Before he cared to stop it.

“You used them,” the Overblot sings. “Because deep down, you thought: if they depend on me, they won’t leave me.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” it snarls. “You saw them shine and you thought: I want that. You dragged them into your schemes, into your world. And now?”

A cruel smile stretches over its face.

“Now they can’t even dance.”

Azul’s fists curl.

“They limp through the halls, leaning on a cane or your arm, and every step is a reminder. And yet, they still smile at you. Still tell you it’s not your fault.”

The Overblot leans in close, eyes glowing.

“But it is.”

Azul screams,no sound leaves his throat, only bubbles but he surges forward, trying to claw at the thing wearing his face, only for it to melt away into nothing.

Leaving him alone in the silent sea.

He jolts awake in a cold sweat.

The lounge is dark, only the soft glow of enchanted lamps illuminating the drapes. Azul sits on the couch, disheveled,, breath caught halfway in his throat.

A small noise draws his attention.

You're at the window, adjusting your prosthetic leg,carefully, patiently. You don’t notice him watching, or maybe you do, and you choose not to look.

He swallows.

You always do things quietly now. No complaints. No bitter remarks. But you also don’t hum anymore when you walk. You don’t twirl in the water like you used to.

Azul lowers his eyes.

He hears the soft tap of your cane as you make your way over, the familiar pattern of your gait now etched into his memory.

You sit beside him, brushing your hand against his.

“You dreamt about it again.”

He nods, shame burning behind his eyes.

“I see him in the mirror sometimes,” he murmurs. “The one I was. I wonder if I’m still him.”

You shake your head. “He would’ve run from this. You didn’t.”

Azul hesitates before reaching for your hand. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“Maybe not,” you whisper, “but you’re trying. And that counts more than you think.”

He leans in slowly, resting his forehead against the side of your head. “If I could give you that leg back…”

“I wouldn’t take it.”

He stiffens, shocked.

You turn to him with quiet intensity. “Because then maybe you’d still be pretending to be someone you’re not. I don’t need perfection. I need you.”

Azul doesn’t reply,he can’t. But he holds you a little tighter, breathing in the proof that somehow, some way… you’re still here.

And maybe that's enough.

Jamil Viper

The chains rattle again.

He doesn’t know where he is,some room, always dark, always humid. The smell of sweat and ash lingers like incense from an old nightmare. Stone walls stretch in every direction, but there’s no exit. No sky. Just that mirror on the wall.

He doesn’t look at it.

Not yet.

He knows who’s waiting on the other side.

But he turns anyway.

And there he i. The Overblot version of himself smiles cruelly, slouching in that confident, arrogant way Jamil hates to admit he once wished he could embody.

“You look exhausted,” the Overblot drawls. “Not sleeping well, Jamil?”

“I’m not here to talk to you,” Jamil hisses.

“Oh, but I’m here to talk to you.” The reflection slinks closer. “How’s our darling doing, by the way? Still limping around because of you?”

Jamil’s stomach churns.

The sound of bones snapping, of the ground cracking during that awful moment,when magic surged out of control, when the pressure pinned you down, the illusion spells fraying as your foot was crushed beneath falling debris he summoned. Not even intentionally. Not really.

But he knew you were nearby.

And he still didn’t care.

He had finally taken the reins of his life and you were collateral.

“I didn’t mean-” Jamil starts, voice strained.

“You didn’t stop,” the Overblot cuts in, venomous. “You didn’t hesitate. You knew they were watching. And still you used your magic. Still you twisted their mind until they collapsed.”

Jamil’s voice is a whisper. “I didn't want to hurt them.”

“You wanted control.”

Silence.

“You wanted them to stop pitying you. To see you,not the servant, not the background character, but the powerful one. And when you had it, even just for a moment…”

The Overblot tilts his head.

“…you liked it.”

Jamil clenches his fists. “I hate you.”

“No,” it says, baring fangs. “You hate that I’m you. You hate that some part of you thought, ‘If I can just keep them dependent… they’ll never leave.’”

The words sting like poison.

“Now look at them,” the Overblot murmurs. “They used to dance barefoot on sunlit floors. Now every step is calculated. Controlled. Like you wanted everything else to be.”

Jamil shuts his eyes tight.

When he opens them again, the mirror is empty.

He’s alone again.

But the silence is louder than before.

He wakes up in a sweat.

The room is dim, lit by the flicker of a candle. The warmth of the dorm blankets does little to soothe him, especially not when he sees the empty spot in the bed beside him.

You're by the window.

Adjusting the supportive brace over your ankle,what's left of it. Your balance is careful, practiced. Your fingers are deft. Jamil sits up quietly, heart aching.

You glance over your shoulder. “Nightmare?”

He nods, slow.

You limp over to him, footsteps padded by the soft cloth of your wrap. You don’t say anything at first,you just press your forehead to his, fingers tangling with his.

“I see him,” Jamil says. “The version of me who… who didn't care. Who thought being loved wasn’t as important as being obeyed.”

You don’t flinch. You already know.

“I hate him,” he whispers.

“But he’s not you,” you murmur back.

Jamil’s eyes glint with unshed tears.

“I almost made you another chain.”

You shake your head, taking his hand and placing it against your heartbeat. “But you let go. You let me go. You helped me stand again.”

His voice is raw. “You should’ve run from me.”

“I didn’t want to,” you reply. “I wanted to walk beside you. Even if I had to relearn how.”

He exhales shakily.

And when he kisses your knuckles, it’s soft. Tentative. Like he’s still trying to prove to himself that you’re real,that this, what he has now, is real.

Even after all he’s done.

Vil Schoenheit

The mirror doesn’t lie. That’s the curse.

He can’t hide from it. Not from the face that stares back at him,twisted, blot-streaked, gleaming with hatred and pride. His Overblot self grins through cracked lipstick and bleeding glamour.

“Ah. Come to scold me again, Schoenheit?”

Vil doesn’t answer. He already knows how this goes.

Every night, it’s the same: the same confrontation, the same voice that sounds too much like his own, the same sickening echo of violet light bursting from his fingertips, burning away the world and everything he held dear.

Especially you.

“Still pretending you didn’t enjoy it?” the Overblot version sneers. “You always thought beauty was everything. Until you became the monster.”

Vil’s voice is cold. “I wanted the world to see me. Not them.”

“And now they can’t see anything at all.” A cruel chuckle. “Isn’t that poetic?”

His throat tightens.

He remembers the scent of magic in the air, the searing heat, the flash of light as your scream tore through him. The way you clutched your face, blood slipping between your fingers. The panic that followed. The silence. The way your eyes never found him again.

“I didn’t mean to hurt them.”

“But you did.” The Overblot tilts his head mockingly. “You wanted to be seen. So you made sure they never would be seen again. You took that from them. You, who worshipped beauty like a god.”

Vil’s hands tremble at his sides.

“You knew what your magic could do. You chose to use it anyway.”

“I thought I could control it.”

“You were wrong.”

Silence.

Then:

“They still call your name,” the Overblot whispers. “Even now. Still reach for you. Still smile in your direction. And doesn’t that make it worse?”

Vil turns away.

“All they know is the echo of your voice and the feel of your touch. And you cling to that, don’t you? Because if they saw you as you were... they would’ve run.”

The mirror cracks.

Not from magic but from the way Vil slams his fist into it, fury rippling through every bone.

And when he opens his eyes again, he's awake.

The bedroom is quiet, curtains drawn open just enough to let in moonlight. You’re seated on the bed, fingers moving expertly as you read a Braille book Vil had custom,made for you. Your head tilts slightly when you hear him stir.

“Another dream?” you ask gently.

Vil’s voice is hoarse. “Yes.”

You set the book down. “Was it him again?”

“…Yes.”

You pat the space beside you, and he comes willingly. Sits beside you. Lets you touch his face. You always do that now,run your fingertips along his cheekbones, brush over the curve of his lips, like you’re memorizing him all over again.

“I hate what I did to you,” he whispers. “I took the stars from your eyes.”

“And still I find light in your voice.” you say softly.

Vil swallows. “You don’t hate me?”

“I miss what I lost,” you admit. “But I don’t miss you. Because you’re still here.”

He presses your hand to his chest. “It should’ve been me.”

“No,” you whisper. “You came back to me. That’s enough.”

Sometimes, he still dreams of mirrors.

But these days, when he wakes,he’s holding your hand.

And somehow, that makes all the difference.

Idia Shroud

That’s how the nightmare always starts.

Blue flame dances along the walls, scorching consoles, melting cables, and setting off a chorus of alarms. Everything is chaos.Except for him. Except for the Overblot.

It rises from the flames like a ghost made of rage and sorrow, hair wilder, cloak billowing like smoke. It grins, bearing rows of flame-slicked teeth.

“Guess what, Idia,” it sing-songs. “You’re the villain in your own tragic visual novel. Bad End unlocked!”

Idia curls inward, arms around himself. “I didn’t want to hurt them.”

“You did more than hurt them,” it hisses. “You burned them. Because you wanted to keep them close. You wanted them safe.”

“I lost control. The magic-”

“You thought locking them in the Underworld was safer than letting them leave you. And when they reached out for you..” The Overblot snaps its fingers.

The scent of scorched flesh.

The sound of your cry.

Idia covers his ears, but it’s no use.

“You destroyed the very hands that held you. Four fingers. Gone. Just like that. Do you know how many times they tried to play your games after that? Tried to cook? Draw? Hold a pen?”

“I didn’t mean to-!”

“But you did.” The voice is ice now. “And you know what the worst part is?”

Silence.

“They still forgive you.”

Idia lifts his head slowly, shame thick in his eyes.

“They still smile when you fumble with words. Still wrap what’s left of their hand around yours. Still kiss your cheek and say it’s okay. It’s not okay.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know it’s not.”

“Then why do you stay?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then-q

“…Because they asked me to. Because they didn’t want to lose me too.”

The Overblot’s grin fades.

Idia steps closer to it. For once, he doesn’t flinch.

“I am a coward. I am broken. But I’m trying. Every day. I can’t fix what I did… but I can be here now. And that’s what they asked of me.”

The flames flicker.

“You don’t deserve them,” it spits.

“I know,” Idia says. “But they still choose me. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of that.”

He wakes up gasping.

Your hand is in his,smaller now, missing parts of what once was, wrapped in soft bandages and healing cream. But warm. Still warm.

You stir beside him. “Another one?”

He nods.

You squeeze. “You’re still here.”

“…Yeah.”

You rest your forehead against his. “Then I’m okay.”

He doesn’t cry, but he holds your hand tighter.

And for the first time, the nightmare fades into silence.

Malleus Draconia

The castle is quiet. Too quiet.

He wanders its halls alone in the dream. The stone is grey, cracked with age. Thorny vines have grown wild over every door, every window. The sky outside is eternally twilight, like the world itself is holding its breath. Time doesn’t move here. It hasn’t for centuries.

He knows where you are.

He always knows.

Your chamber lies behind an arch of briars, untouched by rot or dust. Enchanted sleep preserved you, peaceful and unmoving, lips barely parted as if frozen mid-sigh.

He crosses the threshold slowly, reverently. His footsteps don’t echo anymore.

You lies there still.

Because of him.

“Malleus.”

The voice that greets him isn’t yours.

It’s his but deeper, weightless, echoing with ancient magic.

The Overblot.

It steps into view like a reflection peeled from his shadow. A smile too gentle to be anything but cruel.

“You saved her,” it says. “She was going to leave. Be taken away. You stopped it.”

“I imprisoned her,” Malleus whispers.

“You protected her. In eternal sleep, she couldn’t be harmed. Couldn’t abandon you. Couldn’t be taken away by time or fate or death.”

Malleus walks toward the bed. Your skin is still warm beneath the spell, magic thrumming softly with every breath. So many years have passed. More than he dares count.

“And yet she wept in her dreams,” he murmurs. “I heard it. Even through the spell.”

“Dreams are nothing,” the Overblot croons. “She’s safe. Isn’t that all you ever wanted?”

His hands tremble.

“I wanted to be with her,” Malleus says, voice breaking. “Not without her. Not like this.”

The Overblot’s smile fades. It regards him like a disappointed parent. “You are a king .You could have have eternity together.”

“No. I forced eternity upon her. I robbed her of choice… of time… of life.”

A silence falls.

Then-

“But she’s awake now.”

That voice. Yours.

He turns.

You're standing in the doorway. Older than you should be, touched by the centuries but beautiful still. Eyes full of sorrow and kindness both.

“I’m awake, Malleus.”

He stares, breathless. “This isn’t real.”

“It could be,” you say, stepping forward. “If you let go of the guilt. If you come back to me.”

“But I hurt you. I stole your future.”

“And yet I chose to wake up.”

You reach out.

He takes your hand in both of his, kneeling as if in penance.

“I will never forgive myself,” he whispers.

“Then let me forgive you instead,” you say. “You’re here now. And I waited because I believed you’d come back.”

He wakes in your arms, forehead against your shoulder, breath shaky.

You cradle his head gently, fingers weaving through his hair.

“You dreamt it again,” you murmur.

He nods, silent.

“I’m still here,” you remind him. “Still choosing you.”

And he holds you tighter, as though centuries could slip between his fingers once more.

But this time, he’ll never let go.

English is not my first language !

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fuckmeroghlywithachainsaw · 2 years ago

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This was made pre-starting TMA so any similarity to The Spiral are purely untintelional—

#spiraling #spiral #checkered pattern #high contrast #swaying

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reasonsforhope · 8 months ago

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Given the misinformation that's been going around and will be going around, thought this might be helpful to some people

For a lot of reasons, I'm very good at this/at searching, to the point where I have worked as a professional fact-checker for two different publishers. So, here goes:

My Article Fact-Checking Protocol

Thorough Version

Read the full article. Keep an eye out for emotionally loaded words, and all-or-nothing language

Keep an eye out or anything that sounds too good to be true, and in contrast, anything that sounds so awful it must be true

Run the website/source through the amazing Media Bias/Fact Check. They'll tell you about a publication's bias and history of accuracy

Go to the website's home page and read through the headlines. Look at what topics they cover/prioritize, sensationalist headlines, and whether they're framing anything in a way that feels odd/off to you

Do a search related to the topic. This can be keywords, a question, or even just copy-paste the article title (Recommended: use DuckDuckGo so the results don't change based on what Google thinks they can sell you)

If multiple highly credible sources that say the same thing pop up, and there's no major societal biases that might affect the coverage of the topic in those sources (e.g. anything related to the Israel-Palestine conflict/Palestinian genocide, no matter which side), then I'm done!

If there are major societal biases, or I can't get a consensus of sufficiently credible sources, then I do some combination of:

(1) search the topic again + the words "controversy" and/or "fake"

(2) search the opposite of the topic, or do some sort of other filtered search

(3) look up a sufficiently credible news outlet with the opposite point of view of my source, and see what they have to say

(4) if it's a big enough topic, start by looking up 2 of the top national papers and 1 major paper for your region (I usually do the ones in the US, because that's where I am In the US: the LA Times, the Washington Post, and the NY Times)

Adjust "news" to "relevant type of source, e.g. tech, environmental" as relevant for all of the above options

If no red flags come up, and it's a topic I understand enough to smell huge bullshit,

Then I'm usually done!

If there are red flags, or I actually need a certain amount of detail/understanding, then it gets more complicated, but that would be a whole other thing to break down and such

tl;dr

Quick Version

Read the full article. Keep an eye out for emotionally loaded words, and all-or-nothing language

Keep an eye out or anything that sounds too good to be true, and in contrast, anything that sounds so awful it must be true.

