#I hope the algorithm is okay with this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

16wolke11 · 27 days ago

Text

Actual Girlfriend - Lando Norris

A/N Okay, okay you guys convinced me to post it! I am not hating on any the drivers girlfriends/friends/situationships or whatever, and this shot was written before the GP on Sunday, just updated slightly (:

WORDS: 2529 _____

I knew what I had signed up for when I started dating Lando Norris. Late-night calls due to different time zones, meeting in secret, and trying to stay out of the media's focus. He is a public figure and I am just about to graduate from university. Keeping our relationship private felt safe at first, romantic like in a novel, but the downside came around quicker than I thought it would.

Monaco was the downfall. The weekend, I couldn’t even attend if I wanted to. My final exam was coming up in the following week, and as much as I wanted to be there for Lando, I needed to sit this race out. Lando was understanding, even encouraging me to stay home and ace my exams, but the distance hurt deep down in my chest.

Lando made the effort to keep in touch with me. He texted me in the morning, between the sessions, and I tried to reply to him and keep things light, but it felt harder and harder with every short message or blurry picture he sent over.

Good morning, Love. Quali is today. Wish me luck?

I smile softly at his message, him acting like I might forget how important today is and I can only think about that smile on his lips when he asks for some luck.

Stay out of the barriers (:

It feels cold-hearted even to me, but I can’t bring myself to write anything else. My chest feels hollow, and I am unable to display the affection he deserves, but I hope all of this will fade when we are back together.

By the time qualifying came around, social media was buzzing. Usually, I try to keep myself away from gossip pages, but some pictures draw me to them. There is Magui, laughing in the paddock with some friends, even spotted with Lando’s parents and my heart sinks. The pictures aren’t overly confirming, but they bring on even more speculations. Fans are picturing things with the crumbs they collected over the last months.

Oh god, Magui is with McLaren!

They are so soft launching.

This is a hard launch for their standards.

May I present to you Lando “Magui is just my friend” Norris.

Guess the rumours were true for once.

Every comment feels like a knife being dragged over my heart. I know that it is just fan theories, Lando being the one loving me, but it still gnaws at me. This is what comes with dating someone famous: rumours and everything I should keep my distance from. But as much as I want to ignore it, every time I open any social media, it gets worse.

The algorithm is laughing at me while showing me more pictures of Magui around the paddock. Being in the team hospitality, lingering around Lando’s crew and even more pictures with Cisca and Adam. I stare at the last picture for a whole minute before locking my phone, throwing it face down on my bed.

I didn’t say anything to Lando, not wanting to seem jealous, insecure or clingy. But the ache is real, and it doesn’t fade during the day. It doesn’t fade when Lando gets pole, breaking the lap record in Monaco and even though a smile comes to my lips while seeing him celebrate, it doesn’t soothe anything.

That night, my phone lights up, a FaceTime call from Lando and I answer it, managing to put half a smile on my face.

“Hey there stranger.” Lando greets me, grinning widely, but his eyes are tired. Curls still damp from the shower, and it looks like he is ready to drop onto his bed and sleep until the race is about to start tomorrow.

“Look at you, breaking records and snatching pole.” I tease him, feeling genuinely happy, no matter how much my heart aches.

“You should be here.” Lando says, not accusing me of something, just simple honesty. “It's not the same without you.” He adds and it doesn’t help the aching feeling in my chest.

“You have company.” I say, tilting my head slightly, trying to indicate his parents being around him all the time, but it comes out way too bitter. Lando’s smile drops and my stomach twists, knowing he can sense my discomfort through the phone. There is a pause, dreading and long enough to sting.

“She is just around because of mutual friends and stuff. You still know that.” Lando speaks up quickly, before a sigh leaves his lips. “Right?” His eyes scan my face, like he is trying to figure out through the screen if I am serious or not.

“Yeah.” I just hum and we look at each other for a moment.

“I miss you.” Lando whispers and I hate it even more that I can’t be with him. That this dam exam has to be this week and not when there is no upcoming race weekend. But I worked so hard for this degree, and I will finish it. After that, I can go to more races, hopefully, being right by Lando’s side.

“I miss you too.” I admit, I feel the urge to explain something to him. “It just feels so hard this weekend, Lando. Seeing and reading all of this. It makes me feel like a dirty secret.” I feel bad for my feelings and know I shouldn’t be, but the pressure on my shoulders does get less with telling Lando.

“You’re not a secret.” Lando rubs the back of his neck. “You are mine and I like to keep you safe.” My heart flutters softly. Lando always had a protective side. When it comes to his family and when it comes to me. No harm through the media and the fans, especially after what happened with his previous girlfriend and every girl he just looked at for a little too long.

“Just…just do well tomorrow, okay?” I whisper, not wanting to keep this topic any longer. We will have to speak about it again, but not now. I don’t want to pull his attention away from his race and Lando’s face softened.

“For you? Always.” Then he grins softly, and everything feels like it's going to be okay. We hung up not long after, the screen going black again, drenching me in silence.

I wake up early on race day, even though I don’t want to. Having way too much time now to cover before the race starts. Revising for my exam doesn’t help, wandering around in the apartment makes waiting even worse and even though I usually don’t even watch it, I put on the prerace coverage, hoping it will help me to be distracted. Celebrities walk over the grind, Monaco shining in all its glory and then the race is about to start.

Part of me doesn’t even want to watch the race, but in the end, I didn’t move from the TV or shut it off. Curled up on the couch, cameras showing the grid for the last time, before the lights go out. Just in the first corner, I fear the race is over for Lando when he locks up, but manages to keep his car safe. My heartbeat is way too quick, but slowly the nerves die down.

Monaco isn’t the most exciting race when it comes to overtakes, but every little mistake can cost the people on the grid everything. Lando drives around with ease and with every lap nearing the end, lets a proud feeling rise in my chest. He is going to nail it.

The day would be great if it weren’t for two sentences from the TV commentators that stick with me.

“And there is Lando Norris' girlfriend.”

“Lando Norris' parents and his partner.”

All the happiness that was building up falls apart when Magui is displayed on the screens and the commentators are calling her Lando’s girlfriend. It feels like betrayal and tears rise to my eyes. I don’t even want to cry, but it seems to be the only thing that soothes the ache in my chest.

Lando wins the Monaco Grand Prix for the first time, and I cheer at the screen, softly, not as loudly as I usually would. I feel broken, but still full of pride, with a mixture of disbelief and joy. He did it.

The camera follows him when he jumps out of the car, when he is hugged and kissed by his parents. Loving to see them so affectionate, but still, heart-aching about what happened. The podium ceremony went by like a blur and I can’t bring myself to turn off the TV, just staring at it, until my phone buzzes.

It's Lando.

Please watch the post-race interviews.

I sigh, eyes focusing back on the screen, making the sound a bit louder, when Lando appears on the screen, still grinning widely. Curls damp by sweat and champagne, but he bubbles with happiness.

“Hi Lando, congrats on the race win here in Monaco.” Nathalie Pinkham starts, sounding like a proud mother while speaking to Lando.

“Thank you, Natalie.”

Then they talk about the race, making me zone out, until I hear one particular question.

“Is there anyone particular whom you would like to thank?” Lando pauses for a moment, eyes flickering to the side to his PR, before he starts to answer.

“I want to thank so many people.” He laughs softly and starts his list. „My parents, I love you; they gave everything for me, and they are the reason I am where I am.” It's sweet to see Lando’s love for his parents, and not just because of the cameras, but also in private.

“McLaren, my team and everyone believing in me.” Lando continues and then he hesitates, like he has to think about his next answer.

“Well, and of course, thank you to my love, who unfortunately couldn’t be here today, but supports me every second, no matter where she is.” My heart stops, before softly fluttering at his words. Without saying much, Lando just revealed that Magui is, in fact, not his girlfriend. I need to blink a few times, reminding me that this is reality.

“She probably screamed at the TV for a bit today.” Lando laughs and I snort softly. Usually, I do scream at the TV for a bit, but it wasn’t so bad today.

“Your girlfriend couldn’t attend today’s race?” Natalie asks after a short pause, like she had to sort her head, probably thinking the same as everyone else. Lando is taken, but not to whom everyone thinks he is.

“No, she is busy with preparations for her final exam at university next week and being at the racetrack isn’t exactly the perfect environment for learning for something so important. So, we decided she will sit this one out to ace her exam.” Lando explains willingly and for the first time this weekend, I feel warm again. A few happy tears slip down my cheeks because now it feels like everything is going to be okay again.

By now, my social media is flooded with pictures from Lando’s win. Him being hugged by his parents, cheering with the team, and celebrating with Oscar and Charles on the podium. It is like the grey clouds have been blown away by celebrations, showing the happy sun again. And I do come by one of the gossip pages again, slightly hesitating to click on the comments, but open them anyway.

Lando is silencing all the rumours about Magui by dropping an even bigger bomb.

He seems to be so in love!

If I was his girlfriend, I would be so pissed at the TV commentators right now.

A bit later, my phone buzzed again with an incoming call from Lando. and I take it without hesitating.

“Hi.”

Lando’s face fills up the screen, eyes still sparkling with happiness, hair messy and him still in his race suit. I can hear the music nearby, cheery voices and people in the background.

“Hey.” Lando says, voice tired in the best kind of way.

“Hi.” I say again, quieter this time. “You did it.”

Lando just grins, “We did it”, making me frown. This is his big moment, his big win.

“I didn’t do anything?”

“That's not true.” Lando’s gaze is soft on me and even though there are celebrations for him, his attention is fully on me.

“You were the one driving 300km/h. You are the one who won Monaco.” I remind him that it was all his effort. Steering precisely around the track, not crashing, not losing his nerves.

“And I was only able to do it because of you.” Lando hums, and just when I want to protest, he continues. “You think our late-night calls didn’t help me sleep? That your texts before quail don’t help to clear my head?” I doubt that I have that much of an effect on him, but if it makes him feel better, I believe him.

“I watched everything, couldn’t move.” I admit how my eyes were drawn to the TV, not willing to let any bit slip by without my attention.

“I felt you.” Lando promises, “I mean my engineer was yelling at me to stay focused, but it was your voice telling me not to crash over and over again.”

I laugh softly, remembering that I told him that before the qualification, “Sounds like something I would say.” Lando hesitates for a moment, eyes flickering around and I tilt my head to the side, waiting for him to speak up.

“And I meant everything I said in that interview. Keeping you private was safe, but at this point, it hurt you more than it protected you.” I blink slowly, trying to keep the tears back this time, but one still rolls down my cheek. My heart, which has been aching the whole weekend, feels like it is being hugged by Lando’s words, making the harsh cuts heal bit by bit.

“I love you.” I whisper with my whole heart and Lando’s smile gets just a bit brighter.

“Says that again.” He mutters and I gladly follow.

“I love you.”

Lando sighs, “Oh, I love you too.” We look at each other for a moment, both faces filled with adoration and happiness.

“Are you going to get any sleep tonight?” I ask him, already doubting it. He won Monaco, many of the drivers live here and partying after Monaco is kind of mandatory.

“Probably not, too many people want to drag me to a club.” Lando says, hand gesturing around and I can only imagine how many people want to party with him tonight.

“Are you going?”

“Forcefully,” Lando grins, “But I show my face and then sneak away again, back to the hotel.” He explains, making me tilt my head to the side.

“To do what?”

“Call you again, talk till the sun rises.” His soft voice, his words, the love in his eyes make all the pain go away. Cause in the in the in I am the one he loves with his whole heart. And just like that, the distance between us doesn’t feel so wide anymore.

#f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 one shot #f1 fluff #lando norris fic #lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #hurt/comfort #f1 hurt/comfort #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 x reader #lando norris fluff

877 notes · View notes

hugheswho · 6 days ago

Text

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep?

Summary: You come across an edit of young Luke while he’s asleep next to you in bed. You can’t hide your emotions and wake him up from crying so violently.

Paring: Luke Hughes x fem!reader

Warnings: all fluff and crying <3

Author’s Note: Inspired by this tiktok i saw a few months ago that made me gasp out loud. Haven’t stopped thinking about it since

Word Count: 1.7k

It’s late. Really late. Too late to be on your phone. You’re too engrossed in TikTok, convincing yourself it’s okay to endlessly scroll as a way to shut your brain off after a busy day. Luke has been snoozing away next to you for hours at this point.

There really is no rhyme or reason to your For You Page. Some are recipe videos, some are stand-up comedy bits, and others are part 16 of a full-length feature film. You tell yourself you’ll stop scrolling once you find the best video of the night. The right TikTok that satisfies you enough to say ‘Okay, yeah, I should stop now.”

You think you’ve found it when you scroll once more and your boyfriend appears on your screen. You’ve never actively searched Luke’s name on TikTok, but it doesn’t surprise you that he shows up quite a bit. From the number of times you like the Devils' posts, send things to Luke, and, quite frankly, just say his name out loud, you know your phone is listening to you. The algorithm knows all. Can you blame a girl for indulging in some thirst traps of her boyfriend?

A soft smile forms on your face as the video starts, Hozier’s cover of Do I Wanna Know? playing over clips of Luke. Nothing too crazy, just some clips of him in interviews. You’ve seen this trend before and wait with bated breath, expecting the song to flip to the original Arctic Monkeys version with clips of Luke looking rather…. scrumptious.

But that doesn’t happen. The song doesn’t change; instead, the shots of Luke do. It’s no longer the current-day man that sleeps a foot away from you. Rather, it’s young Luke. The boy who became your best friend at birth. The boy you grew up with. The boy you fell in love with.

The switch to adolescent Luke feels like a gut punch. You can’t stop thinking about your lives together. How you’ve always had one another. Even in those clips of baby Luke, you knew him when he first learned to skate. You knew him during his time in the program. You know him now, fulfilling his dream of being in the NHL.

It suddenly became all too much. You don’t even realize you’re crying until a tear drops onto your phone screen. The more you rewatch the video, the more you cry. You think you have it under control, but every time the plot twist happens, your body betrays you, shuddering and gasping. You cover your mouth with your hand when you start to feel something shifting next to you.

“Babe? What’s going on?” You hear a very tired and confused Luke rasp out.

Still actively crying in the dark, you respond, “Nothing Lu, go back to sleep.” You hope he’s too drowsy that he can’t properly comprehend your mental state. There’s no way you can explain this to him right now.

“Are you laughing or crying?” Luke asks, having definitely picked up on your unsteady voice.

“I think both?” you answer truthfully. This is seriously ridiculous, you think to yourself. The absurdity of the moment makes you cry more.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Luke softly questions while leaning over to turn the bedside lamp on.

When the bulb illuminates the room, you get your first good look at his face since before you both retired to bed hours ago. And that just breaks the dam. The sight of his matured face, merely inches away from you, combined with the young, baby-faced Luke you were just watching on repeat, causes you to wail out a full-on sob.

Luke’s eyes go wide, sleep fully gone from his body. He quickly caresses your arm up and down to soothe you.

“Am I that ugly?” He jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

“No, no, not at all. I just…” you trail off.

“What? What’s wrong?”

This can’t be happening. What are you even supposed to reply? Tell the truth and look like a fool? He’s never going to let you live it down.

“Nothing, it’s stupid.” You settle on, hoping he’ll just let it go.

“It’s not stupid if it has you this upset.” God, why is he so good to you? Your tears still fall, this time at his tender care for you.

“You’re going to laugh at me.”

“I promise I won’t,” Luke says seriously, staring into your eyes. You frown to yourself, not budging. “Baby, please tell me why you’re crying. I’m not going back to sleep until we figure this out.”

Looking back at him, you sigh, “It’s silly,” your last futile attempt to get out of this hole you’ve dug yourself into. If only you were a quieter crier.

Luke just fixes you a look, his eyes boring into yours, as to say ‘I’m not dropping this.’ You finally cave and turn your phone towards him. Luke’s brows furrow as the video starts, confused about where this is headed.

“A TikTok made you cry?”

You weakly roll your eyes at your chronically offline boyfriend.

“When don’t TikToks make me cry?” you ask rhetorically, earning a laugh from Luke.

As the video shifts to clips of young Luke, and your breathing gets a bit more staggered rewatching, Luke softly smiles to himself. His eyes look in your direction and see the look on your face. One full of love.

Luke knows he’s still young, but those moments seem like a lifetime ago. He can’t believe how far he’s come in such a short amount of time. He’d say he can’t believe you’ve been there alongside him the whole time, except he can believe it. Because that’s who you are. That’s who you’ve always been to him. The person he could turn to for anything. When he wasn’t sure if being drafted to the Devils would be a good or bad thing for him. When he felt his whole life turn upside down in a second as he left Tampa after losing the Frozen Four. When he felt like he wasn’t the player he knew he could be during his rookie year. All those moments where Luke felt like the walls were crashing in on him, you single-handedly pushed them off of him.