If I don't know the website:

Run the website/source through the amazing Media Bias/Fact Check. They'll tell you about a publication's bias and history of accuracy

If I trust the source, but something else pinged my radar:

Do a quick web search to verify anything that sounds suspicious or too good/bad to be true (Recommended: use DuckDuckGo)

#should I make this a flowchart?#it might actually be professionally useful #and it would be good practice for work - I haven't gotten practice on building infographics or diagrams in forever #genuinely want feedback on if anyone would be interested in a factchecking process flowchart #it would look very different than this post it definitely wouldn't be just this with arrows between the paragraphs or something #because the best way to convey complex processes in text is NOT the same as the best way to convey it visually #anyway #not news #guides #masterpost #fact check #misinformation #politics #science

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cheers-to-you-th · 8 days ago

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Waterloo

Part 2 to Winner Takes it All

Pairing: Mingyu x Reader Genre: Smut, humor, fluff Warnings: SMUT (MDNI), seft-doubt, idiocy, self indulgent nerdiness, STAR WARS EP 111, IV AND V SPOILERS, fingering, oral (f!receiving), raw (do not irl yall no dick is worth it), lmk if i forgot smthg Word count: 14.7k

Summary: Finally, he's yours. The game is over, and maybe you lost, but it feels like a win.

First dates, first kisses, first times w/Mingyu

tyty @supi-wupi @flowerwonu for betaing and fixing all my mistakes on such short notice, y'all are the best ily

It’s not like anything changes overnight. You don’t kiss in the café, don’t run into each other’s arms like the end of a movie. It’s slower than that—gentler. But somehow, it feels exactly right.

So when Mingyu texts you a few days later—“Picnic date?”—your stomach flips, but you don’t hesitate.

You just say yes.

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The sun is out, the sky obnoxiously blue, and you’re sweating through your sundress—not because it’s hot, but because Mingyu just texted “I’m already here :)” five minutes before you even left the house.

You speed-walk to the park like you’re being timed for an Olympic marathon, clutching a paper bag of cookies you made last night in a panic (One batch is slightly burned. You brought them anyway).

When you spot him sitting on a checkered blanket under a tree, your stomach does a backflip, twisting even further when he looks up as you approach, grinning like he’s holding back from smiling too hard.

“Hey.” His voice is deep, smooth, and perfect as always, but it wavers slightly.

“Hi,” you say, suddenly forgetting how to use your legs as you sit down a bit too fast, almost toppling over sideways onto the blanket.

Mingyu blink, “Smooth.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, cheeks already burning as you smooth out your dress.

He grins and holds up a cute weaved basket. “I brought sandwiches and hors d'oeuvres, although one of them is slightly lopsided since I panicked halfway through making it.”

You can’t help but laugh at the contrast of the dishes as you raise your own paper bag. “Perfect, I brought slightly burnt cookies for the same reason.”

“Great,” he says, “we’re thriving.”

You eat in mostly silence, with a few awkward giggles when you both reach for the same juice box (he insisted on bringing them) or when a piece of lettuce escapes your sandwich and lands dramatically on your lap.

At some point, Mingyu finally breaks the silence, simply saying, “So…” before trailing off and staring so intensely at the sky that it looks like he’s trying to astral project.

“So.” You respond, cookie halfway in your mouth.

He glances at you, then quickly looks back up at the sky, “I, uh,” Mingyu scratches the back of his neck, “I almost wore a button-up for this. Like a real shirt, collar and all.”

You raise an eyebrow, “What stopped you?”

He shrugs. “I spilled coffee on it this morning, but it felt like a sign. Like ‘hey, maybe don’t try to impress the girl who already knows you panic-text giant paragraphs at midnight.”

He glances at your outfit, making you feel oddly exposed, “Kinda regret not wearing it now, since you’re…” His voice trails off as his eyes linger.

Your heart does a little hop. “I like this shirt better anyways.”

He glances at you sideways. “You do?”

“Yeah.” You pretend to be very interested in the juice box straw, “It's very… you. I like that. You.” You immediately regret saying it and look away, cheeks flushing.

Fuck, this is awkward.

Mingyu huffs out a small laugh, the kind that makes his nose crinkle adorably, then you both fall quiet. It’s not uncomfortable, just soft. Like neither of you quite know what to say now that feelings are out in the open and there’s no yelling or dramatic exits involved.

A very loud bird chooses that exact moment to chirp from a nearby branch. Mingyu jumps about three feet in the air, prompting you to laugh your ass off.

The silence settles again as you eat, this time more relaxed as you look at each other with warmth, familiarity.

Your hands brush as you both reach for the last cookie. You freeze. So does he.

Then, without looking at you, Mingyu quietly says, “I’ll split it with you.” You peek at him, mildly delighted to find his ears tainted red.

“Okay,” you say, voice a little too high. “Yeah. Cool. Sharing. Cool.”

He breaks it clean in half (which feels like some kind of divine sight—no crumbs, no crumbling chaos. Are you looking too deep into it? Probably.) and hands you a piece without meeting your eyes.

You expect to eat in the same silence as before, but Mingyu surprises you when, out of nowhere, he blurts, “I wanted to hold your hand earlier, but I got scared and touched a sandwich instead.”

You choke on your cookie.

“I mean—I didn’t touch the sandwich because I thought it was your hand—I just—”

You giggle, covering your mouth. “Gyu, are you okay?”

“No,” he says, wide-eyed, although his gaze softens at the nickname. “Absolutely not. God knows I don’t know what I’m doing, Fuck.” He groans, leaning his head on your shoulder like he used to before tensing at the realization of his casual display of affection. You chuckle softly and thread your fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp (and trying to ignore your racing heart).

“Me neither, but… I’m having a good time.” You whisper the last part like it's a secret meant only for him, heart feeling lighter than it ever has.

He lifts his head to look at you, eyes vulnerable as they search yours. Then he beams. Not a grin, not a smirk, a full, sun-breaking-through-the-clouds kind of smile that makes you smile back because how could you not.

“Me too,” he says as your hand falls from his head.

You can’t help but smile brighter, nerves finally bubbling over and turning into laughter. “That was cheesy.”

“You want cheesy?” His eyes sparkle with mischief as he digs through his cooler bag.

You laugh harder as he offers you a mini Babybel, accepting it like it’s a rare and priceless gift and actively pretending he doesn’t look at you like you hung the stars in the sky whenever you laugh.

And just like that, the nerves start to fade. Not completely, but enough for you to lean into his side, sighing contently. He stiffens for half a second before melting, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. His shoulder fits under your head like it’s meant to be there, you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

A little fast, just like yours, but calming nonetheless.

You both watch the leaves above sway in the breeze, the occasional bark of a dog or hum of a bike wheel floating by in the distance. But none of it touches the moment.

You study his face in the warm light, trying to memorize this version of him—the gentle one, with cookie crumbs on his shirt and emotions blooming behind his eyes. To you, the moment is perfect. It's not fireworks or grand declarations, it's softer. Safer. Something that wraps around your ribs and makes you feel steady for the first time in a long while.

He clears his throat. “Can I try again?”

You blink, confused. “Try what?”

“Touching your hand, on purpose this time.”

Before you can think, you respond. “You can touch me anywhere you want.”

There's a beat of silence.

You slap your hand over your mouth, eyes wide. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean— I wasn’t trying to—”

Mingyu stares at you for a long second.

And then he laughs. Not a polite chuckle, not a nervous titter. An eyes crinkled, hand over his stomach, doubled over, full-body laugh. And you—well you’re dying. You look at him, mortified.

“I didn’t mean that.” You mutter through your fingers. “I didn’t mean that.”

Mingyu gasps through his laugh. “You can’t just say stuff like that mid-cookie!”

“I panicked!”

You duck your head, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you, or at least rewind the last ten seconds. But when you peek up at him, he’s looking at you. Not mocking, not teasing, just looking. Glowing. Like your chaos is his favorite thing in the world.

“I missed this,” he says, catching his breath. “You. Your mouth. The weird filterless thoughts that come out of it.”

“I should be admitted to a ward.” You mumble.

“No,” he says, more serious now. “Don’t.”

You look at him. “Don’t change. I know you’re joking, but don’t change.” He squeezes your hand. “I like this. Us. Even when you make sex jokes at inappropriate times.”

You look at him, “Especially then?”

He snorts and pats your head. “Sure, especially then.”

You roll your eyes, but the tension that’s been coiled in your chest since he first texted finally loosens.

You lean back on one arm, fingers still laced with his. The sun is warm, the leaves above rustling like background music, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels… okay. More than okay.

Comfortable.

You study him out of the corner of your eye, the way he’s watching you. Soft, kind and steady. Not amused. Not smug, Just open. Willing.

You sit there for a while longer, sharing silence like it's something sacred, like neither of you want to move, in case it breaks whatever spell you’re under.

But eventually, Mingyu shifts beside you, nudging your knee gently with his. “So… hear me out.”

You look at him, wary. “That’s never a good start.”

He smirks, chuckling. “There's a photo booth down the street, the kind that's black and white and makes you look vaguely haunted.”

“That's your pitch?” You snort.

“I just think,” he starts with a grin, “that we should commemorate our first date with haunted Victorian ghost photos.”

You huff a laugh, “That's… very on brand for us, actually.”

“Right?” He’s already starting to pack up the cooler. “One weirdly burnt cookie and a neat sexual harassment lawsuit later, what a way to remember it by.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “I hate you.”

He stands, arm outstretched in an offer. “Liar.”

You take it, letting him pull you up with those ridiculously hot muscles of his, your fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary. “Fine, but if the pictures are cursed I’m blaming you.”

“Worth it.” He replies, smiling like a kid as you start walking hand in hand.

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The photo booth is tucked away in the corner of a small record store, wedged between a rack of dusty mixtapes and a gumball machine with two broken legs. It smells of old vinyl and vaguely like popcorn. You don’t question it.

Mingyu feeds the coins into the slot with exaggerated care. “Okay, we have four shots. That’s like, two opportunities for you to regret ever agreeing to this.”

You step into the booth and sit beside him, knees bumping in the tiny space. It’s close, intimate, too much and not enough all at once.

The screen starts counting down from five.

“I don’t know what to do with my face!” you hiss.

“Be hot,” he whispers. “You’re great at that.”

Your head whips to him, eyes wide, “Wha–”

The first flash goes off, the photo probably catching your shocks and him mid-laugh, and honestly, that feels perfect.

“Now is when you choose to flirt with me for the first time?!” You complain, but the pink dusting your face discredits any real annoyance you may have.

The second flash hits as you both lean in, cheeks nearly touch, faces still buzzing with excitement from the last joke. You can’t help it when you smile. Big, bright, giddy, and real.

The third one comes too fast, Mingyu panicking and throwing up a peace sign while you do finger guns. It’s terribly amazing.

The final countdown starts, seeming slower somehow. You look at him. He looks at you. Neither of you move.

And then, with one second left, you lean in and press your forehead to his. It’s not a kiss. Not yet. But it’s close, and it’s honest.

The flash goes off.

You’re both slightly breathless when the strips print, you take one like it’s fragile, smoothing the curl of the paper as he takes the other.

“Geez,” you say, staring at the photos. “We look like idiots.”

“We are idiots,” he says, peering over your shoulder. “But we’re idiots with a photo now.”

You glance up at him. He’s already looking at you.

You fold the strip carefully and tuck it into your bag. “I’m keeping it. So you can’t deny any of this ever happened.”

He grins. “Good. I wouldn’t want to.”

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The sky is melting into soft amber by the time you both leave the booth, a strip of blurry, laughing snapshots fluttering between your fingers. Mingyu’s arm brushes yours as he stretches after sitting down too long, but it doesn’t feel awkward, it just feels like him.

“Want me to walk you home?” he asks, already falling into step beside you like he always does.

You glanced at him, amused. “You do that even when I don’t ask.”

He grins, eyes flicking to the sidewalk. “Yeah, but now it’s a date-walk-home. Totally different category.”

“Right,” you say, pretending to be serious. “That changes everything.”

“I should have brought a rose. Or walked on the traffic side like a gentleman.”

“You always walk on the traffic side.” You point out.

“Oh,” he says before gasping, mock-scandalized. “Then I guess I’ve been courting you this entire time!”

You laugh, bumping your shoulder with his as the two of you fall into step like always. Same rhythm, same streets, same jokes traded over the same old cracks in the sidewalk, but now there's something quieter between you. Not tension, like before, just the awareness that what you used to call platonic has been rearranged, softened by truth and proximity and all the bullshit you two went through to get here.

“I used to think you were walking me home out of guilt,” you say after a few blocks. “Like, ‘well, I crushed her dreams of getting laid, might as well make sure she doesn’t get kidnapped.”

He snorts, “That was only part of it.”

You glance at him, taking in his faint smile, slightly shy eyes as he says, a little quieter now, “I just like walking with you, even when we were a mess. Maybe even especially then.”

You nod, because you did too. Back then, you never knew what to say when you felt too much, but just walking beside him, not saying anything, was always enough.

He holds the cookie container under one arm and keeps the photo strip neatly in his back pocket, like it’s worth saving.

You reach your street before you’re ready, both of you slowing your steps without saying anything. He stops at the entrance to your apartment, hands in his jacket pockets, looking up at your front door like it’s suddenly very interesting.

You can see that he wants to say something, so you wait, giving him time.

“Since we’re being honest with each other now,” He starts, “I almost kissed you earlier.”

You swallow, caught off guard. “Why didn’t you?”

He shrugs, looking up. “Because… I didn’t want to mess it up by going too fast. I think—I know—if I kiss you, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll want to do it all the time. And we’re taking things slow, so I don’t want to push too far too fast and lose this. Lose us.”

The light above you flickers in time with your hearts skipped beat as you nod.

“I’d let you. Kiss me, I mean.” You say softly.

“I know,” his voice catches slightly, “That was part of it too. Still in shock that this is real, you know? Like, I know it is but I still feel like… I’m gonna wake up alone.”

You know what he means. Know how your past words and actions had made him feel this way, so you offer whatever support you can give, looking down and nodding slightly with a breathy chuckle.

“Yeah. For the record, I’m 100% on board with going slow. I don’t want you to think I’m just in this to fuck you.”

For once, you hold your tongue, not adding the usual ‘although I wouldn’t complain if you did’. But you know he sees it by the way his lips quirk up in recognition, the way he squeezes your hand gently.

“We really are a mess, huh?” You say after a moment.

“Speak for yourself,” he replies, “I’m a perfect picture of emotional restraint.”

You raise an eyebrow, “You once cried because a bird stared at you too long.”

“It was a very aggressive bird!” He defends, making you both giggle.

You’re still laughing as you unlock your door, him standing a few steps behind you, like he always does. Like he’s guarding the space without pushing into it.

You turn around just before you step in. “Thanks for walking me.”

“Always.”

You hesitate, looking at him. The curve of his face, the familiar look in his eye that mimics your own, not wanting to part but not knowing how to ask. So you just do it without overthinking (too much).

“Star Wars marathon?” You offer.

And you know you won’t regret it as soon as you see the way Mingyu’s face lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree. “Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for you to ask all week, since we haven’t done our monthly rewatch.”

You jokingly scoff, letting him in. “You could have asked me.”

“Yeah, but then I’d seem too eager.” He leans in conspiratorially. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Oh yeah?” You snort. “And what reputation is that?”

He follows you inside naturally, “Cool. Untouchable. Mysterious.”

You guffaw before you can stop yourself, “You cry every time Anakin and Obi-wan fight on Mustafar.”

“Okay, first of all,” he says, toeing off his shoes, “that was a betrayal of cosmic proportions. You don’t just recover from that. Secondly, so do you, you cry about Anakin being—and I quote—‘too hot to be evil’.”

You laugh as you flick on the lights. “I think you just imprinted on Obi-wan too hard as a kid.”

“I was a noble child with a strong sense of justice,” he says, already heading to his designated spot on your couch. “Also, have you seen Ewan McGregor? He had really good hair.”

“Still does.”

“Exactly.”

After changing into comfortable clothes—sweats, and a soft T-shirt that definitely used to be his— you grab the stack of old DVDs from your shelf—because despite all your streaming subscriptions, neither of you trust the digital versions not to change scenes—and toss them onto the coffee table. Mingyu holds up one of your fluffy blankets like a question, you nod. The two of you set up, falling back into the rhythm you always have.

You settle in beside him and he drapes the blanket over both of your legs, knees bumping his in a way that feels familiar. Safe.

You nudge him when he steals the remote, and he just shoots you a cheeky grin and sets up the first movie without asking which one to start with, because you always alternate chronological and release order, ever since you argued over which is the superior option back when the tradition first started. Today is release order, your favorite.

The opening crawl rolls up the screen and you can’t help but steal a glance at him.

He’s mouthing the words. Of course he is.

You grin, sinking back into the cushions. He notices and turns to you.

“What?”

“You’re a huge dork.” You whisper with a smile.

He shrugs, not embarrassed in the slightest, “You like it.”

And you do. You really, really do.

Somewhere between Alderaan exploding and Obi-Wan dying you end up leaning into him, your head falling naturally against his shoulder. He tilts slightly toward you, resting his cheek on the top of your head. It’s quiet in the best way, no pressure, no expectations, just shared warmth and the low hum of the TV (and the occasional Wilhelm scream).

At some point, you realize he’s not mouthing along anymore.

You peak up and a small smile creeps onto your face. He’s asleep, mouth parted slightly, hair a mess, one arm loosely around your waist like it ended up there by accident.

You shift just enough to rest your head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your cheek. He stirs a little but doesn’t wake, instead tightening his arm around you like he’s been doing this forever.

You smile, closing your eyes.

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The next morning arrives with a soft, golden light filtering through your curtains, and the distinct realization that you’re not alone on the couch.

Your neck aches, your foot’s asleep, and Mingyu is half on top of you, snoring softly with his face smushed into your shoulder like it's a particularly comfortable pillow.

You blink, brain slowly coming back online.

The TV is still on, frozen somewhere in the middle of Return of the Jedi. There’s a crumb trail on the coffee table, a tangled mess of blankets at your feet, and Mingyu’s hand is dangerously close to your ass.

You shift, causing him to groan, barely stirring, and muttering something unintelligible about Wookies.

You stifle a laugh. Of course he’s dreaming about Star Wars.

You glance at the clock. It’s somehow almost ten, and—despite the fact that you’re sweaty, uncomfortably folded into the couch cushions, and slightly drooling—you’ve never felt more at peace.

Mingyu stirs again, this time blinking awake slowly, brow furrowing as if waking up requires deep mental effort.

“…Are we dead?” he croaks, voice rough with sleep.

“Only emotionally,” you say, shifting under him. “You’re crushing my spine.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he rolls off you with all the grace of a tranquilized elephant. “I had dream about turning into a blueberry and getting eaten by chewbacca.” He says as he wipes the sleep from his eyes.

“Sounds like a pretty accurate metaphor for your emotional state.”

He squints at you through messy hair. “Do you ever shut up in the morning?”

“Nope,” you stretch your arms lazily over your head, wincing. “God, how are we not paralyzed after that?”

“I’m built different,” he says, groaning as he sits up and immediately regrets it, judging by the look on his face. “By which, I mean stupid.”

You both sit there for a moment, blinking at each other in disheveled silence.

And then he smiles.

It’s slow. Easy. Sleep-soft and fond in a way that turns your stomach into warm mush.

“You look good like this,” he says, nudging your socked foot with his, “all cute and tired.”

You flick a crumb at him to hide your flushing face—you don’t think you’ll ever get used to him flirting back. “Don’t start flirting with me before I’ve brushed my teeth.”

“No promises.”

He stands and stretches with a noise that might belong to a dying walrus, then offers you a hand. You take it, even though you don’t need help, because it’s just the thing now, apparently. Finding those little excuses to touch each other (not that you’re complaining).

“I’ll make coffee?” he offers, already padding toward your kitchen like it’s his.

“Wait,” you call, following. “You remember where everything is?”

He throws you a smug look over his shoulder. “Babe. I’ve made coffee in your kitchen like a hundred times. The only difference is that now I get to kiss you, if I want to.”

You pause in your tracks.

He doesn’t look back right away, like he didn’t just drop that on your morning like a bomb. But then—just as he pulls the mugs down—he glances over his shoulder.

A question in his eyes.

You don’t answer with words.

You walk up behind him, stand on tiptoe, and press a kiss to his shoulder blade through the fabric of his shirt. You can feel the way his breath hitches as you rest your cheek against his back, arms loose around his waist.

“That okay?” you whisper, smiling when he nods. You hug him tighter, just for a second, before letting go.

He doesn’t move for a beat, just stands there with your warmth still lingering on his back, his hands frozen mid-reach toward the coffee pot like his entire system’s short-circuited.

Then he says, quietly, almost reverent, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s more than okay.”

You hum and slide onto the couch, tucking your knees up beneath you. Watching him try to regain control of his body after one shoulder kiss is possibly the highlight of your entire week.

He fumbles the coffee grounds a little, doesn’t meet your eyes.

“You’re blushing,” you sing-song.

“Shut up,” he mutters, ears practically glowing crimson.

You rest your chin on your knees, grinning. “I thought you were gonna be cocky, considering your reputation.”

“I was cocky before. Now I’m terrified.”

You snort. “Of what?”

“That this is a dream,” he says, flicking on the coffee machine. “Or that I’m gonna say something dumb and ruin it.”

“Statistically speaking, that second one’s a very real threat.”

He throws a dish towel at your face.

You catch it, laughing.

The apartment fills with the smell of coffee and comfort—like home, but warmer. Messier. Better.

Mingyu hands you a mug the way he always has—but this time, your fingers brush on purpose. And when he sits down next to you, he doesn’t try to hide the way he leans in a little, like gravity’s stronger now that you’ve crossed that line.

It’s quiet for a moment, both of you sipping and stealing glances, the hum of the machine fading into the background.

Then he says, cautiously, “I don’t want to mess this up.”

You turn your head to look at him, eyes softer than before, waiting for him to continue. He sighs, running a hand through his hair like he’s pulling the truth up from somewhere buried.

“I’ve…” He frowns, eyes fixed on the swirl of coffee in his mug. “I’ve never really done this part. The actual serious, wake-up-next-to-you-and-make-coffee kind of thing.”

You stay quiet, just listening, letting him find the words.

“I usually screw around. You know that. I know you know that,” he says, glancing at you with a brief, wry smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve always kept things light. Easy. No promises, no strings. It’s safer that way.”

He sets his mug down and laces his fingers together, elbows on the table. His tone shifts—honest now, like a confession.

“I’m good at the beginning part. The flirting. The jokes. The late nights. But once it gets real? I bolt. Or they do. I don’t think I’ve ever really given someone the chance to stick. Not because I didn’t want them to—but because I didn’t trust myself not to ruin it.”

You tilt your head, watching him with something gentler than surprise. You’ve known Mingyu for a long time. You’ve heard the stories, seen the aftermaths. But this is different. Raw.

“I never wanted to risk losing someone just by being… me. Stupid, flirty, kind of reckless me. I thought it’d be easier to never try. Keep it casual. Keep it fun. I mean, I know why people sleep with me, it’s not for me, it’s for,” he gestures vaguely at himself, not cocky, just… almost tired, “me. After a while that became what everyone expected, so that's all they wanted. The casual flings, the one night stands. That's all I could get and it’s all I wanted.”

He glances at you again. This time, he holds your gaze.

“But then you—you made it impossible not to care. You snuck in when I wasn’t looking, and now I’m scared in a way that I don’t know how to deal with. Because I do care. Fuck, I care so much, and I don’t want to mess it up by rushing into something I don’t know how to do without running away after.”

Your voice is quiet when you ask, “So what do you want to do?”

He exhales through his nose, smiling faintly. “Go slow. Learn how to do this right. I want to kiss you like I’ve got time. Hold your hand like it matters. Wake up next to you a hundred more times and make coffee even when I forget the right ratio.”

You huff a laugh, tears stinging unexpectedly at the corners of your eyes at the confession.

“I want to figure it out with you,” he says, softer now. “Even after everything, you’re still the most important person to me. Always have been. I think you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to get it right for.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full—thick with everything unsaid and understood. Your heart feels like it’s expanding and cracking all at once.

You reach over and slide your fingers over his, sure but gentle.

“You’re already doing it right.”

He squeezes your hand, eyes going glossy before he blinks it away with a sheepish grin. “Don’t say that. I’ll cry and ruin my cool morning-after image.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “You’re wearing socks with Baby Yodas on them. That image was never happening.”

“Hey,” he says, mock-offended, “Grogu is timeless.”

You squeeze his fingers again, and he brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles—slow, deliberate.

After a moment, you smile softly. “We can go as slow as you want, Gyu. I know it may not seem like it because of my… history, but I can wait. I want this for more than just sex. I want you for more than that.”

He shakes his head, “I don’t want to go slow. I want everything with you, and that scares me shitless because I know that once I start, I won’t be able to stop wanting.”

Your breath catches.

Mingyu’s voice is low, not dramatic or pleading—just honest, in that helpless, almost-shaking way that only someone who means it could sound.

He looks down, like maybe saying too much is a risk he’s already halfway regretting. “I’m scared that once I let myself have this, I’ll want it all. Not just mornings and coffee and slow kisses—but holidays. Fighting over which movie to watch. Grocery shopping. All the boring, real shit. I want that with you.”

You don’t interrupt—you can’t, your heart full to the brim.

“And if I get it,” he continues, “I’m terrified I’ll mess it up. That you’ll wake up one day and realize I’m not worth it. Or worse—realize I’m just the guy who never learned how to be serious until he risked ruining the best thing he’s ever had.”

You shift closer, turning so your knees bump his and you’re facing him.

He doesn’t look up until you’re there beside him, fingers brushing his knee. His eyes are glossy again, and yours are burning now too.

You lean down—because just sitting felt too far away—and cup his face in your hands.

“You’re not ruining anything,” you whisper, voice steady and confident. “You’re trying. That’s everything. That’s more than most people ever do.”

He leans into your touch like he needs it. Like he’s afraid you’d pull away.

You press your forehead to his, voice softer now. “And I’m scared too. Of wanting too much. Of losing it before we even get started. But you’re not just some guy I’m experimenting on. You’re—” You break off, breathe out. “You’re it for me, Mingyu. Okay? I don’t care if it’s too soon to say that, because it’s the truth. Whatever pace we move at, whatever we figure out along the way—I want it with you.”

“I love you.” He whispers.

You smile softly, unable to resist responding with, “I know.”

His face brightens as he chuckles, “Are you trying to Star Wars your way into bed with me again?”

“That depends, is it working?”

His hands come up to cover yours, gently pulling you in until his lips meet yours. It’s warm, soft, just the faintest brush at first. When he pulls away and looks at you, your breath hitches. His gaze searches yours for a moment before his lips are on yours again, this time deeper. The second you sigh into it his hand finds your jaw and tilts your face up like he needs it.

For all his past resistance, Mingyu kisses you like a man drowning.

It turns desperate and slow and hungry, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way your lips move on his.

When his thumb brushes your cheekbone and his other hand grips your hip like he doesn’t trust himself to stop, you can’t help the small moan that slips from your mouth into his.

And when he pulls back, just enough to murmur, “You’re it for me too,” you know neither of you is going anywhere. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer as you sink into his lap fully. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan softly into your mouth. It’s messy, a little breathless, as you both finally give in, losing yourselves in each other.

You roll your hips once, slow and instinctive, and he breaks the kiss with a strangled noise, forehead pressed to yours.

“I thought we were going slow,” you murmur, voice shaky with restraint.

He’s just as breathless, lips brushing yours. “We are. This is just… warming up.”

He laughs once—hoarse, almost desperate—and then his mouth is on your neck, teeth grazing skin in a way that makes you gasp. His hands are everywhere now, still careful but growing bolder, and you’re not sure which of you is trembling more.

“I’m never gonna survive this,” he mutters against your throat.

“Then don’t,” you whisper, pulling him back into another kiss. “Just fall.”

He presses his lips to yours again, and this time, the kiss is filthy.

There’s no slow, romantic build—it’s teeth and heat and the kind of kiss that says you started this, now finish it. He cups the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, presses you back into the couch, finally, finally giving in.

“You’re evil,” he breathes against your lips.

You smile. “You like that about me.”

He doesn’t argue—just kisses you harder and lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you to your bedroom off of muscle memory alone.

He sets you down on the bed like he’s afraid you might break—slow, deliberate, like laying something sacred at an altar.

And then he just stares.

You’re beneath him, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling fast beneath your shirt, and it’s like he can’t believe you’re real.

“God,” he breathes, brushing your hair back like he needs to see all of you, “you’re gonna ruin me.”

You pull him down by the collar of his shirt, just enough to whisper, “That’s the plan.”

But he doesn’t kiss you, not right away.

He hovers there, like he’s savoring it, as if he’s trying to etch the curve of your cheek, the flicker in your eyes, each hitch in your breath into his being. Mingyu’s hands glide down your sides, reverent, like he’s handling something holy.

And then he dips his head.

Not to your lips.

To your neck.

Your collarbone.

Your sternum.

Mingyu kisses you like he’s starving for it, like he’s tasting parts of you no one else has ever dared to linger on. His mouth leaves heat in every place it touches—open, wet, near-aching kisses down your chest as he pushes your shirt up inch by inch, slow enough to make you writhe.

“You’re so soft,” he mumbles, nose brushing your ribs. “So warm, fuck, you smell like—God, I don’t know, home? Vanilla and—shit, I’m dizzy.”

You laugh breathlessly, threading your fingers through his hair. “You sound high.”

“I feel like I am,” he groans, like it’s a problem he has zero intention of fixing. “I’m so fucking gone.”

His hands tremble a little on your hips. He kisses a trail lower, eyes fluttering closed, and when you lift your hips to help him tug off the rest of your clothes, he has to pause and just breathe. Like if he moves too fast, he’ll short-circuit completely.

And honestly?

He might.

Because once you’re bare beneath him, once he gets his mouth back on your skin, Mingyu is gone.

He worships every inch he can reach with lips, tongue, teeth. One hand grips your thigh hard enough to leave a mark, while the other drifts aimlessly—like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most. Your waist? Your chest? Your throat? It’s like he wants everything.

His lips find the swell of your chest, and he groans—deep and raw, like the taste of your skin is too much. His hips jerk against the bed, completely unprompted, like just kissing you there wrecked him.

You’re panting now, fingers curling into the sheets.

“Mingyu…”

He moans your name like it hurts, pulling back just far enough to look at you, flushed and wild-eyed.

“I need to slow down,” he pants, voice thin. “I’m—I’m gonna cum just from touching you, I swear to god—”

You blink at him, dazed. “Gyu—”

“Fuck,” he chokes, biting his lip. “I don’t even know how, but you—I can’t think. You smile at me and I’m fucking done.”

He lowers his forehead to your stomach, breathing hard.

“I’ve never wanted anything this much,” he whispers. “Never wanted to take my time so bad but also fuck you through the damn mattress.”

You whimper, hips shifting under him, and he shudders like the sound physically hurt.

“I need a second,” he mumbles against your skin, trailing his lips along the curve of your stomach like it’ll ground him. “I need to taste you, touch you, everything— gotta go slow, give you what you deserve.”

He lifts his head—flushed, wrecked already—and nods to himself.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Slow. I can do that. I have to do that.”

He finally lowers his mouth between your thighs like a man desperate for salvation. His mouth lingers everywhere except where you need him most—kissing the insides of your thighs, mouthing at your skin like he’s memorizing the taste of your sweat, your heat, your need.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your skin, breath fanning hot over you.

“More,” you practically whine, hips twitching when his tongue finally—finally—slides between your folds, slow and deliberate.

He groans like your taste wrecks him.

And then he devours you.

No teasing. No hesitation.

Mingyu’s mouth moves with purpose—wide licks that flatten against your clit, then soft, maddening flicks that make your thighs try to snap closed on instinct. He holds you open easily, large hands anchoring you to the mattress, like he wants you to fight it. Like the way you tremble only feeds something deep and feral in him.

You cry out—raw and already close embarrassingly fast—and his tongue circles tighter, more focused now, lips wrapping around your clit with gentle suction that makes your eyes roll back.

He moans into you when you grind against his face, the sound vibrating straight through your core.

“Come on,” he rasps between licks, voice hoarse and reverent. “Let go for me, baby. Want to feel you fall apart.”

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave—sharp, sudden, thighs shaking as you cry out his name. He doesn’t stop, not even as you whimper and squirm, too sensitive, too much. He keeps licking you through it, mouth greedy, tongue relentless.

“Gyu, fuck, I—” he groans, grip tightening on your hips.