Then the video ends, and you both turn to look at each other. Your lips are pulled into the cutest little frown, eyes glassy and red, with a stray tear rolling down to your neck. Luke takes in the sight before him and bites his lip to make sure he doesn’t crack, but you see right through him.

“YOU SAID YOU WOULDN'T LAUGH!”

“I'M NOT LAUGHING! I’m just… smiling because you’re so cute.” Luke reacts, clearly laughing.

You just pout, letting out a whine as you roll your head onto Luke’s shoulder. Instinctively, he wraps his arm around your waist to get you as close as possible.

“Baby, why did that make you cry?” Luke inquires while softly brushing the hair on the back of your head with his free hand. His head rests atop yours.

“Because you were so young and that was the boy I fell in love with but waited so long to tell when we could've been loving each other since then instead of both suffering in silence!” You blurt out in one whole sentence, no time for pauses, as your tears start back up at how much time you feel you’ve lost with Luke.

“You’re acting like we weren’t in each other's lives then,” Luke replied amused at your dramatics but still soft enough to let you know he’s not dismissing you.

“But we weren’t in the way we are now. And you were so precious then! But I didn’t get to kiss your face the way I do now when I think you’re being cute!”

Luke fondly smiles before saying “we happened when we were meant to happen.”

“You didn’t even know I loved you then,” you mumble as you wipe your tears, not happy your boyfriend isn’t indulging in your pity party.

Silence washes over the two of you. Luke continues to stroke your arm as a means of comfort. He turns his head to place a kiss on your temple.

“I did. I knew.”

You pivot your head to look at your boyfriend. Faces only a few inches away from each other. There’s something about Luke’s eyes that act as a magnetic force. Once you catch a glance, you can’t look away.

“Yeah?” you ask above a whisper, not wanting to seem too hopeful, as if he’d care about that.

“Yeah.”

You suddenly feel vulnerable. You and Luke have been in each others lives since birth. You started dating after his playoffs debut. Obviously both of you loved each other before then. However, you never really went into when you both fell in love. You feel exposed having told Luke you loved him since your early teens.

Needing his reassurance, you quietly ask, “and you loved me then too?”

Luke’s stoic face lights up, a smile slowly stretching across it.

“Completely adored.”

You swallow your nerves down with the revelation of Luke loving you back at the same time. With the new found confidence, you say “so why not then? Why didn’t we get together years ago instead of waiting?”

“We were young,” Luke shrugs before continuing, “I don’t think we would’ve been able to give each other what we wanted if we started then. We both had to figure out who we were before we committed to this.”

“But it’s us,” you defend, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Because it is.

Luke laughs at your persuasiveness.

“Look, we both wanted each other then, right? But we both had so much maturing to do. And once we did that, we both still wanted each other. That’s how we were able to find our way to where we are now. Neither of us were in the way of the other, we were just…on the sideline. Cheering each other into the right path.”

The tears start again. You look down at your phone, picturing all the memories of you and Luke as toddlers, kids, teenagers, and now young adults.

“I miss us being young together,” you confess.

“You’re going to say that about us now in thirty years. We have the rest of our lives to spend together. And prove how much we love each other,” Luke reassures you, and you know he means it.

“Now can you please put your phone away and cuddle with me?”

#luke hughes #luke hughes fic #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you #luke hughes fluff #luke hughes fanfic #luke hughes imagine #bells writes sometimes

447 notes · View notes

pomegranatelifethis · 2 months ago

Text

Is it worth that much to you?

Written improvisationally

English is not my native language

The Wayne Manor library was a cathedral of quiet, its towering bookshelves casting long shadows across the polished floor. You sat at the far end, surrounded by textbooks and notes, each equation you solved feeling like a tiny victory against the chaos in your mind. Perfection wasn’t a goal—it was a lifeline. If everything looked right on paper, maybe it meant you were okay.

Maybe it meant someone would notice.

But no one really did. Bruce was always preoccupied with Gotham, with missions, with villains. His rare attempts at connection felt hollow, rushed. Dick’s laughter echoed through the halls, but never quite reached you. Jason’s presence was like a storm—loud, brief, and unpredictable. Tim lived in his own world of algorithms and theories, and Damian? Damian had once told you that you were a waste of space. He probably didn’t even remember it.

They weren’t cruel. Just… distracted. Busy. Lost in their own stories. You were just a footnote.

Dinner was more of a performance than a meal. You sat at the table, picking at your food while the others talked over you, around you—never to you.

"How’s school?" Bruce asked once, halfway through checking his phone.

You managed a flat, “Fine. Got a 98 on my physics test.”

"That's good," he said, already lost in thought.

“Only 98?” Damian muttered, not even glancing up.

Jason chuckled. “Don’t be a dick, demon spawn.”

You forced a smile. “I’ll do better next time.”

Nobody noticed the way your voice cracked.

Back in your room, you stood in front of the mirror. You didn’t linger—couldn’t. Every glance brought a new wave of criticism. The way your clothes fit, the way your skin looked, the way your body felt foreign. You pulled your sleeves down further, covering the fading marks. They weren’t fresh. Not lately. But the urge never really went away.

From under your bed, you slid out the small box. Inside, the familiar shape of a blade caught the light. Just one, you thought. Just to make it stop, even for a second. You pressed it gently to your skin, watching as the red line appeared, sharp and silent.

A knock. You froze.

“Miss?” It was Alfred. “May I come in?”

Panic surged. You hid the box, pulled on a sweater, wiped your eyes. “Yes?”

He entered with a tray. “You didn’t eat much at dinner. I brought tea and some biscuits.”

You nodded, forcing your voice steady. “Thank you. I was just studying.”

Alfred paused before leaving. His eyes lingered a moment too long on your sleeves. “You are a remarkable young person,” he said gently. “Please don’t forget that.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’m fine. Really.”

He didn’t argue. Just nodded and left.

Alone again, you sat on the bed, the tea untouched. You opened your notebook and found the page with your own handwriting repeated over and over: You are enough. You are enough. You are enough

Right now, the words felt like lies. But you traced them anyway, whispering them into the silence. Hoping one day they might be true.

"That girl was disappearing a little more each day. There was an emptiness in her eyes, a tiredness where everything felt like a burden to her. Others saw her successes, her lessons, her perfection, but no one noticed the darkness in her soul. Her family was immersed in their own battles, they didn't feel her with them. She was alone. This loneliness grew a little more with every step she took, a little deeper with every smile. Perhaps her greatest pain was that no one really looked at her. Everyone saw her strength, but no one noticed her fall. The silence inside her was suffocating a little more each day. No one wanted to face her as she fought to escape her own shadow. And maybe no one would ever come and just tell her, 'You are enough.' No one would understand her pain, no one would ever really touch her."

#batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #the neglected reader #batfam x neglected reader #neglected reader

414 notes · View notes

hannieoftheyear · 2 days ago

Text

LUCKY STRIKE [C.VN]

Vernon would never let anything happen to you. But when the time comes, and he's standing at your doorstep, flowers in one hand, and bloody cuts in the other, it's your turn to take care of him for once.

pairing: vernon x fem!reader

word count: 4,5k of lazy and messy sex for you

genre/au: mafia au, established relationship, smut with the barest plot, a bit of fluff.

content warnings: vernon is terribly down bad, light mafia themes, implied violent encounters, blood, bruises, cuts, minor injuries, reader takes care of his injuries and he gets horny, this is corny, you were warned!! | explicit smut: couch sex, switch!vernon, switch!reader, sucking fingers, they both have a thing for hands and fingers, biting, spit kink, spit as lube, handjob, unprotected sex (don't be stupid pls), cumming inside, nicknames: baby (both).

♥︎ thank you to everyone that tolerated me sending clips of vernon on the thunder stages for days ♡ this is for you

🎧: shining star (vernon solo) — seventeen

THIS FIC IS FOR +18 READERS ONLY. I can't control what people read, but I can control who interacts with my blog. MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED

check out my main masterlist ♡

note: i'm a sucker for lazy couch sex with vernon and i won't apologize for it!! i hope you enjoy this silly thing ♥︎

this was, of course, heavily inspired by all the 'happy burstday' concept photos and stages

mafia prompt taken from here ♥︎ dividers here

"Being adopted into the local mafia has its pros and cons."

Pros: You can safely do your 2 am. grocery shopping at the one superstore that's open all night without fearing for your life. Those scary looking men, the ones you'd normally cross the street to avoid, treat you like their little sister. All except for the cutest one of them all.