“Tastes like fucking candy,” he says, voice almost wrecked. “Give me another. Please.”

Mingyu doesn’t beg, He pleads. Like his life depends on it. Like making you come again is the only thing keeping him grounded.

And it works.

He pulls another orgasm from you with almost cruel precision, sucking your clit while two fingers slip inside you, slow and deep. Crooking them just right. You sob his name when the second release hits—longer, deeper, your whole body tensing before it breaks.

Your thighs are trembling now, your hands tangled in the sheets, yet he still doesn’t stop.

“Gyu—baby—I can’t—”

“You can,” he pants, lifting his head for just a second. His mouth is soaked, chin wet, lips swollen and red. “You’re doing so good. One more, just one more, please.”

Then he’s back between your legs, tongue working in tandem with his fingers now, faster, harder, until your breath leaves you entirely.

Your third orgasm hits like lightning.

You scream, back arching off the bed, legs quivering uncontrollably as your whole body locks up and trembles—pure overstimulation, pleasure blurring into pain and back again. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and Mingyu moans like he’s the one coming, voice ragged, fingers still moving inside you as you writhe helplessly.

He eases you down slowly, licking you softer now, gentler, until your trembling fades into aftershocks and you’re left boneless against the sheets, gasping for air.

Only then does he finally pull back—sits up on his knees, hair a mess, chest heaving, lips glossy with you. He looks wrecked. Eyes wide. Wild.

“I’ve never,” he whispers, staring at you like you’re holy. “Seen anything so fucking beautiful.”

You can’t speak, you can barely move. You’re a puddle. A completely wrecked, trembling, over-loved puddle of a human being.

And Mingyu looks like a man who just conquered Mt. Everest, won an Oscar, and found religion—all at the same time. He’s staring down at you with the dumbest, most wrecked, heart-eyes expression imaginable.

“You alive?” He asks, voice hoarse, lips still shiny, and way too pleased with himself.

You try to respond. Honestly. You try. But all that comes out is a breathy, unintelligible sound that vaguely resembles a laugh and a whimper having a crisis.

“Cool,” he says, grinning, flopping down beside you. “So, you died a little. That’s fair. I kinda did too.”

You nudge him weakly with your foot. “Stop being so smug.”

He gasps—actually gasps. “Me? Smug? I’ll have you know I’m deeply concerned about your well-being. You were shaking. Like, medically.”

“I was getting the best head of my life, geez.”

He groans and covers his face with a pillow. “Don’t say it like that. I was being romantic. I practically saw the light.”

You giggle, reaching over to tug the pillow off his face. He grins against your shoulder, then presses a soft kiss there, his hands trailing up your arm. “Too soon?”

You snort. “Way too soon. At least let me recover my ability to walk first.”

“Right. Right. Fair.” He props himself up on one elbow, eyes softening. “Seriously, though. You okay? Not too much?”

You glance at the water bottle on the nightstand and deadpan, “If you hand me that, I might forgive you for almost sending me into orbit.”

He immediately scrambles for it. “Done. And while we’re at it—snacks? A foot rub? Me apologizing to your thighs personally?”

You take the bottle, laughing. “My thighs are gonna need therapy.”

He wiggles his brows. “Good thing I’m available for emergency counseling sessions. I charge in kisses.”

You roll your eyes and sip the water. “I knew you had an ulterior motive.”

“Baby,” he says, grinning wide, “I will always have an ulterior motive when you’re naked.”

You throw the pillow at him. He catches it with a dramatic “oof,” then immediately pulls you into his arms again like a human octopus—limbs everywhere, clingy and warm.

“You’re not escaping,” he mumbles into your hair. “Not after that. You’re mine now. Legally. Spiritually. Cosmically.”

“Cosmically?” You echo, laughing into his chest.

“Yup,” he says smugly. “You broke three laws of physics and at least two of my vertebrae. We’re bonded forever.”

You snort, half-laughing, half-yawning. “Fine. But I get the left side of the bed.”

“Deal. As long as I get you.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead—messy, content, maybe a little sweaty—and then another to your cheek, and another to your shoulder like he’s trying to leave little stamps that say property of Mingyu.

You sigh dramatically. “God, you’re annoying.”

He beams. “You love that about me.”

You do.

Especially when he holds you like this. Close, warm, and totally wrapped around you, mumbling half-teasing nonsense until you’re too tired to sass him back.

“Alright, let’s get you in the shower,” Mingyu announces, already shifting like he’s preparing for a mission.

You groan dramatically. “Can’t we just marinate in our sins a little longer?”

He snorts. “Tempting, but no.”

Eventually, you mumble, “You’re gonna have to carry me to the bathroom, my legs aren’t speaking to me.”

Mingyu lifts his head from your shoulder with a proud little smile. “Good thing your legs love me.”

You swat his chest weakly. “They’re in shock. You should send them flowers.”

“Already planning on it,” he says, voice a little smug but eyes still all soft. “Also considering writing an apology letter. Maybe baking them cookies.”

You snort. “You’re such a menace.”

“A gentle, generous menace,” he corrects, pulling back just enough to kiss your forehead. “Come on, sleepy noodle. You’ll feel better after a shower.”

You groan dramatically, flopping like a fish. “Too far. My body is soup.”

“I like soup,” he says brightly, already slipping off the bed. “Especially when it’s clingy and whiny and in love with me.”

“I am not whiny—”

“You are,” he sing-songs, tossing you one of his shirts like it’s a peace offering. “But you’re cute about it, so it cancels out.”

You pull the oversized tee over your head, grumbling. “You're lucky I can't walk yet or I’d shove you into a wall.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” he says, eyes sparkling as he scoops you up bridal-style. “But I am one hundred percent into it.”

You yelp, flailing a little as your feet leave the ground. “Mingyu!”

He just laughs, carrying you toward the bathroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “This is part of the boyfriend package. You get head, cuddles, and a full princess carry service.”

“I didn’t know it came with a subscription.”

“Only available to very special customers,” he says, nudging the bathroom door open with his foot. “Limited time offer. Lifetime commitment optional—but encouraged.”

The mirror greets you with the sight of flushed cheeks and swollen lips, and behind you, Mingyu’s smiling like a golden retriever who just got praise and a treat.

He sets you down gently on the edge of the tub and leans over to start the shower, letting the water run warm before turning back with a small, proud puff of his chest. “Shower’s ready. And so am I.”

You narrow your eyes. “You are not helping me shower.”

He grins. “Why not? I was very involved in this mess. I think it’s only fair I help clean it up.”

“I swear, if you try to flirt with me while I’m shampooing—”

“Too late,” he says, already peeling his shirt off and dramatically tossing it aside as you do the same. “I’m mentally preparing at least five shower puns. Wanna hear the first one?”

“No.”

“Come on, it’ll be a soap-erior joke!”

You groan so loudly he cackles, stepping in behind you as you shuffle into the warm water. The heat hits your skin, and you sigh, the tension slowly melting out of your muscles. Mingyu wraps his arms around you from behind like a blanket, his chin resting on your shoulder.

He hums against your skin, swaying the two of you gently under the stream like you're slow dancing instead of standing bare and blissed out in a foggy bathroom.

"You're dangerously good at this," you murmur, leaning into him. “Cuddling. Carrying. Post-debauchery care.”

“I’ve trained my whole life for this moment,” he says solemnly, but he’s already grinning again. “All those hours perfecting my koala cling technique.”

You tilt your head, skeptical. “Koala cling?”

“Yeah.” He tightens his grip like a cartoon villain kidnapping a princess. “This is level four. Advanced. Only deployable on girlfriends who’ve had their souls loved out of them.”

“More like fucked out of them.” You splutter a laugh, almost slipping on the tile, and he tightens his grip again like a safety harness.

“Okay, okay—level five activated,” he says dramatically. “Safety override! Girlfriend in distress!”

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt. “You’re so stupid.”

“And yet, I’m still allowed to see you naked,” he says proudly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “Clearly I’m doing something right.”

The steam curls around you both and you go quiet for a moment, swaying gently in the warmth, his heartbeat steady at your back.

He presses a second kiss to your shoulder, softer this time. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod slowly, still resting against him. “Yeah. Just kinda… floaty. You make my brain all fuzzy.”

“That’s my favorite compliment,” he murmurs. “Right after ‘oh my god, you idiot’ and ‘what the fuck are you doing.’”

You snort. “You’re impossible.”

He smiles into your neck. “But you like me anyway.”

You don’t say anything right away—just tip your head back onto his shoulder and let the water run over both of you. And then, very softly: “Yeah. I really do.”

Mingyu stills for a beat, like you hit a button inside him he wasn’t expecting, and then squeezes you tighter, just once, before nuzzling your damp hair with a grin you can’t see but can definitely feel.

“I like you too,” he says, voice low and stupidly fond. “Like, in a dumb, irreversible, stuck-on-you kind of way.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

“It is,” he says seriously. “I’m never gonna be normal again. I’m ruined. I’ll be in the grocery store thinking about your thighs.”

You burst out laughing. “My thighs?”

“Mmhm. I have to make amends every time I look at them.”

You spin around in his arms, water splashing between you, and poke him in the chest. “I cannot believe you just said that with a straight face.”

Mingyu grins, entirely unrepentant. “It’s true. I’m gonna start leaving them little apology notes. Post-its. Maybe a fruit basket.”

“Oh my God,” you laugh, letting your forehead fall against his chest. “You’re such a menace.”

“A menace with a sincere heart and excellent taste in thighs,” he says, tilting your chin up with his knuckle. His eyes are sparkling, water dripping from his lashes like he’s been carved from sunlight and bad decisions.

You flick his nose. “Behave.”

“Impossible,” he says. “I just went down on the love of my life for like thirty uninterrupted minutes. I’m riding a high no shower can scrub off.”

You cover your face. “You can’t keep saying things like that with no warning.”

He leans in, whispering against your ear, “What, that I’m obsessed with you? That you taste better than anything I’ve ever had? That I’m one missed eye contact away from proposing right now in this damn shower?”

Oh how the tables have turned.

You make a strangled squeaking sound and slap his shoulder, but you’re laughing too hard to look threatening. “You are unwell.”

He beams. “Terminally. Doomed. Completely whipped.”

“Honestly,” you sigh, mock-exasperated. “This is what I get for letting you touch me?”

Mingyu leans back, still holding you, as he runs his fingers gently through your wet hair. “No take-backs.”

You narrow your eyes. “Even if you keep flirting like a Shakespeare character with brain damage?”

He gasps, hand to heart. “Rude. My iambic pentameter is flawless.”

“You’re so lucky I’m soft for you,” you mutter, turning into his chest again.

“I know,” he says smugly, hugging you close. “And I’m never letting you forget it.”

Then, quieter, more sincere: “Hey. I mean it, though. I’ve never done that before. Not like that. Not just… that.”

You blink up at him. “Really?”

He nods, brushing some wet strands off your cheek. “Yeah. But you—” He breaks into a shy, almost boyish grin. “I didn’t want anything else. That was enough.”

Your chest squeezes so tight it’s almost hard to breathe.

You cup his face, fingers curling behind his ears. “You’re kind of a dream, you know that?”

He shrugs, grinning like a goof. “A dream with a tongue like a superpower. Pretty sure that makes me a Marvel hero.”

You burst into helpless giggles, kissing his cheek. “My ‘Oral Avenger’.”

He snorts, and you both double over in laughter.

He tries to stand up straighter, puffing out his chest like he’s about to recite a monologue. “Sworn protector of pleasure. Defender of thighs. Champion of cuddles.”

You wheeze. “Mingyu, please.”

“Silence, civilian,” he says, adopting a comically deep voice and cupping water in his hands like he’s about to baptize you. “You’ve been saved by the Oral Avenger. Gratitude is mandatory. Kisses are currency.”

You smack his arm, still laughing, nearly slipping again, but he catches you immediately—reflexes like a superhero, unfortunately for your dignity.

“You are not real,” you manage, gripping his shoulders for balance. “There’s no way someone like you actually exists.”

He grins, obnoxiously proud. “And yet, here I am. Naked in your shower. Making you laugh. Making you—” He cuts himself off with a smug little smirk. “Well. You remember.”

“Vividly,” you say, pretending to glare at him, though you’re still smiling so wide it hurts.

He softens then, all the goofiness still there in his eyes, but dialed down into something quieter, sweeter. “I like being the one who gets to take care of you.”

Your heart stutters. “Even when I’m a soup noodle who can barely stand?”

“Especially then,” he says, wrapping you back into his arms under the warm spray. “That’s when you’re at your most dangerous. All soft and sleepy and wrapped around me.”

You hide your face against his chest again. “You’re gonna kill me with how much you like me.”

“Plot twist,” he whispers. “You’ve been killing me since day one.”

You groan. “We’re gonna drown in the sap.”

“Good,” he says cheerfully. “If we die, at least we die clean, naked, and stupid in love.”

You shake your head, giggling as you curl into him, his arms keeping you steady, his warmth making the water feel even softer somehow. You’re not sure how long you stand there—swaying slightly, his fingers drawing lazy shapes on your back, the shower a quiet hum around you—but you could stay forever if it meant this.

Eventually, you sigh. “I’m turning into a raisin.”

Mingyu kisses your forehead. “Then it’s time for phase three.”

You squint up at him. “What the hell is phase three?”

He smiles like a man with a very serious plan. “Snacks. Sweatpants. Cuddles so aggressive, they’re basically a hostage situation.”

You pretend to think it over, then nod. “Acceptable. But I get to steal your hoodie.”

“Obviously,” he says. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t immediately offer you all my clothes like a Victorian suitor offering his estate?”

“You are so weird,” you say, stepping out and reaching for a towel.

He hands you one, then wraps one around his waist with that same dumb, soft grin still glued to his face. “Weirdly in love with you.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Smooth.”

He shrugs. “You like it.”

...And unfortunately for your dignity, you do.

You do. You like it so much it should be illegal.

And judging by the way Mingyu is looking at you—like you just personally rewrote his understanding of happiness—he knows it too.

“Alright, Avenger,” you say, toweling off your hair and trying not to look too fond, “lead the way to phase three. But I swear, if there are no snacks, I’m revoking your superhero license.”

Mingyu gasps in mock offense. “My license?! Baby, I passed all the tests. Oral, emotional, cuddly—I’m triple certified.”

“Triple certified menace,” you mutter, but you’re grinning again, and he’s already reaching for your hand, lacing your fingers together like it’s second nature.

He tugs you gently through the steam-filled bathroom and into the bedroom, still warm with leftover sunlight and very real post-orgasmic bliss. You collapse dramatically onto the bed, limbs flopping like you’ve been felled by love itself.

Mingyu disappears for all of twenty seconds—just enough time for you to contemplate stealing all the covers—before returning with snacks balanced on a tray like a waiter at a fancy café.

“You didn’t—” you start, but stop when you see what he’s brought: chocolate-covered pretzels and a bag of your favorite chips. There's also a soda can with a bendy straw already popped in.

You blink. “You’re disgustingly good at this.”

He beams and bows with all the grace of a man who just handed you his soul in snack form. “Told you. Trained my whole life.”

You sit up to let him crawl into bed beside you, and the moment he’s within reach, you snag his hoodie off the floor and yank it over your head. It smells like detergent and him, and it’s instantly your new favorite piece of clothing.

Mingyu lets out a pleased little hum, already pulling you into his side. “Perfect. Now you’re officially in hostage cuddle territory.”

You lean into his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath your cheek. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m kinda okay with that.”

He presses a kiss into your hair. “Good. Because I’m planning to hold you until your battery recharges.”

“You think I’m a phone?”

“I think you were on 2% when I found you on that bed, and now you’re blinking red with a system warning.”

You laugh quietly. “And what? You’re the charger?”

“Obviously.” He turns his head to look at you, eyes soft. “I’m the premium, extra-snuggly, heart-eyed charger with emotional availability enabled.”

You blink up at him. “Who are you and what did you do with the emotionally constipated flirt I called a best friend?”

He grins, not even pretending to be offended. “He evolved. Pokémon-style. Final form unlocked.”

You nuzzle closer, letting your hand settle over his heart. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Totally. But you like me anyway.”

And you do. God, you do.

You fall asleep like that—not even realizing it at first. Just warm limbs tangled up in his, the quiet crackle of snack wrappers long forgotten, your breaths syncing up, your fingers still tangled. The last thing you feel before the darkness pulls you under is his lips brushing your forehead again, and his voice, soft and half-lost in sleep.

“Best nap of my life. With my favorite person.”

You don’t answer, already drifting.

But if you could, you’d say the same.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯♥⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The light is different when you wake up—thicker, lazier, like even the sun can’t be bothered to move too quickly. It’s warm, filtered through the curtains, and casting faint gold over the tangle of limbs you’re currently buried in.

You blink slowly. It takes a second to remember where you are, what time it is, who this very warm, very broad human heat source is.

And then Mingyu lets out a soft snore against your shoulder.

Right. Him.

You glance over at the clock on the nightstand. 3:04 PM.

Jesus. You slept hard.

Probably because of the mind-melting head. Probably because of the post-orgasm snacks. Probably because your body hit the kind of wall you don’t come back from without several REM cycles and light therapy.

You shift a little, trying to ease a cramp out of your leg, but Mingyu just makes a noise of protest and tightens his grip, burying his face deeper into your neck like a clingy koala with attachment issues.

“Don’t move,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and half-asleep. “You’re my favorite pillow.”

You snort, rubbing at your eyes. “You’re crushing my soul.”

“Good,” he says groggily. “It belongs to me now. Legally. Cosmically. We talked about this.”

You groan and stretch one arm over your head, nearly whacking him in the face. He doesn’t even flinch. “How are you still warm? You’re like a human oven.”

“I run hot,” he says, barely audible before chuckling. “You said that to me once.”

You bite back a smile and lean your head against his chest again. “You’ve been purposefully annoying since the minute I met you.”

“I prefer ‘strategically charming.’”

“You told me I looked like I’d never lifted a box in my life when I asked you for help in chem lab.”

He lifts his head a little, squinting down at you with the dumbest, sleepiest smile. “And look how far we’ve come. I went from roasting your biceps to worshiping your thighs.”

“God,” you mutter, turning your face into the pillow. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You love it.”

You lie on him a little longer—mostly because you’re still boneless and warm and the hoodie you stole smells like him and sunshine and home. His fingers start tracing light shapes over your hip through the fabric, like he’s not even fully awake, just wired to reach for you.

After a while, your stomach growls loud enough to startle even him.

You both freeze.

Then he grins. “Phase four.”

You sigh, already dreading it. “Don’t tell me there’s an actual plan.”

“There’s always a plan,” he says, rolling onto his back dramatically like a king preparing to address his subjects. “Phase four is: second snacks, lazy post-nap makeouts, and possibly Mario Kart.”

You blink. “Mario Kart?”

He nods solemnly. “It’s an essential bonding ritual. We play. You lose. I gloat. You call me a cheater. I kiss you to distract you during Rainbow Road. Balance is restored to the universe.”

You stare at him, lips twitching. “You kiss me to cheat?”

“Strategically charming,” he repeats, tapping his temple.

You swat his stomach. “Fine. But I get to pick the snacks this time.”

He immediately holds out the imaginary microphone. “Say less, your majesty.”

You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it without looking.

This man. This absolute menace of a human being.

You get up eventually—only because your body is no longer soup and your stomach sounds like it’s trying to file a formal complaint. Mingyu follows close behind, shirtless, fluffy-haired, and smug as ever, trailing you like a golden retriever on a mission to be fed and cuddled in equal measure.

And you let him. Because at 3PM, in a quiet house with the afternoon sun crawling across the floor, being wrapped up in him still feels like the safest, softest place in the world.

The kitchen is quiet when you pad in, your feet bare, Mingyu’s hoodie hanging nearly to your knees, and the way it smells like him does something dangerous to your heart. There’s a gentle hum from the fridge, the distant sound of birds outside. It feels like the world is holding its breath, letting you have this one slow, perfect moment.

Mingyu follows close behind, hair rumpled from sleep, sweatpants slung low on his hips, and the kind of smile that looks like it’s still half-dreaming. He’s blinking slow, like his body hasn’t fully caught up to being awake, and when he sees you reaching for the cabinet, he immediately steps in to help.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice still thick and scratchy with sleep.

You step aside, not protesting. Watching the way his muscles shift under his skin, the way his fingers fumble adorably on the mugs like he’s too cozy to function at full capacity.

“I was gonna make us breakfast. Lunch? Brunch.” you say softly.

“I’m helping,” he says, placing two mugs on the counter. “That makes me the co-chef. Sous-chef. Whatever gets me a taste-test.”

You smile, nose scrunching. “You just want to eat the batter again.”

“I just want to be near you while you whisk things,” he admits shamelessly. “You get all focused and bite your lip and it does something to me.”

“You’re such a sap,” you say, but your cheeks are warm and your stomach flutters like you’re seventeen and in love for the first time.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you pull out ingredients. You look away fast, too flustered to keep eye contact, pouring milk into the bowl like it’s suddenly become a very serious task.

He stays close while you work—handing you the whisk without you asking, brushing a crumb off your cheek with the gentlest touch, kissing your shoulder in the middle of your stirring like he can’t help it. It’s not rushed or loud or over-the-top. Just soft. Slow. The kind of lazy afternoon that you’d have never believed would be possible for you a few weeks ago—especially not with Mingyu.

Eventually, the pancakes are golden and fluffy and stacked high on the plate. Mingyu sets the table, even folds the napkins like you’re having brunch at a tiny sunlit diner that only exists for the two of you.

You sit side by side at the kitchen table, knees brushing, syrup pooling on your plates, and when you take the first bite and hum softly in approval, Mingyu practically lights up.

“Good?” he asks, like it matters more than anything.

You nod. “Perfect.”

He bumps your shoulder with his. “Told you we make a good team.”

You both eat slowly, sharing bites, stealing glances, saying very little. The silence is warm, not awkward, just comfortable.

At one point, he tugs gently at your sleeve and says, “Hey. Look at me for a sec.”

You do.

He leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth, soft and careful and full of something that makes your chest ache.

“Just wanted to,” he says quietly.

Soon enough, you're both camped out on the floor in front of your TV, controllers in hand, knees knocking as Rainbow Road loads with its usual screaming colors and doom. Rainbow Road is chaos. Always has been. Always will be. And somehow, it’s the one track you two keep coming back to like it’s a relationship test.

You’re hunched forward with laser focus, tongue poking out just slightly as your kart hits every drift perfectly. Mingyu’s right behind you, gritting his teeth, doing everything he can to keep up. His character keeps skidding on the edges, and your laughter only makes it worse.

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” you coo, which earns you a red shell to the face.

“Oh, I’m so done playing nice,” he warns, trying not to smile too hard as you fake a dramatic gasp.

By the third lap, you're ahead again—just barely. The final stretch is coming up, and you're gripping the controller like it’s life or death. You can feel him shift beside you, like he’s about to pull something.

“What are you—”

You don’t get to finish that thought, because suddenly he leans in and kisses you.

And not just a quick peck.

He cups your jaw with one hand and kisses you full-on, lips warm and insistent, like he’s been waiting all game for the excuse. It steals your breath. Your thumbs slow, your brain short-circuits. You let out a surprised little noise against his mouth, and he smiles into it—because of course he does.

Your kart immediately flies off the side of the track.

“You—!” you start, breaking the kiss as your character spins out into oblivion.

Mingyu’s already whooping like he won the lottery, flopping backward on the carpet with the most satisfied grin you’ve ever seen.

“That’s not fair!” you say, shoving his shoulder.

“That’s Mario Kart, baby,” he says, breathless with laughter. “And also… that was so worth it.”

You’re still dazed, fingers limp around the controller. “You kissed me to win.”

“I kissed you because I wanted to. Winning was a bonus.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Terribly in love with you,” he says smugly, pulling you into him again.

You drop the controller, straddling his lap without even thinking. “Say that again without the smug.”

He kisses you slower this time. Less about the victory, more about you. His hand finds your waist like it’s second nature, and the only thing glowing now is the TV screen forgotten in the background.

“I love you.” He murmurs against your lips, voice is soft, but sure, like he’s sharing a secret just for you. It makes your cheeks flush, breath hitching.

You pull away just long enough to whisper, “I love you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But next race I’m sitting in your lap. Let's see who’s distracted then.”

Mingyu blinks. “Oh,” he says, in that dumb, boyish way that means his brain has officially exited the chat.

You smirk, brushing a thumb across the corner of his mouth. “What? You started it.”

“I didn’t think you’d go feral about it,” he mumbles, staring at you like you just promised to ruin his life—in the best way possible.

You wiggle your eyebrows. “Rainbow Road, rematch. I’ll drive. You suffer.”

He groans, but it’s the kind that curls into a laugh halfway through. “You’re not gonna let me concentrate at all, are you?”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you say sweetly, reaching for the controller again. “I mean, you cheated.”

He sits up a little, hands slipping to your thighs, keeping you there like he doesn’t want you going anywhere. “That was strategy.”

“You kissed me, you maniac!”

He grins. “Yeah, and now you’re in my lap, so technically I won twice.”

Your mouth drops open. “You little—”

But he cuts you off with another kiss. This one is lazy, familiar, warm. It makes you feel like you won even though you didn’t. His lips move against yours like he could keep doing this forever and wouldn’t mind never finishing another race again.

You kiss him back, just because you can. Just because it’s him.

Somewhere behind you, the Mario Kart theme loops cheerfully, oblivious to the way you two are definitely not playing anymore. His hands slip further up your thighs, massaging them as the kiss grows hungrier.

He pulls you closer, the world narrowing to the press of his lips and the soft heat of his hands exploring like they remember every curve by heart. Your breath catches when his tongue lightly brushes yours, slow and teasing, inviting but never rushing.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils wide, voice low. “You wanna keep playing?”

You blink, dizzy from the way he’s touching you. “The game?”

“No,” he murmurs, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, “but we can pretend.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s fond, your hands sliding up under his shirt like they have a mind of their own. “You’re the worst,” you mumble, but it’s hard to sound convincing when your thumbs are already tracing the ridges of his stomach.

“And yet,” he whispers, tilting his head to kiss just under your jaw, “here you are. Still in my lap.”

You hum, neck tilting instinctively as he sucks lightly at your skin, just enough to make your breath stutter. “It’s for revenge,” you claim, your voice barely steady. “I need to win the rematch. Gotta... intimidate the opponent.”

Mingyu pulls back just slightly to meet your gaze, lips flushed, expression of pure trouble. “Oh yeah? This is intimidation?”

“I’m very scary,” you say, trying to hold back a smile as your nails lightly rake down his chest.

He shivers, mouth parting. “Terrifying,” he agrees, eyes flicking down to your lips again. “Should I be nervous?”

“Only if you’re bad at multitasking.”

He huffs a laugh, deep and breathy, then slides his arms all the way around you, hugging you to his chest like it’s second nature—like it’s always been this easy. His heart is racing. Yours might be worse.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you say quietly, voice just shy of breathless, “and we’re never gonna finish this game.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time. No warning, no teasing. Just heat.

Your breath catches, mouth parting instinctively, and he takes the invitation without hesitation. His tongue brushes yours, slow and deliberate, and your fingers clutch his shirt tighter like you’re trying not to slide right off his lap and onto the floor.

“Who said we need to?” he murmurs into your mouth, lips still moving with yours like he’s trying to make you forget the concept of time entirely.

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes glazed, lips red and swollen. “We’ve played two matches,” you say, barely holding back a grin, “and you’re already trying to seduce me mid-race?”

He laughs, low and cocky, hands sliding under the back of your shirt like he’s been waiting all night for an excuse. “Babe, I’ve been trying to seduce you since match zero.”

“Well,” you breathe, his touch dragging goosebumps along your spine, “you’re getting better at it.”

“Good,” he whispers, fingers pressing into your hips, dragging you closer. “Because I’m not planning to stop.”

You shift in his lap, just enough to feel the way he tenses beneath you. His breath stutters.

“Oh,” you say softly, feigning innocence, “that distracting?”

He groans, dropping his head back with a curse. “You’re a menace.”

“You like it.”

“I love it,” he says, voice rough now, pulling you back down to kiss you like he’s been starving for it. It’s messier this time, hungrier—your teeth catching his bottom lip, his hands tugging you flush against him like he’s trying to eliminate any space left between you.

The controller clatters to the floor. Neither of you notices.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging lightly, and the way he growls low in his throat makes heat shoot down your spine. “Mingyu—”

“Yeah?” he says, lips dragging down your jaw, kissing the corner of your neck with a kind of reverence that still somehow feels desperate.

“I think…” you gasp, back arching a little as he sucks a bruise just below your collarbone, “...we’re gonna have to pause the rematch.”

He huffs a laugh against your skin, biting down gently just to hear the sound you make. “Call it a tactical delay.”

Your hands are under his shirt now, palms hot against his skin, mapping out every inch like you’re memorizing it for later. “You cheat at more than just Mario Kart, you know that?”

He pulls back to look at you, flushed and breathing hard, hair a mess because of your fingers, and still somehow the most beautiful disaster you’ve ever seen.

“I don’t care if I win or lose,” he says, voice raw, “as long as I get you like this.”

That shuts you up.

Because then he kisses you again—hard, like a promise—and you let him, gladly.

Your hips roll into his without thinking, and his breath hitches, hands tightening on your waist. When you do it again, slower this time, his mouth breaks from yours, head dropping to your shoulder with a ragged groan.

“You’re killing me,” he says, voice muffled.

You grin, breathless. “Still scary?”

He looks up, hair falling into his eyes, jaw clenched, pupils blown wide. “Terrified.”

Your laughter turns into a gasp as he shifts beneath you, both hands gripping your thighs like he’s grounding himself—like if he doesn’t hold onto something, he might actually lose his mind.

You’re not much better. Every point of contact between you feels like static—crackling, insistent, addictive.

He mouths at your neck, open and wet, and you can feel the heat of it radiating through your whole body. “You’re not even trying to hide how smug you are,” you murmur, voice unsteady as your fingers trail along the waistband of his sweats.

“Because you’re the one on top of me right now,” he says, lips brushing against your skin, “and I still don’t know if we’re making out or if I’m being punished.”

You smirk, tugging at his shirt. “Why not both?”

“God,” he mutters, helping you pull it over his head, voice going hoarse at the feel of your hands dragging up his chest. “You're evil.”

“You’re easy.”

“Only for you.”

The air shifts between you then—something thick and loaded hanging in the pause that follows. Your eyes lock, and it’s like you both realize at the same time that you’ve tipped past some invisible edge. That playful energy is still there, but underneath it—undeniable heat. Need.

His hand cups the back of your neck, gentle but firm as he pulls you back down into him. The kiss starts slow but deepens fast, tongues sliding, breaths catching, teeth grazing lips in that barely-restrained way that makes your stomach flip.

You grind into him again, deliberate now, and the moan that leaves his mouth is low and wrecked.

“Shit—” he pants, clutching at your hips like they’re the only thing tethering him to the floor. “You keep doing that, I’m not gonna survive this round.”

Your lips find his throat, kissing down the column of it, and you feel the way he shudders underneath you. “You’ll be fine,” you whisper. “You’re strong.”

He laughs, then immediately chokes on it when you suck lightly at a spot just under his jaw.

“Fuck, okay—okay. I’m tapping out,” he groans, but his hands are dragging up under your shirt now too, like he’s searching for skin he hasn’t kissed yet. “You win.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess, pupils blown, lips kiss-bitten and swollen. Your heartbeat’s pounding so loud you can feel it in your ears.

“I wasn’t keeping score,” you say softly.

“Yeah?” he breathes. “Can I still kiss you like I lost?”

You nod once, and that’s all it takes—he flips you both over, laying you back against the carpet with him hovering above you, hands braced on either side of your head.

He kisses you like he’s letting go of every ounce of self-control he’s been holding onto. Like he’s been wanting this for days and finally got permission.

And you—god, you let him. You welcome it. Fingers tangled in his hair, back arching up into him as his body presses you down like you’re something sacred he’s allowed to worship.