The gloomy night accompanies the swift movements of the crochet needle between your fingers, tangling the strings of light blue and red knitting wool you bought days ago in a whim. In the search for a new hobby, your algorithm acted out again, and you ended up on the granny activities side, peaking your interest enough to sit on your uncomfortable couch for hours trying to make a usable piece of clothing.

Normally, on a weekend night, the cold wind would be welcomed by your barely covered skin, walking hand in hand with the only guy your self proclaimed body guards allowed you to be in close proximity to. But something, or rather, someone, told you to stay home for the night.

Another pro of being close with the bad guys: they help you avoid confrontations with threatening rival gangs. You're left blissfully out of the mess, but, as you're still able to hear the rounds of loud noises on the streets around the neighborhood, you're also not unaware of the bruises you see covering the guys' arms and faces the next day.

Your forehead hurts from all the frowning you've been doing for the past hour, trying to figure out the pattern you should be following and restarting every few rows.

A soft, unsure knock takes your concentration away, but it quickly puts a smile on your face as you realize who's the only person that'd show up at this hour at your door. The amateur crochet project is left forgotten on the coffee table, the metal needle crinkling against the glass as you get up from the couch.

But, whatever excitement you had, it drops completely as soon as the doorknob turns under your hold, and the door opens to reveal who you were expecting.

Vernon stands at the entrance, with his side smile painting his face as if everything was okay. You instantly know it's not. His lower lip is swollen red, probably from a punch, the neck line of his t-shirt is stretched far more than normal, with a tear visible on the side.

Cons of being adopted by the local mafia: your big bad mafia boyfriend constantly gets hurt on the job.

With one hand busy holding a bouquet of your favorite yellow flowers, he wraps the other one around your waist when you don't move, frozen analyzing his state. "Not happy to see me?"

Vernon's teasing smile so close to you, mixed with his breath fanning your face as he leans in to give you a peck, is intoxicating. His bruised lips are soft against yours, taking seconds longer to feel you on him than normal. One would never guess he's hurt from the way he's pushing himself against you.

"Baby, what happened?" Your hand reaches for his behind your back, the cuts on his knuckles harsh under the pads of your fingers.

He sighs against your parted lips, chuckling lightly before taking a step back and letting himself in into your apartment. "You should see the other guys."

"Multiple?" Your wide eyes follow him as he searches for a vase to put the flowers he brought.

It's natural for him to have his way around your home. After all, he's the only one that you, or your neighborly mafia, ever allowed in. It's your sacred place, safe from the dangerous outside world, the only place where you can be truly calm, be with him with no fears.

While he occupies himself with his gift, you take the chance to escape to your bathroom, wash the dried blood from your hands, and find your first aid kit. The one you've never had to use before.

You were always the one who he took care of, who he protected, made sure you were intact. After so many times he was there for you, it's your turn to take care of him and heal his wounds the best you can.

"Remember I told you to stay in today?" His gaze is trained on you as you sink down next to him. The click of the aid kit opening breaks the silence as he waits for your answer.

You only nod, half hearing him, half focusing on grabbing what you need to disinfect the cuts in his hand. His hand that places itself on your thigh to draw your attention.

"We're okay—I'm okay," his voice is soft, knowing you worry every time he goes out to parts of the town they don't have under their control, "it was just a small payback."

"Baby, you're bleeding," Vernon hisses as you clean the wounds around his knuckles with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball, "who did you go with?"

"Mingyu and Wonwoo," your insides burn, feeling his stare, boring holes on the side of your face, "they took on the bigger guys." Vernon jokes.

You shouldn't sigh in relief hearing that, but you do so anyway.

It's a regular occurrence for the guys to tease him for his objectively smaller build, but he counters it with a perfectly learned strategy. He knows how to fight, knows the places that hurt the most being punched, where to kick, poke, slap to make his opponent lose their balance, and ultimately, the fight.

"Let's hope these people don't come back after you."

"Believe me, they won't." He smirks, charging his words with smugness.

You wrap the little bandage you had saved around his hand with care. Not too loose, not to tight. You feel his eyes on you as you leave the aid kit on the table, right besides the mess of knitting wool you alredy forgot was there.

"I have the best nurse ever." Vernon wastes no time, lifting your hips with his, now working, hands, and sits you on his lap, both your legs fitting naturally at his sides as he realizes you're only wearing panties under your t-shirt. "I should come here hurt more often."

"Then you'll have to replace the stuff I use on you!" Looking slightly down to connect your eyes with his, your teasing tone vanishes at the soft glimmer in his eyes. "Please, just… be careful next time."

The side of his face feels warm against the palm of your hand, and he leans into your touch, feeling your care even through the smallest, most mundane touches.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shown up like this." His doe eyes turn glassy, searching for any anger indicators on your expression, but only finding worry. "I just wanted to see you."

You could never get mad at him. Not when you met him knowing full well what his life was like. Not when he pursued you by showing you he can still be a gentleman despite his shady life. Not when he never gave you any reason not to trust him.

"I wanted to see you too," you reveal as if you didn't constantly wait for him. Sitting on this very couch every night, longing for that knock on the door you always know it's him. "I don't mind taking care of you."

"I should be the one doing that." Vernon's hands fix their grip on your hips, reminding you that they're still there, holding you close to him.

"Well, I'm not the one getting into fights with 6 feet tall buff guys on the daily."

He chuckles, full of endearment, and your stomach tightens. If you could rank every sound you ever heard, Vernon's kinds of laughs and giggles would all be at the top, not a very close race with anything else. It's a distinguishable sound you never want to forget.

Your hand goes down the side of Vernon's neck, his pulse accelerating under your touch as you check to see if he's real, if he's really sitting on your couch with you straddling him.

His focus get lost on your touch now going down the side of his arm, and soon finds your hand with his. He interlocks his fingers with yours as soon as he gets a hold of it, directing your hand to his mouth and leaving a gentle but teasing kiss on the back of it.

"Vernon," you reprimand, but don't stop him as he places peck after peck everywhere on your hand, each triggering a wave of different feelings down your nervous system. He's uncontrollable and always finds the way to get you in the mood with him.

"You look so pretty over me, all worried." His hot breath tickles your fingers that were just taking care of him.

Your thumb swipes gently over his busted lip, raw from his habit of gnawing at them with his teeth and from the fight you're nursing him from. He purses his lips, teasing your awaiting skin, goosebumps waking up all over your body at the anticipation.

"You can't seriously be turned on by this," you snicker to try and hide the very real reactions he's eliciting from you.

His eyes snap back to you at your words, as if a challenge was set.

So quick you barely have time to register it, the hand at your hip travels to your lower back and Vernon's sliding you across his lap, showing off his strength to get you closer to his torso until you're completely against him.

Every part of you is against him. His right hand on your back, holding you electrically close to his growing hard, pulsing against your core. Your hand's held hostage by his left hand just above where your chest flushes against his.

"You have no idea how crazy I am for you." Every word he says reverberates through his chest and into yours.

Gasping is your only answer. You don't trust your ability to apeak properly in your current state of increasing bodily heat.

"When I wake up and you're not next to me," he continues, "my first thought is always to come looking for you." His fingers wander inside the big t-shirt you're wearing, one you stole from him after your first night together.

"Nothing stops you from staying the night here." Your voice draws the smirk back on his face.

"I'd stay here every night if it didn't mean putting you in danger." Longing bleeds through his words, true and hurt.

"But you'd be here to protect me." You're not naive. You know what he means. But that doesn't stop you from wanting to be close to him every second of every day.

Vernon nods in acknowledgment, a silent agreement between the two of you. It's dangerous. Everything about your relationship is risky. But even if he's willing to put himself at risk for the chance of seeing you, he'd never put you in danger. He'd never take that chance.

His lips kissing your hand again catch your attention, every fiber of your body now focused on his next move. Your fingers, cold against the warmness spreading across his face, seem to be the only thing on Vernon's mind.

When he wraps his mouth around your index finger, gently sucking on it with a new admiration, fire expands from your insides and out, taking everything with it, filling you with a new, unexpected want.

"Vern—" Your breath halts at the mention of his name, fueling his need as he dives in further, playing with his tongue around your finger like it was his new favorite toy.

You've never felt anything like this. A hot, sizzling arousal rushing through your veins at the sight of your boyfriend worshiping the fingers that were just nursing him.

A choked up moan escapes you as he sucks another finger in his mouth. Your index and middle finger are now coated in his spit, making a messy, wet toy out of your hand.

The couch moves just slightly as you push yourself against him at every swirl of his tongue, feeling his length hardening with every uncontrolled grind of your hips against his.