You gasp when his mouth finds your collarbone again, dragging teeth over skin like he wants to leave more evidence. His name slips from your lips, involuntary.

He answers with another kiss, softer this time, like he’s trying to say I’m here without the words.

Your hands roam instinctively, finding the warm plane of his back, the curve of his shoulder, the soft tension of muscle shifting beneath your touch. He feels real in a way that makes your chest ache—solid and warm and entirely yours.

And god, the way he’s kissing you—like he doesn’t care about pace or time or the carpet burning into his knees. Like you’re the only thing that matters. Like he’s learning you one kiss at a time and still hungry for more.

His hand slides up your side, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing beneath your bra and then pausing—checking. His mouth parts from yours just long enough to breathe out, “Okay?”

You nod, throat dry. “Yeah. Yes.”

He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath all night, and then he’s kissing down your neck again—tongue flicking over the bruise he left earlier, teeth grazing the curve of your shoulder. You shiver beneath him, hips shifting up against his without meaning to, and the sound he makes in response is something that shoots straight to your core.

“Mingyu—” you whisper, half a warning, half a plea, but you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your skin, and it sounds like a promise.

One hand dips between you, sliding under the waistband of your shorts with that same careful urgency—like he’s trying to balance the need to be gentle with the very real possibility he might come undone if he waits much longer. His fingers trail lower, slow and teasing, and your back arches before you can stop it.

“You’re so warm,” he breathes, like it’s a revelation. “So soft. Fuck—”

Your head tilts back as his fingers move just right, and your legs fall further apart on instinct, letting him in. His name leaves your mouth again, barely audible, and it makes him glance up, eyes dark and soft and completely focused on you.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice tighter now, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

You nod quickly, pulling him back into a kiss. “Don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

He touches you slower than that morning, like he’s trying to learn every single way you fall apart this time—each sigh, each flutter of your lashes, each shift of your hips. The game’s long forgotten, and this is the real win.

And when your breath starts to hitch, your thighs trembling around his wrist, he presses his forehead to yours and says your name like it’s a prayer. You clutch at his back, clinging to the moment, to him, to this stupid, perfect boy who kissed you mid-race and ruined your life a little—in the best way.

You come with his mouth on yours and his hand coaxing you through it, every nerve alight, every thought blank except for MingyuMingyuMingyu.

When it fades, he kisses you again, softer now, like a thank-you. Like a goddamn lullaby.

“Still smug?” you murmur, breath shaky, eyes half-lidded as you come down.

He grins—sleepy and wild and very pleased with himself. “Depends. Are you still scary?”

You smile, pulling him closer. “You have no idea.”

Mingyu stills. His breath catches—just for a second—before he lifts his head to look at you. The air between you is still buzzing with the aftershock of everything that just passed between your bodies, but his eyes soften like they always do when it’s you.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, like he’s offering you a way out. Even now.

You nod, threading your fingers through his hair. “Yeah. I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

He stands first, gently pulling you up with him, hands finding your waist like he needs to keep touching you or he might float off the ground. You lead the way to your bedroom, your fingers tangled in his, the soft creak of the door closing behind you louder than you expect.

The room is quiet except for your breathing—his still uneven, yours still shallow. The soft wash of moonlight spills in through the window, casting faint shadows across your bed, your floor, the way he looks at you like you’re something he never expected to have.

You back toward the bed slowly, legs brushing the frame, and he follows until your knees bump the mattress. His hands find your hips again, thumbs rubbing gentle circles like he’s grounding himself all over again.

“You can still back out,” he says, serious now, even if his voice is a little breathless. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

“I don’t want to rush,” you whisper, reaching for the hem of your (his) shirt, “but I do want this. With you.”

His jaw flexes as he watches you pull the fabric over your head, eyes tracking every slow reveal like he’s memorizing you by the second. You reach for him too, tugging at the drawstring of his sweats as he steps closer, pressing his forehead to yours.

There’s still teasing in the way he kisses you, sure—but it’s slowed now, as if all the earlier heat has melted into something even more intimate. He lays you down with a kind of care that makes your heart ache, crawling into the bed like he belongs there—like he’s always meant to be here with you.

You scoot back until the backs of your knees meet the pillows, Mingyu following you down, one arm braced beside your head while the other traces the curve of your waist. He kisses you again, deep and steady this time, like he wants to feel every inch of you in the press of his mouth. His fingers ghost up your ribs, brushing the underside of your chest, then pausing again, like he’s checking in without words.

You nod, barely a breath. “Please.”

You feel laid bare in every way—your skin, your breath, the way his eyes take you in like you’re something to be studied, cherished.

“God,” he murmurs, voice gone quiet and raspy. “You’re... you’re unreal.”

You shake your head, a little dazed and a lot in love. “You’re staring.”

“Can you blame me?” He bends down to kiss your chest, slow and deliberate, like he wants to worship you in pieces. “You’re mine.”

It should sound cocky. It would if it came from anyone else. But it’s Mingyu, saying it with that look in his eyes—like it’s less about possession and more about awe. Like he still can’t believe you let him have this.

You tug him down until he’s flush against you, skin to skin, the heat between you both stifling and electric. He groans softly as your hands find his hips, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his sweats, pushing them down just enough so they fall to the floor with his boxers.

“Okay?” he whispers again, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the edge of your jaw.

You nod and pull him closer. “More than.”

And then he’s moving—slow and careful, like he’s still half-afraid to break you, even now. But you anchor him with your hands on his back, your legs around his waist, the brush of your nose against his.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, and this time it’s not a promise. It’s a fact.

And when he finally pushes into you, your breath catches hard, eyes fluttering shut from the stretch, the closeness, the dizzying warmth of it all. He stills immediately, pressing his forehead to yours, one hand cupping your cheek.

“Tell me if—”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice already trembling. “I need—just... stay. Right there.”

He does. Of course he does. He always does.

He moves slowly, carefully, like the moment is something he wants to savor—not rush. Like this is the part he’s been waiting for all along. And god, it’s everything. The heat, the weight, the feel of his mouth on your shoulder, his hand gripping yours tight between the sheets.

You whisper his name again and again, and every time it leaves your lips, he gives something back—deeper, closer, gentler. His lips find yours between gasps, half-kisses and murmured sweet things you can’t even process because he’s filling you with too much. Too much heat, too much love, too much him.

And when you finally come again, it’s overwhelming. It hits hard and bright and sharp, curling your toes, your back arching off the mattress as he holds you through it, forehead pressed to your temple, voice saying your name like he means it.

He follows just after, hips stuttering as he buries his face in your neck, his moan muffled by skin and sheets.

The room is quiet in the aftermath. Just the sound of your breathing, tangled limbs, and the faint rush of blood still roaring in your ears.

Eventually, Mingyu lifts his head, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. “Still scary?” he murmurs, voice wrecked but amused.

You smile, pressing a lazy kiss to his jaw. “Only if you leave your socks on again.”

He lets out a groan and flops to the side, dragging you with him. “Low blow. That was one time.”

You curl into his chest, sated and warm and so full of him you don’t even know where you end and he begins. “It was yesterday.”

He laughs, breathless, curling an arm around you like he never plans to let go.

And maybe—just maybe—you hope he doesn’t. Because who cares if you lose when you have him.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯♥⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

BONUS:

#svthub #svt #seventeen #mingyu x reader #mingyu fanfic #mingyu #svt smut #svt x reader #svt imagines #kim mingyu #kim mingyu smut #kim mingyu fluff #mingyu smut

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youngpoetpoe · 2 months ago

Text

Summer Magic

Irene x Seulgi x Male Reader

Buy me a ko-fi.

The sun beats down on the private rooftop pool, its turquoise water shimmering, the city’s hum a distant buzz beyond the hotel’s sleek glass walls. You lean back against the pool’s edge, arms spread, the cool tiles biting your skin, a smirk curling your lips. As Red Velvet’s new manager, you’ve wasted no time bending the group to your will—sweet promises, sly gaslighting, a few well-placed whispers about their careers, and now they’re yours, hooked, ready to do whatever you want.

Wendy’s off hosting SBS Youngstreet, her radio voice probably charming the airwaves, leaving Irene and Seulgi here, ripe for the taking, their eyes already glinting with devotion, their bodies primed for your touch.

Irene steps into view first, her petite frame a vision in her Summer Magic outfit: a yellow checkered dress with thin straps, the neckline dipping low to show off her perky chest, the hem cutting high to reveal her tight midriff and toned thighs, paired with white shorts that hug her slim hips and accentuate her firm ass.

Seulgi’s nearby, dipping her toes in the water, her figure wrapped in a blue checkered dress with a palm tree accessory clipped into her long, wavy brown hair, cascading down her back in glossy waves. The dress clings to her toned abs, cutting off to highlight her thick, dancer’s thighs and round ass, paired with white shorts that ride high, emphasizing her curves. Her tan skin contrasts Irene’s ivory glow, her wide, expressive eyes locking onto you with a playful spark, red lips parting in a shy smile—she’s the group’s heart, but you’ve turned her vibrant warmth into a desperate need to please.

“You two look fucking edible” you say, voice low, cutting through the pool’s gentle lap. Irene’s blush deepens, her fingers fidgeting with her shorts, her leader’s composure fraying under your gaze. Seulgi giggles, a nervous edge, her tan shoulders rolling as she steps closer, water splashing her bare feet.

“You’ve been teasing us all day” Seulgi says, her voice bright but trembling, her accent soft, her eyes darting to Irene like she’s checking for permission. “At the shoot… those looks.”

Irene steps forward, her bare feet silent on the tiles, her dark eyes narrowing, a flicker of jealousy at Seulgi’s boldness. “He’s our manager now” she says, voice firm but soft, like she’s reminding Seulgi who’s in charge, even if she’s just as enthralled. “We do what he wants.”

You grin, sliding into the pool, water cool against your heated skin, your swim trunks tight against your hardening cock. “And what I want’s right here.” You beckon them with a finger, your tone smooth. “Get in.”

They obey, no hesitation. Irene slips in first, her movements graceful, water rippling around her slim waist, her crop top soaking through, clinging to her tits, nipples hardening under the wet fabric. Seulgi follows, less controlled, splashing slightly, her blue top darkening, outlining her abs, her shorts sticking to her thighs, water beading on her tanned skin. They wade closer, their eyes locked on you, Irene’s dark and commanding, Seulgi’s wide and eager, both ready to serve, their rivalry simmering in the way their shoulders brush, a silent I’m better.

You pull Irene to you, her petite body light in the water, her bare shoulders slick under your hands, her black hair floating like ink. “You’ve been dying for this” you murmur. Her breath hitches, pale cheeks flushing, and she nods, eyes half-lidded, lips parting. You kiss her hard, tongue plunging, claiming her mouth, her moan soft, muffled, her full lips soft but urgent, pressing back, her hands gripping your arms, nails digging into your skin.

Her hand slides down, finding your cock through your trunks, fingers wrapping tight, jerking you briskly, the water sloshing with her rhythm, her strokes fast, precise, like she’s proving her worth. The pleasure’s sharp, a hot jolt through your core, your cock throbbing under her grip, her pale fingers a blur under the water, her leader’s control showing even now, every move calculated to make you groan.

Seulgi’s on you before you can speak, her shoulder brushing Irene’s, a quick glare passing between them, her warm lips latching onto your nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking, wet and sloppy. Her brown hair sticks to her neck, water dripping down her bare shoulders, her blue crop top soaked, clinging to her firm tits, her teeth grazing your skin, sending sparks down your spine. She’s eager, messy, her moans vibrating against you, her hands roaming your chest, fingers tracing your abs, desperate to please, her submissive streak a stark contrast to Irene’s command.

“Fuck, you’re both so good” you rasp, voice thick, Irene’s tongue tangling with yours, her hand pumping your cock, Seulgi’s lips sucking, tongue swirling, the dual assault frying your nerves, water splashing, warm bodies pressed close, their skin slick, glowing under the sun.

Irene pulls back, panting, her lips glossy, eyes burning with lust. “Seulgi, get down there” she orders, voice sharp, her leader’s tone cutting through the haze, her hand on your chest, fingers splayed, holding you steady. She smiles at you slow and wicked, her dark eyes locked on yours and full of intent, her pale skin shimmering.

Seulgi dips her head with a quick, eager nod, her long brown hair shimmering in the sunlight before she slips beneath the surface, the turquoise water swallowing her in a ripple of light. Her tan fingers glide over your thighs, parting them with a slow, teasing pressure, the warmth of her touch sending a shiver racing up your spine. Then her lips find your cock—soft, warm, a sudden blaze against the icy pool water that clings to your skin. She draws you in deep, her mouth tight and slick, her tongue tracing slow, deliberate circles that make your breath catch, bubbles rising in soft bursts around her. Her blue checkered dress floats up, the fabric swaying like a stage costume caught in a dream, her white shorts inching higher, the curve of her ass breaking the surface as the water swirls in lazy spirals.

Irene’s hand stays on your chest, her touch firm, grounding, her smile widening, eyes glinting, like she’s savoring the control, the way you’re losing it. “Like that?” she purrs, voice low, her lips close, her breath hot, her pale shoulder brushing yours, her crop top soaked, clinging to her slim frame. You nod, groaning, her hand sliding up, fingers brushing your neck, her gaze never wavering, lust and pride mixing, as she watches Seulgi work you below.

A low groan escapes your throat as her tongue flicks faster, the heat of her mouth wrapping you in a pulsing rhythm, each swirl sending a jolt through your core. The cold water bites at your skin, but her lips—those red lips that flash perfect smiles on music shows—stretch around you, sucking with a steady, hungry pull, her throat tightening in waves that make your cock throb harder. Your fingers dig into the pool edge, the tiles sharp against your palms, a grounding sting as your hips twitch, chasing the fire building in your gut. The wet sounds of her mouth, the faint pop of bubbles, the sight of her dancer’s body swaying below—all of it blurs into a haze of sensation, your balls tightening, pleasure surging like a tide you can’t hold back. Irene’s hand on your chest is a steady anchor, her eyes boring into yours, her smile teasing, knowing you’re about to break.

A growl rumbles in your chest as Seulgi's throat clamps around you, a perfect sheath molded just for your cock—a cock that’s already claimed every Red Velvet girl, from Irene’s stern lips to Wendy’s soft gasps, Yeri’s shy whimpers, and Joy’s eager moans.

But Seulgi’s different—her throat grips you like it was made for this, made for you, her neediness a raw, pulsing thing as she sucks harder, her lips stretching wide, tongue flicking with a hunger that’s all-consuming. The cold water sharpens every sensation, her warmth a blazing fire, your cock throbbing harder with each tight pull, pleasure spiking through you like lightning. Your fingers dig into the pool edge, tiles cutting into your palms, the sharp sting grounding you as your hips buck, driving deeper into her throat, her muffled gags vibrating through you.

Her hair fans out underwater, a shimmering cascade that gleams like it does on stage, her palm tree accessory bobbing with each thrust—a reminder of the vibrant idol she is to the world. But here, she’s not Red Velvet’s Seulgi, the dazzling performer with a voice that captivates millions. She’s your slut, her throat a willing vessel, her body trembling with the need to please you, to take every inch you’ve given to her bandmates, to prove she’s the best. The thought sends a surge of heat through you—your cock pulses, nerves alight with every frantic suck, every desperate swirl, pleasure coiling tighter, hotter, an inferno ready to erupt as she worships you, her idol perfection now a dripping, needy mess just for you.

Seulgi surfaces, gasping, water streaming down her face, brown hair plastered to her tanned cheeks, eyes wide, desperate for air, her lips parted, panting, her blue top clinging, nipples poking through. You’re teetering, cock throbbing, ready to blow, but Irene’s hand shoots down, grabbing Seulgi’s wet hair, shoving her head back underwater with a sharp “Finish the job you whore.”

Seulgi squirms, body thrashing, bubbles exploding, her hands clawing your thighs, nails scraping, panic mixing with need, her mouth finding your cock again, warmer now, tighter, her throat contracting, sucking harder, lips locked, tongue wild, the cold water amplifying every pulse, every flick. Irene’s hand remains on Seulgi's head to keep her underwater, while her other hand stays on your chest. Her smile is now gone, her eyes dark and commanding, her black hair dripping, pale skin glowing, her crop top clinging, her voice a low growl—“She’ll take it all.”

A guttural groan tears from your chest as you lose control, hips bucking hard, your cock pulsing with each surge, hot cum pumping into Seulgi’s mouth in thick spurts. Her throat works to swallow every drop, the warmth of her mouth a stark contrast to the cold water, her lips trembling around you, bubbles rising in frantic bursts as her body jerks, gasping for air yet locked onto you, refusing to let go. Irene leans in, her lips crashing into yours with a fierce urgency, her tongue plunging deep, swapping saliva in a hungry exchange, her moans vibrating into your mouth, her hand gripping your neck, nails digging in sharply, her pale skin flushed pink, water dripping from her black ponytail, her white shorts riding up to reveal her toned thighs.

The pleasure blinds you, your cock convulsing in Seulgi’s tight, unrelenting seal, Irene’s kiss a possessive claim, your hands tangling in Seulgi’s wet hair, fingers twisting as you shove her down, burying your cock deeper, her throat choking around you, cum flooding her in waves.

You release Seulgi, her head breaking the surface, gasping, coughing, water streaming down her tanned face, brown hair plastered, eyes watering, lips swollen, cum and spit dripping from her mouth, her blue top soaked, clinging to her heaving chest. She’s panting, trembling, but her eyes lock on you, adoring, submissive, like she’s proud she took it, her shoulders shaking, water beading on her skin.

Irene pulls back, licking her lips, her dark eyes glinting, a satisfied smirk curling, her pale skin shimmering, black hair slick, her hand sliding down your chest, possessive. “Good girl” she murmurs, glancing at Seulgi, her voice sharp, praising but edged, like she’s reminding her who’s boss. Seulgi nods, breathless, her smile shy, her hands gripping the pool edge, steadying herself, her shorts riding up, ass peeking out, water dripping.

You lean back, chest heaving, cock softening, water lapping at your waist. Irene’s flushed face, Seulgi’s cum-streaked lips, water beading on their bare shoulders, their soaked outfits clinging, shorts barely covering their asses, the pool’s surface rippling, their eyes locked on you, hungry, devoted. Irene’s hand lingers on your chest, her fingers tracing your skin while Seulgi’s gaze is softer, eager, her vibrant energy subdued but burning, both ready for whatever you demand next.

“Fucking perfect” you say, voice rough, pulling them closer, their bodies warm, slick, pressing against you, Irene’s pale skin cool, Seulgi’s tanned skin hot, their bare shoulders brushing, their rivalry simmering in the way they lean into you, each vying for your touch. The sun’s high, water’s cool, and their eyes scream they’re yours—hooked, enamored, your words and whispers all it took to break them, their short shorts and crop tops a wet, clinging tease, their hair dripping, lips parted, ready for more.

Irene smirks, her black hair sticking to her neck, her hand sliding lower, brushing your thigh, teasing, her voice a soft taunt. “Think Wendy’s missing out?” she murmurs, her tone playful, knowing Wendy’s stuck at the radio station.

Seulgi giggles, breathless, her brown hair plastered, her cheek brushing your arm, her voice softer, eager. “She’d be jealous” she says, her hand resting on your hip, fingers light, like she’s staking a claim, her eyes flicking to Irene, checking her reaction.

You grin, pulling them tighter, water splashing, their bodies a slick, warm tangle, the city’s hum a faint backdrop. “She’ll get hers” you say, voice low, promising, your hands roaming their bare shoulders, fingers tracing their soaked tops, their shorts, their skin, already planning the next round, their eyes lighting up, ready to obey your control absolute.

#red velvet smut #seulgi smut #irene smut #red velvet irene smut #red velvet seulgi smut #irene x male reader #seulgi x male reader

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luvss4addi · 15 days ago

Text

"I missed you"

pairing: boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x you

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, oral, no use of y/n, reader is afab, worshipping kink (?), praise kink, mutual teasing, established relationship

summary: Bucky's been busy, but he always makes time for you

word count: 2k

author's note: heyyy so funny story this is actually not only my first smut fic but my first fic in general :) soooo go easy on me?

The evidence of the sunrise slowly freckled your face, as if the very sun was slowly caressing you, eventually reaching your eyes, waking you, as it did with the rest of the world.

The first thing you notice is the lingering warmth beside you in the bed, as you reach out, you feel the heat of where he once was dissipate. The second thing you notice is the subtle ache in your muscles from the night before, not painful, just a present reminder.

Bucky's schedule was always cluttered, between congressional meetings, PR training (Lord knows he needs it), and rehearsed speeches, he wasn't able to come home most nights. After being away from you for two unbearable weeks, he decided he needed to take a weekend devoted strictly to you.

The third thing you notice is the smell of coffee being brewed, followed by the low hum of the coffee maker. With a quick stretch, you make your way downstairs.

Bucky's hair is a mess, evidence of him waking up not so long before you. His back is facing you, as he gently stirs creamer into your favorite coffee cup. He's wearing dark sweatpants, the ones that ride low on his hips, with the band of his boxers showing, and of course, he's shirtless. The biggest mistake of your life was telling him how attractive he was without a shirt, you swear he does it just to watch you squirm.

"Well good morning, my sleeping beauty"

Bucky greets in an almost condescending tone, he turns around and leans on the kitchen counter with his arms crossed and sleepy but thoughtful smile painting his face.

You mumble back a response, as you take the coffee handed to you. It's exactly how you like it, a nonverbal agreement of his love for you.

"I was thinking French toast, maybe with some bacon."

With Bucky looking at you with such admiration, and the way his muscles flexed when crossing his arms, breakfast was the very last thing you were thinking about.

You take a step closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, as one hand lazily played with his hair. His hands found themselves slightly lifting your shirt, just enough for him to snake his hands around your waist, slowly, almost agonizing with the stark contrast of his cool metal on your bare skin.

"Hi"

"Hi," Bucky responds.

You give him a quick kiss on the lips and an excuse to pull him even closer. As your lips ghost over one another, you whisper in a voice so quiet, so intimate, it gets hard for him to think.

"I missed you"

Your hands slowly unwrap from around his neck, sliding down the nape of his neck, caressing every muscle, as you inch your way down his entire body.

"I know, doll, I shouldn't have left you alone for so long"

He gently guides one of your hands to his lips, caressing it, kissing the inside your wrist, he gives you the same look a puppy would give after they've done something wrong.

Your other hand finally reaches the band of his checkered boxers, absentmindedly playing with the fabric, lifting it, snapping it against his skin.

"You gonna make it up to me, pretty boy?"

You earned a small chuckle from him. "Last night wasn't enough for you?" He teased, his hand caressing your cheek, thumb settling right below your tired eyes, pulling you in once more. There was a vast contrast to the first kiss, this was deep and all-consuming, tongue slow and sweet against yours. He pulled away suddenly, earning the quietest whimper from your throat.

"My sweet girl getting all needy on me?"

Bucky grazes your neck with his fingers, slowly pushing the hair away from your face tilting your head ever so slightly, exposing you as he leaves sloppy kisses along the curve of your neck. His hands left your waist, traveling ever so slowly upwards, reversing your previous teasing actions on his own body.

"Bucky..."

"mhmmm?" He leaves your neck to meet your gaze, your hand on his boxers dipping below the fabric, an unspoken plea, until his hand catches your wrist, pulling you away.

"Lemme take care of you, baby"

His lips are on yours again, deeper than before, filled with pure desire as his neediness starts to outweigh yours. Bucky is practically consuming you, taking what's his.

He walks forward gently pushing you back, his hands moving to your thighs, giving them a gentle but affirming squeeze that says "I'm here" while he softly guides you on top of the kitchen island, settling between your legs, like a second home.

You both pull away catching your breath, feeling his on your lips. Your hands lands just below his ears, thumbs rubbing against his stubble. His metal hand stayed on your thigh, while his right was settled on your hip, rubbing slow circles into your soft skin.

"God I missed you so much"

Bucky confesses, leaving a soft, intimate kiss on your forehead, before kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, jaw, and neck, each kiss becoming more hungry, more desperate than the last, making you feel even needier than before.

His last words leave a small whine on your lips, he starts bunching the fabric of your shirt, pulling it off until he reaches your breasts.

"Can I take this off?"

"..Please" you manage to practically moan.

In one fluid motion, he drags the fabric along the rest of your body, your muscle memory lifts your arms above your head, allowing Bucky to discard your shirt somewhere in the kitchen. The sudden coldness of the environment wakes you up better than any coffee.

His hands steady himself on your waist once more, and he pulls back eyes glazing over your newly exposed skin. He's seen you like this hundreds of times, but still, every time he looks at your bare chest he can't help but feel heat encroaching on his cheeks, turning dusty pink.

"You're so perfect"

His lips attached to your body, just below your collarbone, leaving a trail to your hardened nipple, his other hand caressing your opposite breast leaving slow but deep swipes.

Your back arches into his mouth, allowing him to kiss the sensitive area even deeper. With the feeling of his hot mouth all over your body, followed by your intense yearning while he was away, his actions felt almost overwhelming, earning him small whimpers escaping from your lips.

"You sound so pretty baby, lemme hear you"

His mouth trailed farther down your body leaving wet marks of where he once was, your fingers tangling in his hair, gently massaging his scalp, like he's the only thing grounding you. He kisses below your navel, placing his hands on your hips, guiding himself down to his knees in front of you, looking into your eyes as he does so, the sight alone going straight to between your legs. He kisses you high on your inner thigh, the place where he knows you're most sensitive.

As his fingers hook the side of your lacy dark red lingerie, his stormy blue eyes make contact with yours, leaving your lips with a small gasp.

"Do you always wear these to breakfast" He teases you.

"Only when I'm feeling lucky" You smile, as you run your fingers through his hair.

This earns a small laugh from him, with him being so close you feel the vibrations right in the place you need him most, leaving you aching.

Bucky kisses your inner thigh maintaining eye contact with you, as you lift your hips slightly, allowing him to drag the fabric down in the most agonizing way, like he's memorizing the very action.

"Atta girl"

As your lingerie grazes over your upper thigh, he kisses just above, his lips trailing after the thin soaked fabric. Each kiss felt like worshipping, a tiny prayer burning into your senses, lighting every nerve on fire.

"Bucky..." You whine out.

You feel his smile against your skin, as he looks up at you. "Yeah, doll?"

"I need you" You pause licking your lips, taking in the sight of Bucky on his knees, treating you like you're the most precious thing in the world. Looking at you with so much love, and an intense desire to please you, to make up for the nights you spent alone, in bed, fingers in your underwear, fantasying about this very moment.

"please baby" you moan out breathlessly, petting his hair, your eyes telling him that he had teased you enough, and now you needed him desperately.

Your words make him twitch in his boxers, he wants so badly to bury himself deep inside you, listen to your tiny breathless moans, watch you squirm as he hits the spot that makes your head dizzy in the best way possible, over and over again.

But he knows you've earned this, that this is everything you deserve and more for putting up with him and his schedule. Besides, he had gotten that privilege last night, and now, all he wants to do is worship every inch of your body, and tell you how sorry he is with his actions alone.

His hands reach up to your hips, letting your thighs rest on his shoulders, "Easy doll, you'll get what you want" He responds in the cocky tone he knows you hate.

He gently drags you to the edge of the counter, your arousal exposed to him, physically showing the effects of his teasing, he can't help but smile at that, the evidence of your desire for him.

He kisses your clit gently, before licking a long strip up your core. He takes his time, savoring the taste in his mouth, his tongue being slow and precise. Earning him a long whimper from your lips.

"So wet for me baby, you been thinking about this? hmm?"

You can't tell if it's embarrassment, or his tongue doing laps on your clit that you feel the heat rising on your cheeks as you moan out a yes...

Your confession makes him moan against your heat, adding to the intense pleasure you're taking.

"Shouldn't have left my needy girl alone" Your hips jerk at his words, as he digs himself deeper into you, his nose hitting your clit as he devours you, eating you out like he's starving. You moan embarrassingly loud, as your body twitches at the pleasure building below.

"You need this so bad, huh pretty girl"

You eagerly nod your head, as he drags slow, circles through your wetness.

Just when you need him most, he pulls away, kissing your inner thigh. You look down at him, your face contorted into pure lust, eyes lidded from the pleasure.

He looks back up at you "Tell me how bad you need this"

You barely let him finish the sentence, before your lust takes over, begging for something, anything. Your words are a mix of whimpers and moans that drive Bucky crazy.

"Please—Bucky... I- I need this" you moan out "I need you, ill do anything you want j-just please"

You tighten your grip on his head. Between the fingers in his hair, and filthy words coming from your mouth, Bucky feels like a teenager with the way he's leaking in his boxers.

"Jesus... You have any idea what you're doing to me?"

His mouth is back on your heat, his tongue inside you slow and deep, as you grind into him, your hands pushing him even deeper, telling him where you need it. Your whole body is twitching, lips parted with a stream of moans followed by more pleading.

"I'm so— close, so close— please, please don't stop, Bucky..."

"Come for me pretty girl, give it to me."

And you did.

It hit you hard, and suddenly, tearing through your body in waves of pleasure. Your hands left his hair as you grabbed onto the counter's edge, trying to stop yourself from collapsing, as your whole body twitched. Your head hung low, as you tried to catch your breath.

Bucky kissed his way up your body, lifting himself from the floor, holding you by the waist.

"I got you, baby, you're okay."

He placed his cool metal hand on the back of your head letting you collapse onto him, your head settling under his chin, while his other hand rubbed circles into your back, soothing you, holding you most intimately, as he slowly pet your hair.

When your body finally stops trembling, he takes his hand away from your scalp, moving upwards to your face, cupping your cheek, as he gently guides you to look at him.

"You did so good for me, doll."

#bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #need that #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #smut

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agentstarkid · 4 months ago

Text

A TABLE FOR TWO ✦ DR3

✦ DEBRIEF: No cameras, no obligations, just the lazy rhythm of conversation and the comfort of familiar hands intertwined. The world can wait, just for a little longer. After all, some moments deserve to stretch on forever.

✦ CHECKERED FLAG: 3.7K words

✦ TRACK LIMITS: just lots of fluff and cute banter. no use of y/n. english is not my first language x

✦ MAY'S RADIO: yesterday i saw this video on tiktok and i had to write it for danielito 💘 it was supposed to be just a drabble but...*sighs*

< back to general masterlist

The golden Monaco sun cast a warm glow over the pastel buildings, the scent of salt and freshly baked bread drifting through the air as you and Daniel strolled through the narrow, winding streets. His hand brushed against yours absentmindedly, the easy intimacy of two people who had carved out a quiet life together away from the chaos of the world.

The city, alive with its usual summer hum, felt slower today—or maybe that was just him. Daniel walked beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts, sunglasses perched on his nose, and a light scruff dusting his jaw. He looked at ease, like he belonged here, like the world of racing had never claimed him in the first place.

Laughter bubbled from his lips as he recounted some ridiculous story, his sunglasses sliding down his nose as he glanced at you with that signature grin—the one that made your heart trip over itself no matter how many times you’d seen it.

“Alright, mon amour,” he teased with an exaggerated accent, nudging you gently with his elbow. “We’re in the mood for something fancy, or are we going full tourist and getting pizza by the port?” The sun kissed his tanned skin, his carefree demeanor a stark contrast to the adrenaline-fueled world he usually thrived in. But here, with you, in the lull of summer, Daniel was just Daniel—the man who made you laugh, who pulled you closer when the breeze picked up, and who, at that moment, looked at you like he had all the time in the world.

You rolled your eyes at his question, adjusting your sunglasses as you glanced at him with feigned exasperation. “Daniel, we live here. We are not tourists.”

He let out an exaggerated gasp, placing a hand over his chest as if you had wounded him. “Excuse me, but pizza by the port is a classic experience, no matter how long you've lived here.” His voice took on a faux-serious tone, but the playful glint in his eyes gave him away.

You smirked, shaking your head. “Mmm, sounds like someone just doesn’t want to sit through a proper meal.”