Vernon's other hand travels all over your torso, finding you're wearing no bra under the shirt that was once his. He loves making a moaning mess of you, mixing the arousal from sucking on your fingers with the touch you've been craving on your chest.

Everywhere. He's everywhere. His thighs under yours, his hard pressing against your barely covered core, his hand feeling your chest up as your fingers scrape the sides of his mouth.

Every second it passes, you search for more of him, pressing against his chest until he has trouble fondling your breasts.

He pulls your fingers out of his mouth slowly, a string of saliva connecting them with his lower lips stretching until it breaks, undoing the trance you were in while watching Vernon have his way.

"I should be taking care of you," your voice breaks into a whisper, your boyfriend’s dark stare punching away any thought you had.

"Having you on top of me is all I need," your wet fingers trace his jaw as he speaks, and he smirks at the sounds you make when he flicks one of your nipples with his thumb, "making you moan my name when I've barely touched you."

His eyes train on your parted lips, exhaling heavily as he plays with your nipples exactly how he knows you like it. You can only fist the stretched neckline of his t-shirt, making it worse but making it yours.

Your other hand finds the back of his head, his growing buzz-cut threading between your fingers.

"Have I told you I love your hair?" How you find it in you to speak is beyond your knowledge, but he chuckles at your nonsense, and the fire burning at the pit of your stomach spreads down your thighs and soaks your underwear further. "I love it so much."

Vernon's hard groin twitches under the needy grinding of your hips, his throat swallowing with trouble as you break down his facade little by little.

"Let me," you know he won't take his hands off of you willingly. You don't really want him to stop either, but you're focusing on him tonight.

He groans as you push yourself off him, quickly finding the zipper of his jeans. "Baby…" his words trail off seeing you kneeling on the floor against him.

Trying to slip his jeans and boxers down, he gives in and lifts his body to help you. He'd never deny you of anything you want.

You don't restrain yourself, your hands finding the flesh of his thighs and traveling up and up until you're barely touching where he most wants to.

But a hand sneaks under your jaw, tilting it up until you're connecting eyes with Vernon again. "Don't," you barely whisper, a plea for him to let you make him feel good.

"Want you on top," he doesn't ask, doesn't order you, only outers his wish, with his eyebrows quirking in the way that always has you melting for him, "I'd feel much, much better."

You snort with an endearing smile, "I thought you were fine." Even after your teasing remainder, you oblige what he wants.

"Every time you get off of me, I start feeling sick," he coughs a few times to get his point across, "my body needs you to feel well.

Vernon's always been able to make you laugh, even when you're on the brink of tearing all his clothes off. "Then we better listen!"

His bare legs find themselves under your weight again, the skin to skin contact igniting every connecting point of your bodies. You tug at the ends of his damaged t-shirt until he gets the hint you want it off.

Vernon groans as the dampness of your panties rubs against his length, gripping your hips to flush you against him harder, not wanting to wait any longer to feel you all over him. You waste no time, holding his face between your hands and closing the electrifying distance between you.

A moan fights out of him a soon as your lips take his, molding together perfectly, as if they were meant to be connected forever. You can feel where his lower lip is hurt, swiping your tongue over the bruise as he moans on your mouth again.

Your hand caresses the side of his face, not letting his lips go as the other travels down his heaving chest. His muscles tense under the teasing touch of your fingers, nails raking down his skin.

Another moan coming from him is exactly what you need as you sneak your hand between your bodies, wrapping it around his cock that craves your touch.

He chases your lips as you lean back, revealing the state he's in, all because of you. His lips glisten with the mix of yours and his spit, parted and calling for you again as he catches his breath.

The changing shine in your eyes alerts him that you're planning something, an idea planted by the sight before you.

You swirl your tongue in your mouth, gathering as much spit as you can before locking eyes with him and letting it drop out of your lips, falling in a glob until it sits at the tip of his hardness.

Vernon's eyes darken at every one of your moves, his gaze entranced on your lips. Lips that were spilling all kinds of worried words minutes ago, and now are coating his cock with saliva so your hand can glide up and down at your desired pace.

"God, baby," your hand squeezes around him, spreading the mix of spit and precum so slowly on his girth that he's having trouble breathing, "you're so good to me."

The back of the couch holds his head as he leans back with another groan. His neck stretched out, glistening with sweat, calls to you. And who are you not to answer?

Your core traps his erection against your hand as you lean in, leaving wet kisses on your boyfriend's throat, feeling his every sound vibrating against your lips. He mumbles praises into the air, letting his hands wander across your back and squeezing your ass to press your further to him.

The wet fabric of your panties sticks to your folds in the shape of his length, everything pushing your cores together harder and harder. You let the swift rhythm of your hand on his cock and you grinding your covered clit against him take you to another world.

"Feel better?" Your lips graze the sensitive skin on his neck as you half ask half gasp.

Vernon's automatic response is to tighten his hold on your ass, grinding your hips against his with more force, the friction between your cores breathtaking. "I could," he teases.

"Greedy," your hot breath hits under his earlobe, and even you can feel the shiver going down Vernon's body.

His cock twitches as you slow down the pace of you hand. The combining feel of your folds and your hand stroking him almost make Vernon go crazy.

"You feel so good, baby," his eyes close in concentration, every touch of yours too much for him, "can't wait to be inside you."

In the midst of his senseless words and your desperate touches, Vernon finds the way to sneak a hand under you. Between his legs, his digits find the dampness growing at your core. "So wet already, for me."

Another hand grabs a fistful of your hair, detaching your mouth from licking your way up his jaw. He forces you to look at him, eyes full of desire, waiting for your answer.

"Yes—all for you-u," your words break in a moan as two fingers sneak under your panties, collecting your arousal and triggering another wave.

"Good." It is all for him. All because of him. The only one who can have you like this.

Smirking, his eyes lock in with yours, full of fire as his hand appears in your field of view. You don't stop looking into his eyes, the mischievous glint on them keeping you there, all while he sucks your juices off his fingers.

It takes all your strength to get up from the couch again, with only one objective in mind.

Your boyfriend gawks as if you were putting on a show only for him, slipping down his favorite panties, now stained with an unholy amount of juices. He stares with his mouth agape, but he's not patient. As soon as the fabric's off, he's grabbing your big t-shirt and pulling you towards him again.

Lips crash with lust and desperation, messily craving more and more. His teeth nibble at your lower lip, a matching bruise waiting to appear, but you don't care. You moan in his mouth, tangling your fingers with the short hair growing at the back of his head.

His thigh becomes a mess of your arousal, careless about your position as you let Vernon have his way into your mouth. Your tongues dance around the other, slowly melting into each other.

"Spit," you chase his lips as he separates to demand. Seeing his non-injured hand under your jaw, you quickly realize what he's doing.

Your living room's filled with gasping sounds and hot breaths, time stopping as your eyes lock. Vernon's eyes are on you as you let your spit drop into his hand.

You hover over his groin, dripping into his hand as he lowers it down between your cores. The tip of his cock grazes your entrance as he pumps his hard with his spit covered hand, the wet sounds reaching your ears.

Sinking down on your boyfriend's lap, the head of his cock enters you just right, your walls welcoming to mold into his shape.

Your lips stop working as you're filled to the brim, sitting on Vernon's thighs and gasping into his mouth trying to get used to the unprepared stretch.

As you're draped over his torso, he easily finds his way down your neck.

"Relax, baby," he says against the skin of your neck.

Every spot he knows you like, he kisses, whispering encouraging praise that gives you chills. Under your ear, along your jaw, over your pulse point, his lips press and suck at your skin, feeling how you warm up around him.

When he shifts his position slightly, his length pushes inside you just a bit more, your walls clamp against him, sucking him further inside in a whine, "That's it."

His husky voice goes through your ear and down to your core, and you swivel your hips up just to elicit another sound from him.

Vernon's hands find themselves gripping your hips again, helping you as you start a lazy pace on his lap. Your teeth sink down on the flesh between his shoulder and his neck, and he moans in your ear at the sensation.

"You'll have to take care of that one too," his breath tickles down your ear, and the vibrations of your chuckle almost make you lose your focus on him.

You kiss on the dent shaped like your teeth, "like you don't love it."

He hums a broken moan, the combination of everything you're giving him finally working like you intended.

Your walls tighten around him just as your fingers find his scalp, short nails raking between his growing buzz-cut trying to have him losing his mind under you.

It's not long before his hips join the fun, thrusting up to meet your pace and making you lose your breath. You feel him up to your throat, every place inside you marked with his name.

Vernon's hands roam all over your torso, indecisive, keeping you close but in the search for his favorite places to grope and touch. Your body's on the verge of giving out, and he knows it.