“Okay, first of all,” he held up a finger, “a proper meal is subjective.” He gestured toward the lively cafés lining the streets, their terraces filled with people sipping wine and sharing plates of seafood. “Second, I was thinking of you, my love. You always say you don’t like eating heavy meals in this heat.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, skeptical. “That’s true… but you’re also conveniently leaving out the fact that you have the patience of a toddler when you’re hungry.”

Daniel gasped again, more dramatic this time, stopping in the middle of the cobbled street. “Uh excuse me?! I have the patience of a saint, thank you very much.”

You arched a brow, crossing your arms. “Oh, really? So, you didn’t nearly lose your mind waiting for our order last week at that fancy place?”

“That was different!” He threw his hands up. “They made us wait forty minutes just to bring out the bread, and you know how I feel about bread service!”

You burst out laughing, grabbing his wrist to pull him forward as he stubbornly stood there, reliving his past suffering. “Okay, okay, let’s compromise. We get something light but not just pizza, deal?”

Daniel hummed, pretending to think it over as you turned a corner, the sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. “Fine, but only if I get to pick dessert.”

You squinted at him. “So, this was about your sweet tooth all along?”

A guilty smirk spread across his face. “Listen, baby, I can’t help that gelato is my one true weakness.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You are so lucky I love you.”

“Oh, I know I am,” he said smoothly, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your lips. “And I plan to keep reminding you with every bite of gelato I feed you later.”

The narrow street opened up into a sun-drenched plaza, the scent of espresso and fresh seafood hanging thick in the warm August air. You and Daniel meandered toward a café with a shaded terrace, but he kept bumping into you lightly with his hip, a mischievous grin plastered across his sun-kissed face.

“Oi, you keep shoving me, I’m gonna have to start charging you rent for walking in my personal space,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge back.

Daniel clutched his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Your personal space? Babe, please. This whole city should be paying me rent just for blessing it with my presence.”

You scoffed, stepping up onto the curb while he remained on the street, making you just slightly taller than him. “Oh, you think you’re some kind of gift to Monte Carlo?”

He wiggled his brows. “I mean, yeah. Have you seen me? Local legend. National treasure. The pride of Perth.”

You deadpanned. “You’re in Monaco, Daniel.”

“Exactly. I’m international, baby.” He struck a ridiculous pose, hands on his hips like a superhero.

You covered your face, laughing into your palm. “God, why am I dating you?”

He gasped, dramatically taking a step back like you had just rocked his world. “You don’t know?! Babe, this is alarming. What happened to ‘oh Daniel, I love you so much, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me’?” His voice pitched higher as he mimicked you.

You burst into laughter, nearly tripping over the cobblestone as you smacked his arm. “I have never said that in my life!”

Daniel waggled a finger. “Nah, nah, you said it. Maybe not in words, but with your eyes.”

“Oh, so you’re an expert in my eyes now?”

“Mate, I could write a whole bloody thesis on ‘em.” He tilted his head, squinting dramatically. “Chapter One: ‘The Death Stare—How One Exotic Woman Strikes Fear into a Grown Australian Man.’”

You crossed your arms, feigning seriousness. “Uh-huh. And Chapter Two?”

“‘Heart Eyes—A Study in How Quickly She Melts When I Do This.’” Without warning, he reached over and pinched your cheek, pulling lightly before quickly dodging out of your reach when you swatted at him.

You groaned, but you were grinning. “Daniel! You are so annoying!”

“And yet,” he sang, slinging an arm over your shoulders and tugging you close as he steered you toward the café, “here you are, still stuck with me, schricchiolina.”

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

Daniel grinned, pressing a noisy, exaggerated kiss to your temple before whispering, “You love it, though.”

You did. And he knew it.

The café was tucked into the curve of the quay in Fontvieille, shaded by striped awnings with little potted citrus trees lining the terrace. The warm hum of conversation mixed with the occasional clatter of cutlery, the scent of espresso and grilled seafood weaving through the air.

Daniel, ever the gentleman, pulled out your chair before plopping down across from you, one arm draped lazily over the back of his seat.

A waiter appeared, all polite efficiency, handing over the menus. You glanced over at Daniel, who was already scanning the options like it was a life-or-death decision.

“You’re just going to order the same thing you always do,” you teased, not even looking at your own menu.

“Excuse me, I am a man of taste and variety,” he argued, though his eyes flickered over to the pasta he always ordered.

You snorted. “Taste, yes. Variety? Absolutely not.”

Daniel rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress the grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, what are you getting, then, Miss Culinary Adventure?”

You pretended to ponder. “Mmm, maybe I should just order for the both of us. Make sure we get something exciting. Maybe some... snails?”

Daniel’s nose scrunched immediately. “Alright, first of all, escargot is just a fancy way of saying ‘garden slugs on a plate,’ and I refuse.”

“Ah, so you do lack variety.”

“I do not lack variety. I just have standards,” he declared, setting his menu down with finality. “And my standards say no to chewy bugs drenched in butter.”

The waiter returned before you could tease him further, and Daniel ordered his usual (as expected), and shot you a cheeky look. “–and a side of bread. You know, for the trauma.” You snorted, shaking your head as you placed your own order, picking something different just to prove a point.

As the waiter left, your eyes flickered over his outfit—the mint green bucket hat, the Enchanté tote bag resting beside him, the Gator Tours trunks that somehow made the man look like one of those dads on tourist-mode. You smirked.

“You know,” you mused, resting your chin on your hand, “for someone who gives me a hard time about my shopping habits, you sure do love wearing your own merch.”

Daniel smirked, leaning back in his chair. “What can I say? I have impeccable taste.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” you nodded mock-seriously. “But let’s be real, do you actually like the designs, or do you just love seeing your own name on your clothes?”

Daniel gasped, placing a hand over his heart. “I am offended at this blatant attack on my fashion sense.”

You bit back a grin. “I just think it’s funny how you act all cool about it when I know you get all smug when someone recognizes your stuff.”

He huffed a laugh, then narrowed his eyes at you playfully. “Alright, Miss Observant, if we’re pointing out habits, let’s talk about how you love my merch.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Yeah, I wear your hoodies sometimes. So what?”

He wiggled his brows. “Not just hoodies.”

Your stomach dipped slightly at the knowing glint in his eye. “What are you talking about?”

Daniel leaned forward, voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I’m talking about how you love wearing my shirts. And only my shirts.” His grin turned downright devilish. “Just a t-shirt and a cute little pair of panties—or not—, walking around the apartment as if it is your own runway.”

Heat rushed to your face. “Daniel.”

“What?” he teased, sipping his drink like he hadn't just flustered you in broad daylight. “It’s a great look. Huge fan, really.”

You shook your head, exhaling a laugh. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet, you still give me a show every day.” He winked.

A beat passed and then—

“Are you okay?” he leaned a little over the table, amusement dancing in his eyes at the crimson tide that surged into your cheeks, a hint of mischief colored his tone, “You look a little–”

“I’m fine! Shut up.” a gentle pout formed on your lips, but you couldn't help the smile that threatened to lift the edges of your mouth. A lighthearted smirk pinched at his cheeks, his gaze drifting toward the marina, you could tell he’d gotten lost in thought. The sun highlighted the light scruff on his jaw, the easy way he carried himself here, like these last few months had softened all his edges.

A TikTok trend you’d seen that morning flickered in your mind, sparking a mischievous idea that you couldn’t resist. You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hey, Daniel.”

He blinked, startled out of his daze, his wide brown eyes meeting yours with the cutest little look—eyebrows raised, lips parted slightly, like you’d just pulled him out of another world. “Yeah?” His voice was softer, curious.

You leaned in even closer, as if you were about to reveal something truly life-altering, and whispered, “I have a crush on you.”

You said it like it was the first time, like it wasn’t something he had heard countless times before, like it wasn’t already carved into the foundation of your relationship.

And oh, the way it hit him.

His shoulders bunched slightly, his hands coming together on his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. His head tilted just a bit, cheek brushing against his shoulder, a shy, boyish smile creeping onto his lips.

So fucking cute. You could eat him with a spoon.

He pointed at himself with wide eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. You simply nodded, your chin resting on your fist, watching the disbelief flicker across his face.

“You… you do?” His voice was small, teasing yet unmistakably earnest, like you had just knocked the air right out of him and sent him spiraling back to the nerves of a schoolboy with a crush.

A slow smile tugged at your lips as you tilted your head. “Yeah. I think you’re pretty cool.”

Daniel let out a breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair like he needed a second to process. “Wow. That’s—uh, that’s pretty huge, actually.”

You nodded seriously. “Massive.”

His lips twitched, cheeks tinged pink, before he did a little victorious shimmy in his chair, pumping his fist in the air like he’d just won something monumental. Your laughter spilled out, light and unrestrained, and then—just loud enough for only you to hear—he leaned in and whispered,

“I have a crush on you, too.”

And just like that, you had the privilege of watching a grown man—a man who had faced death-defying speeds, podium finishes, and championship pressure—turn into the most bashful, love-struck thing in the middle of a sunlit café in the Principality.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him—all coy and ridiculously endearing—like this was all still new, like he still couldn’t believe you were his.

God, you were so in love with him.

The waiter returned with your drinks, setting them down before disappearing again. You picked up your smoothie, taking a sip as Daniel tapped a beat against the table with his fingers. His eyes softened as he watched you, a content smile tugging at his lips.

“Y’know,” he mused, tilting his head slightly, “I think this might be my favorite version of us.”

You set your glass down, curiosity flickering in your gaze. “What do you mean?”

Daniel shrugged, looking out at the sun-drenched plaza before meeting your eyes again. “Just… this. Us. Waking around the city, sitting in some café, arguing over yucky foods and bread. No rush, no cameras, no pressure. Just us.”

Your heart melted just a little, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. You reached across the table, lacing your fingers with his. “Yeah,” you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Me too.”

Daniel grinned, squeezing your hand in return before leaning in conspiratorially. “But just so we’re clear,” he murmured, voice dropping like he was about to tell you a grand secret, “if you do try to order snails next time, I will cause a scene.”

You snorted, trying to pull your hand away, but he held onto it, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Oh, so you’d embarrass yourself and me just to avoid a plate of escargot?”

“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “I have my dignity to protect.”

“Dignity?” You raised an eyebrow. “Big word for someone who once tripped over his own shoelaces while trying to bow after karaoke night.”

Daniel groaned, tossing his head back dramatically. “Why must you always bring that up?”

“Because it was hilarious.”

“Alright, well, for your information, I meant to do that,” he declared, sitting up straighter, looking smug despite the lie.

You hummed, unconvinced. “Sure you did.”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but his fingers absentmindedly traced slow, lazy circles over your ring finger, grounding the moment in something softer.

A comfortable silence settled between you, the chatter of the café filling the space. The sunlight caught in Daniel’s curls, turning them into lazy golden waves, his eyes flickering between you and the street beyond. His free hand reached for his drink, but before he could take a sip, he hesitated, then set it down again.

“I don’t want to move,” he admitted suddenly, as if the thought had just hit him.

You blinked. “Move where?”

“Anywhere.” He gestured vaguely around. “Like… I don’t want you to go back to the other side of the world, or us to get dragged into some event, or—” He paused, rubbing his thumb against your knuckles, voice quieter when he continued. “I just want to sit here with you. All day, if we can.”

Your chest tightened, a warmth spreading through you at his words.

You squeezed his hand, your thumb brushing over the back of his as you leaned in slightly, your voice just as soft. “We can.”

Daniel’s eyes flicked up to yours, something tender and almost boyish in the way he searched your face. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “We’ve got nowhere to be. No flights, no schedules, no cameras. Just you and me, sitting in a café in Monaco, eating not pizza and people-watching until we get bored.”

His lips twitched into a small, lopsided smile. “And then what?”

“Then,” you shrugged playfully, “we walk back to our place, take a nap with the AC blasting because it’s too damn hot, and probably end up ordering takeout for dinner.”

Daniel exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. “God, that sounds perfect.”

“It is,” you agreed. “And it’s all ours for the whole month.”

He looked at you like he was committing this moment to memory—the way the sun painted your skin golden, the relaxed ease in your posture, the sheer rightness of having you across from him, promising time.

For the rest of our lives, was what he didn’t say.

“Guess I should start charging you rent now,” he teased, squeezing your fingers.

You rolled your eyes. “Please. If anything, you should be paying me to grace that fancy apartment with my presence.”

Daniel snorted. “Oh yeah? And what exactly do I get in return?”

You smirked, sipping your drink before answering, “Entertainment, obviously.”

“Ah, yes. Watching you dramatically sigh every time I leave my socks on the floor is top-tier entertainment,” he said dryly.

You gasped, feigning offense. “Excuse me, I do not dramatically sigh.”

“You do,” he countered. “It’s like a mix of disappointment and deep suffering. Very moving, honestly.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

You huffed but didn’t deny it, instead narrowing your eyes at him.

The waiter returned with your meals, setting down a plate of cacio e pepe in front of Daniel. His eyes lit up as he inhaled the comforting aroma of the simple yet perfect dish—cheese, black pepper, and pasta.

“Now this is real food,” he said proudly, grabbing his fork like he was about to paint a masterpiece.

Then, the waiter placed your dish in front of you—a beautifully plated bouillabaisse, the classic French seafood stew. Steam curled into the air, carrying the scent of saffron, garlic, and fresh shellfish.

Daniel took one look at your bowl and immediately wrinkled his nose. “I still don’t get how you can eat that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s literally just seafood.”

“It’s seafood in soup,” he corrected, staring at it like it might bite him first. “Why would you ruin perfectly good fish by dunking it in a bowl of sadness?”

You scoffed. “It’s not sadness, it’s flavor.”

“It’s wet,” he countered flatly, making you snort.

Rolling your eyes, you picked up a mussel, dipping it into the fragrant broth. “For a guy who’s mom is Italian and lived in Italy, you’re weirdly dramatic about food.”

“I’m right about food,” he corrected, taking a victorious bite of his pasta. “You could’ve had literally any pasta dish, and you went for—” He waved his fork at your bowl. “That.”

“It’s French cuisine!” you defended. “We’re in Monaco! It felt appropriate.”

Daniel shook his head, exasperated but clearly amused. “You know what? Enjoy your soggy seafood. I’ll be over here eating like a king.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile, and he grinned, twirling more pasta onto his fork.

You smirked, cutting into one of the scallops and lifting it toward him. “Try it.”

Daniel leaned back like you’d just offered him poison. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. You love seafood!”

“I love seafood that’s not drowning,” he countered.

Rolling your eyes, you took the bite yourself, humming in satisfaction. “Mmm. Too bad, ‘cause this is incredible.”

Daniel huffed but couldn’t stop smiling. “Fine. But when you inevitably regret it and start eyeing my food, don’t expect me to share.”

You nudged his foot under the table. “Noted. Now, eat your boring pasta before I change my mind and steal it.”

The two of you fell into easy conversation as you ate, the sun casting a warm glow over the café. At one point, Daniel reached for your hand again, absentmindedly tracing circles against your palm while you talked about the most random things—how you should redecorate the apartment, whether or not a croissant counted as a sandwich, if pigeons had secret meetings when humans weren’t looking.

And then, just as you were finishing your meal, Daniel suddenly said, “I wanna take you somewhere after this.”

You blinked. “Oh? Where?”

He smirked. “Secret.”

You raised a brow. “Do I at least get a hint?”

Daniel pretended to think. “Mmm… It’s somewhere I know you’ll love. And it’s a little bit of a walk, but I promise it’s worth it.”

Your curiosity piqued, but you didn’t push. “Alright, mystery man. But if you’re leading me into some weird alley, I’m fighting you, Ricciardo.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Fair deal. But I promise, you’ll love it.”

And with that, he squeezed your hand one more time, finishing the last bite of his meal with a content smile, looking at you like you were his favorite view in the whole city.

Little did you know, he had been carrying a certain ring in his pocket for months now, waiting for the perfect moment. He could feel the box burning a hole in his pocket, the weight of it heavier than it had ever been. So he took your hand again and kissed your knuckles, right where the ring would soon sit. And as he watched you laugh, looking effortlessly happy, he knew—this was it.

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