When he wraps his arms around your back and leans back against the couch, flushing your chest completely against his, you both lose it.

You're not in control anymore, if you ever were. Your knees barely stay at his sides as he thrusts up incessantly, the sounds of your ass slapping against the flesh of his thighs echoing around your living room.

But his groaning in your ear, his rambling words about how good you are for him, are only for you to hear.

Intercalating between lazy and desperate, no matter the time or the place, Vernon always finds that spot inside you that has you seeing stars.

So quickly, it'd be embarrassing if it was anyone else, your body starts quivering, every one of your senses losing focus as your insides get closer and closer to snapping.

"I'm c-close," you manage to form a coherent string of words in between a few merciless thrusts.

"I can feel it—" a breathless whine mixes up between his words, "cum around me, baby." He's as desperate as you.

With everything combined, Vernon's noises on your ear, his arms tight around you, and every spot inside you being abused at once, the world becomes a blur of fire and white light as your orgasm rips through you.

Your body shakes on top of him as Vernon chases his own orgasm, stretching yours for as long as his cock grinds inside you with a purpose. But he's a weak man when it comes to you, and with the way your walls clamp hard around him, making him work for every thrust, it's not long before he's lost too.

You feel the ropes of cum coating your walls, his length twitching as you take it all. All of him inside you as if you were one.

Silence, deep breaths and the smell of sex fill the room as your bodies take in everything you just did.

Only when Vernon's lips kiss along your shoulder, you realize he's still inside you, and you shouldn't rest.

"I have the best nurse ever," Vernon chuckles along his words as you get up from his lap to find your discarded panties.

Everything is still the same. His clothes disregarded on the floor, the flowers sitting on a vase you haven't seen since you moved in.

You turn around to find him putting on his boxers, his eyes a promise that he's not done with you yet, "I don't think a good nurse would recommend this type of cardio after a fight."

"Then I don't trust them."

Chuckling again, and knowing he'll join you later in the shower, you fall between his arms again, laying together on the couch like you've done so many times before.

Now is your turn to look up at him, the fire in his eyes not gone, but now overpowered by endearment.

You don't want to. You really don't want to. But your eyes close with tiredness, and the rhythm of Vernon's breathing is so serene that you fall asleep in his arms.

There, in your couch, everything around you forgotten and replaced by him.

note: thank you so much for reading! pls share your thoughts I'd love to read them ♥︎

#vernon smut #kvanity #keopihausnet #svthub #thediamondlifenetwork #seventeen smut #vernon x reader #seventeen x reader #vernon fanfic #seventeen fanfic #vernon imagines #seventeen imagine #vernon au #seventeen au #hansol smut #hansol x reader #ema.library #seventeen imagines

320 notes · View notes

2pndr · 4 months ago

Text

Secret In a Winter Wonderland - Part One

Sequel to Dinner In a Winter Wonderland

A/N: Split into two parts to give y'all a little Valentine's day gift. Enjoy!

Winter x Male Reader Fluff

6.8k words

It just sits there. Menacingly.

A reflective abyss on your bedside table, pulling your gaze in, swallowing it whole. Its surface is dark, still, resolute, offering up nothing but your own tired reflection.

Your elbows press into your knees, fingers interlocked, chin resting lightly as you watch. A restless sort of stillness settles over you, like a held breath, stretched thin. You tell yourself it’s ridiculous—this quiet expectation, this fixation on a single moment. And yet, here you are, transfixed, as if sheer willpower could make the inevitable happen just a little faster.

You gaze into the abyss, and the abyss gazes back.

Time slows. Your mind stills. You achieve a brief, bastardised nirvana—one born not of inner peace, but sheer unrelenting anticipation.

Your heightened state of awareness sharpens every detail around you: the distant hum of the heater battling the cold, the way the floor creaks when you shift your weight, the faint ticking of a clock you don’t remember ever buying. You can even smell your own existence—morning breath, yesterday’s worn clothes, and the distant, ghostly trace of whatever your neighbor was cooking at fuck-it-O’clock.

Not that any of it matters. The world outside could be crumbling, sucked up into the sky and you’d still be here. Watching. Waiting.

Then—a familiar tune, handpicked by you. A tremor escapes the abyss, shivering through the table. You see it. You feel it.

The abyss stirs to life, the darkness awakening into a symphony of colour and you’re met with what you’ve been so anxiously waiting for...

Hyoon is live: glorp

“OH COME THE FUCK ON!”

You groan, flopping backward onto your bed, phone queued to be crushed in your hand. The fuck does ‘glorp’ even mean? The worst part? You don’t even remember following Hyoon. So either, you’re under some algorithmic curse, or it’s some divine punishment for your hubris of hope.

You glare at the abyss. The abyss sneers back.

It doesn't have any appendages but you swear to god if it did, it’d be flipping you off.

With a sigh, you swipe the notification away, telling yourself it’s fine. It’s not like you were waiting for a message from Minjeong or anything.

….Okay, you totally were.

She was probably just busy, right? Or sleeping in? Or—God forbid—had actually forgotten.

A childish concern to be sure. But one that torments you anyway.

Every morning for the past few days, you’d woken up to her cheerful messages—a jolly “good morning”, a lively teasing, or if you were really lucky, a video call where she’d spend half the time hiding her face because she “looks ugly without makeup!”

Today, though, there’s nothing.

You shake your head, trying to push it down. It’s not like you’re entitled to a text. You’re not even dating. You’re just… close. Close enough that something about today just feels off. Close enough that your past five mornings have come to revolve around this one, singular moment.

So, you do the only reasonable thing you can: bury yourself beneath the covers and pretend none of this is happening.

For a minute, it almost works. The warmth of your blankets, the lingering sleepiness clinging to your limbs—it all lulls you into a state of half-consciousness, where the world is soft and Minjeong exists only in vague, glowing, adorable impressions. The sound of her laugh, the way she hides her face when she’s flustered, the warmth in her eyes when she—

Ding-dong.

The fucking doorbell.

You groan, dragging yourself out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a man heading to the gallows. Who the hell even—

Knock knock knock.

Followed by a pause. And then—

Knock knock knock knock knock knock knock.

You grit your teeth. Whoever it is, I swear to God—

Ding-dong.

The doorbell again.

“I’m coming!” you snap, voice sharper than intended. The knocking stops immediately. But just as you reach the door, you swear you hear a faint giggle on the other side.

The door swings open, and—

“Surprise!”

Minjeong.

She stands there, cheeks flushed from the cold, snowflakes clinging to her adorable little beanie. Her navy coat is buttoned up to her chin, uniting with her scarf to make her look impossibly cozy. Her smile is wide, bright, her voice honey-smooth with that gorgeous teasing lilt.

She wasn’t ignoring you. She was here.

And then she lunges.

Before you can react, she wraps her arms around you, her face burying into you. It’s abrupt—too quick for someone as shy as Minjeong usually is—but her grip is firm, almost desperate. Like she’s been holding onto this impulse for days and finally gets to give in.

You hesitate for half a second before your arms come up to reciprocate. Maybe it’s just your imagination. Or maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder, because she’s warm. Too warm for someone who was just trudging about in the snow.

It takes you a moment to realize she’s not letting go. Not immediately. Not like a casual greeting. Instead, she lingers—because staying here, just like this, feels right in a way neither of you want to break just yet.

“I missed you,” She mumbles into your chest.

And you missed her. But you just hold her tighter, letting your arms say it for you.

She lingers. Long enough that you feel her breathing even out, long enough that the cold on her coat fades, long enough that when she finally pulls back, it’s slow, reluctant—she doesn't quite want to let go.

And frankly, you don’t want to either.

Her hands hesitate at your sides, fingers curling like she might change her mind and stay just a little longer. But then she exhales, a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh, and steps back, tucking a stray strand of white hair behind her ear.

Minjeong looks up at you, her expression unreadable for a moment—something between embarrassment and contentment. Then, like a switch flipping, she schools her face into something more familiar: light, teasing, joyful.

“Now,” she begins, the corners of her lips curling as if nothing had happened, “are you ready for today, or do you need a few minutes to stop looking like you just rolled out of bed?”

For as long as you can remember, you’ve always hated Christmas.

(Yeah, you can’t believe you were like that either.)

It’s a sentiment that had you aptly nicknamed “The Grinch" by those unfortunate enough to be in your circle. Minus the Jim Carrey charisma, of course.

It wasn’t the bitter winter chill that seemed to ignore flesh, or the gaudy over-saturation of red and green that plagued the city. Not even the endless loop of Mariah Carey that played everywhere three months in advance seemed to get to you.

…Alright, maybe a little bit.

What did get to you, though, was that gnawing feeling, one that lingered throughout the year, lurking beneath, only exposing itself in all its agonizing glory during the holiday season.

You were alone. And worse than that—you felt like you always would be.

It was something you had long come to terms with. You thought yourself someone incapable of forming new connections, that chance hindered by the fear of fucking up every possible interaction you ever had.

Then she came along and shattered your whole worldview.

It was effortless with her. Conversations would flow without you overthinking every word. Silences weren’t awkward either—they just were. She laughed at your dumb jokes, complimented you like she’d known you forever and listened in a way that made you feel like you actually mattered.

It felt like you didn’t have to try so hard. And for the first time in a very, very long time, you weren’t on the outside looking in.

Honestly, you had your friends to thank for that. Funny how that worked—they were the ones who begged you to go on that ridiculous Christmas quadruple date in the first place, even bribing you to come along.

You went that night thinking you were doing them a favor. But now? Not even a week into knowing her?

You look over and smile.

You can’t imagine a world without Kim Minjeong.

“I do have eyebrows,” she huffs beside you.

You blink. “What?”

Minjeong glares, cheeks puffing out just slightly—an expression you’ve seen before, but never this close. “You were staring at them.”

It takes you a second to catch up, your brain still half-lost in the warmth of your own thoughts. Then it clicks.

Oh. This again.

“You’re still on about that?” you say, fighting a smirk.

She turns her head sharply, huffing like you’ve insulted her honor. “You literally said it the other day.”

“I never said you don’t have eyebrows,” you defend, shoving your hands into your pockets. “I just said they’re, you know… subtle.”

“They’re not subtle!” she argues, gesturing vaguely at her face.

“I mean, they kind of are,” you tease, tilting your head as if re-evaluating them. “Like, if I had to describe them, I’d say they’re… elusive.”

She gasps, scandalised, smacking your arm with a force that doesn’t match her size. You wince dramatically, rubbing the spot, but it’s worth it to see the way her pout deepens.

You had brought it up during one of those lucky wake-up video calls, mostly because it had been the first time you’d ever seen her completely barefaced. Her hair was damp, eyelids heavy and yet she still looked so goddamn adorable and huggable and a thousand more adjectives for how endearing she always was—not that you had the guts to say any of them out loud. Instead, your brain had done what it always did in moments of vulnerability: it scrambled for something stupid to say.

And somehow, that stupid thing had been, “Huh. You really weren’t lying about the eyebrow thing.”

Minjeong had instantly slapped a hand over her forehead, shrieking in horror while you laughed so hard you nearly dropped your phone.

“You’re just twisting my words,” you say now, unable to resist teasing her further. “I never said you don’t have them.”

She scoffs, turning back to you with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. “You implied it.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“I should put my fist in your mouth.”

The deadpan delivery nearly makes you wheeze. You can’t help but chuckle, “Well, whatever helps you sleep at night. Eyebrow-less or not.”

Minjeong groans in exasperation, dragging a hand down her face, but there’s no real ire there. If anything, you catch one of her signature smiles ready to burst out.

The banter drifts into silence—the two of you aren’t exactly conversationalists—but you don’t mind, and neither does she. It’s a comfortable silence.

Because even though neither of you are brave enough to admit it, you both know the other wants to be there.

Minjeong turns her head away at the thought, a little too quickly—she’s hoping you won’t catch the flush creeping up her cheeks. The glow of the streetlights isn’t doing her any favors, painting her in warm golds that give her more attention than she’d probably like. She clears her throat, stuffing her hands deeper into her pockets, the attempt at nonchalance falling apart when she shifts closer—just slightly—enough that her arm brushes against yours before she freezes, like she’s debating whether to move away again.

She doesn’t.

You pretend not to notice, and she pretends she doesn’t want you to. But the heat lingers where your arms continue to blissfully collide, warming you unlike your coats and scarves ever could.

And for the first time in forever, the city around you doesn’t feel quite so cold.

It occurs to you that neither you or her really go out that much.

Because frankly, you’re both in awe.

The market feels like a wellspring of life: the countless people weaving in and out of stalls, the gorgeous glow of lanterns swaying in the wind, the scent of whatever divine snack that old auntie is cooking up. It all feels like something out of a fairytale—like a place where time slows down for a little while.

Beside you, Minjeong takes it all in with quiet wonder, her hands tucked deep into her coat pockets. She’s always been the type to observe rather than dive right in, (at least you guess it is—it’s how you are, after all) but today, she looks lighter—like she’s letting herself enjoy the moment, letting herself be here, with you.

And for that reason, your chest feels warmer than it should.

You watch as she slows near a stall selling candied strawberries, gaze lingering for just a second too long before she shakes her head and keeps walking.

“You know,” you start, stuffing your hands into your own pockets, “there’s something kinda nice about today.”

Minjeong tilts her head toward you. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” You glance up at the lights overhead. “New Year’s Day always feels… different. Like a reset. No pressure, no expectations—just a fresh start.”

She hesitates mid-step. It’s brief, barely noticeable, but you catch it.

When you glance at her, she’s looking down at the stone path beneath her feet, her lips pressing together like she’s trying to hide a reaction.

“…Yeah,” she says after a moment, her voice quieter than before. “It’s kinda the point, no?.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you just shrug and keep walking.

The subject drifts, and soon enough, Minjeong’s energy picks up again. She tugs you toward different food stalls, eyes flicking between them like she’s looking through a magazine

“Hotteok sounds good,” she muses, then immediately wavers. “But tteokbokki is, like, a classic…”

She stands there for ages, bouncing on her heels, muttering under her breath—“Sweet or spicy? Ugh, why is this so hard?”—before finally throwing her hands up in defeat.

“Okay, both!” she finally declares, turning to you like it was the obvious answer all along.

You watch as Minjeong receives the hotteok from the vendor like a child on Christmas day, holding it up to you with the biggest smile on her face. She hands it to you as she practically skips over to the tteokbokki vendor.

The vendor eyes you both with a knowing smile as she hands over the food.

“You two make such a cute couple,” she says, her voice warm, like she’s seen this scene a hundred times before.

You and Minjeong freeze at the exact same time.

Your first instinct is to correct her, to say something—anything—but Minjeong doesn’t. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t scoff, doesn’t even look at you. Instead, she just quietly takes the tteokbokki, her fingers wrapping around the warm paper cup, and murmurs a soft, barely audible, “Thank you.”

You clear your throat, shifting slightly on your feet. “Uh, yeah—thanks.”

Neither of you say anything else. Neither of you correct her.

Because the thing is—being mistaken for Minjeong’s boyfriend doesn’t feel wrong. It doesn’t feel like some ridiculous, impossible idea.

It feels like something you could get used to.

The thought follows you as you both take a seat at a vacant table, Minjeong carefully blowing on a piece of rice cake before taking a bite. She scrunches her nose slightly at the spice, and without thinking, you nudge a drink from the vending machine closer to her. She takes it wordlessly, sipping at it with a warm smile and sigh of relief.

Yeah. You could really get used to this.

She puts the drink back on the table and freezes.

You barely catch it—the way her fingers falter around the bottle, how her eyes widen slightly before she ducks her head, shoulders curling inward. It’s quick, so quick that if you weren’t looking at her, you would’ve missed it entirely.

Then, as if on instinct, she suddenly moves closer to you, pressing into your side ever so slightly.

“What—?” you begin, but she shushes you, fingers wrapping around your sleeve as she subtly angles herself away.

“Move.”

“Move where?”

“Just—stay still.”

You frown, about to question her, when you follow her gaze toward the other side of the market.

Karina, Giselle, and Ning Ning.

They’re not exactly hiding well—huddled together behind a food stall, peeking out from behind a cart of roasted sweet potatoes, whispering among themselves. The moment you make eye contact, Ning Ning grins.

Oh.

Minjeong groans under her breath, already knowing what’s about to happen. And before you can say anything, she stands up, spins on her heel and speed-walks straight behind a stack of crates.

You blink, staring at the spot where she was just standing. Then at the girls making their way toward you with far too much mischief in their eyes.

“Hey,” Karina greets smoothly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You sigh. “Heeeeey.”

“You know,” Giselle starts, tilting her head, “we were wondering if you’ve seen Minjeong. She left the apartment really early this morning.”

“Super early,” Ning Ning adds.

“So early,” Karina echoes, nodding solemnly.

You raise an eyebrow, trying your best to keep your expression neutral. “Really?” You pretend to think to yourself before concluding: “Sorry, got no idea.”

There’s a beat of silence as the three of them stare at you expectantly.

Giselle crosses her arms. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

“She’s not here?” Ning Ning presses.

“Nope.”

Karina hums, shifting her weight onto one foot. “So you’re just… out here. Alone. At a New Year’s market. With two cups of tteokbokki?”

The anxiety in your laugh is about as subtle as a shotgun shot. “Guys gotta eat.”

“Right,” Giselle nods, teasing. “And you were just talking to yourself earlier, huh?”

You shrug. “Well uh—Sometimes, you gotta have a conversation with the only person who truly understands you.”

“You always buy two drinks?”

“Thirst like a camel,” you take a sip.

Ning Ning gestures to the table. “And the second set of chopsticks?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

There’s a long silence. Any more questions and you’ll be out of clichés.

Karina exhales a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Wow.”

Giselle looks impressed. “I gotta admit, you’re committed.”

“Yeah, I respect it,” Ning Ning nods. “But also, you suck at lying.”

Your lips press together in a flat line, eyes narrowing in annoyance, but before you can say anything, Karina suddenly sighs. “Oh well. I guess since Minjeong isn’t here, I should probably tell you how much she talks about you back home.”

Your eyebrows lift slightly. “Oh?”

Sorry, Minjeong. You’re gonna have to hear this one.

“Mhm,” Karina muses, crossing her arms. “She’s always going on about how cut—”

“I SWEAR TO GOD, KARINA.”

Minjeong bursts from her hiding spot so fast she nearly knocks over a stand. You can just about see lightning start to materialise around her as the sky turns a few shades darker. You’ve never heard her yell—never even seen her truly angry, and yet, even with all that irritation boiling over, she still manages to be her enchantingly charming self. She scrambles to steady herself, cheeks flaring with embarrassment, glaring daggers at her friends as they burst into laughter.

“There you are!” all three sarcastically remark as schrodinger’s eyebrows narrow at their chortling.

Before you can even think to react, Minjeong suddenly dashes and all but throws herself behind you, gripping the back of your coat like a shield against the relentless teasing.

“You guys are the worst,” she hisses, voice muffled slightly from where she’s pressed her forehead against your shoulder.

You blink, your mind caught somewhere between amused and a little stunned at how quickly she’s decided you are now her human barricade. The warmth of her fingers clinging to your sleeve is distracting—almost as distracting as the way her embarrassment is now being shared with you as you’re forced to stare down her friends.

Giselle folds her arms, grinning like she’s just been handed the juiciest gossip of her life. “What’s wrong Minjeong? We couldn’t just miss your very first date!”

Minjeong groans, squeezing the fabric of your coat like she’s physically bracing herself. “It’s not a date.”

“Uh-huh.” Ning Ning nods sagely. “ Let’s see, you came here together. Are eating together. Laughing together. And if I do say so myself,” she giggles “looking just the cutest together.”

Now you wish you had a human shield to hide behind.

Minjeong tugs your coat harder. You’re not sure if it’s for comfort or because she’s planning on suffocating herself in it and retorts,“Oh, shut up.”

Karina sighs, pulling out her phone with the kind of enthusiasm only a proud mother could have, already angling for the perfect shot. “Well, whether it’s a date or not, we should probably get a photo to commemorate the occasion.”

Minjeong’s grip tightens to a death hold. “No.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Karina says, already tapping at her screen. “It’s an important day.”

“For what?” Minjeong demands, voice high and outraged.

Giselle smirks. “Your anniversary, duh.”

Minjeong makes a noise like she’s about to combust on the spot.

You laugh, glancing down at her, still very much using you as a human shield. If this were you a week ago, you’d probably want to protest as much as she does—but something about annoying this girl just feels right.

“I mean, if they’re offering…” you tease.

She jerks her head up to glare at you, her mortification morphing into mild betrayal. “Not. Helping.”

You grin, but before you can say anything else, Karina is already holding up her phone. “Alright, lovebirds, get closer.”

“We are close,” Minjeong deadpans, considering she is quite literally glued to your side.

Ning Ning waves a hand. “Closer.”

Minjeong groans in defeat but doesn’t move away. Instead, she grumbles something under her breath before begrudgingly tilting her head so it rests lightly against your arm.

Your stomach does a backflip.

Click.

Karina inspects the photo with a satisfied nod before showing it to the others. “That’s a keeper.”

“Oh yeah,” Giselle agrees, smirking at Minjeong. “We’re sending this to your mum.”

Minjeong stiffens. “Do not send that to my mum.”

“No promises.”

She lets out the longest sigh of her life, looking utterly done with everything and everyone.

Finally, Karina tucks her phone away with a little smirk. “Alright, we’ll leave you guys to it. But don’t have too much fun without us, okay?”

“Yeah,” Ning Ning winks. “We’ll see you two lovebirds at the B—New Year’s party later.”

Minjeong doesn’t even fight it this time, just slumps further against your side as they wave goodbye and disappear into the crowd. Then, with the heaviest sigh yet, she finally looks up at you.

“…I can’t believe I’m friends with them.”

You chuckle, shaking your head in amusement.

She narrows her eyes. “And you—” she jabs a finger into your arm, still not letting go of your sleeve. “You totally threw me under the bus back there.”

“How?”

“The photo! You helped them.”

You grin. “What’s wrong? I bet it was cute.”

Minjeong stares at you, lips parting slightly before she scoffs, crossing her arms. “Oh yeah? And what makes you think that?”

You tilt your head, considering. Then, with an easy shrug, you say, “Because you’re in it.”

Cheesy? You’re goddamn right.

There’s a pause, though.

A very long pause.

Minjeong’s mouth opens, then closes again. Her cheeks start turning pink at an alarming rate, and for a second, she looks like she might explode. Then, with a sharp exhale, she turns her head away, grumbling under her breath.

“Don’t think just because you complimented me, I’m not still angry,” she mutters.

She says that, but you can’t help but notice she’s still wrapped herself around your sleeve.

Yeah, you could get really, really used to this.

The mall doors slide open with a rush of warm air, a stark contrast to the chill still clinging to your coats. Minjeong is latched onto your sleeve, the way she has been ever since your run in with her friends.

She doesn’t seem to notice.

And you don’t mention it.

Instead, you take in the change of scenery: crowds still weaving—only this time through stores—holiday decorations glinting under bright overhead lights, and the distant hum of Mariah Carey playing from the food court.

(It’s almost been a week, you muppets.)

You notice a couple, standing close near the entrance of a boutique. The girl is holding onto her partner’s sleeve, much like Minjeong is doing now. They exchange quiet words, laughter curling into the air between them, before the guy leans down—pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

Minjeong stiffens.

And then—like she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar—her hand is gone.

The warmth of her grip vanishes in an instant. She tucks her hands into her coat pockets, glancing away so fast you’d think she just witnessed something scandalous. The tips of her ears glow red beneath the strands of hair peeking out from her beanie.

Your brain stalls for a moment, your own face heating. You need to say something. Anything.

And so, with the smooth eloquence of a man who has definitely not just had his brain scrambled, you mumble, “Drinks,” pointing to the café conveniently in the opposite direction of the couple.

Minjeong exhales, a breathy sort of laugh slipping out as she latches onto the suggestion like it’s a life raft. “Yes. Drinks would be nice.”

Neither of you comment on the fact that her voice is about an octave higher than usual.

As is expected of the new year, the café is quite full, but you manage to snag a small table near the window. Minjeong sits across from you, her hands wrapped around her cup like it’s a small, comforting anchor. She takes an absentminded sip, letting out a tiny, pleased hum at the taste.

“I think I won,” she says after a moment, her voice soft but with a hint of pride. She glances at your drink, then back at hers. “Mine’s better.”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. “Bold claim. What did you even get?”

“Hazelnut latte,” she says, lifting her cup slightly as if to prove her point. “It’s… really good. Like, reeeeally good.”

You nod slowly, playing along. “And you’re sure it’s not just, I don’t know, sugar disguised as coffee?”

She gives you a look, half-amused, half-unimpressed. “It’s balanced. You wouldn’t understand.” Her tone is as casual as can be, but you feel like she’s trying a little too hard to keep the conversation going. It’s not hard to guess why. The memory of the couple near the boutique is etched into your eyelids. It too haunts you.

So, you humor her. “Alright, Miss Coffee Connoisseur. Prove it.”

She hesitates for a moment, her gaze flickering to your drink. Then, with a quiet determination, she reaches over, takes your cup, and lifts it to her lips. You blink, caught off guard, as she takes a careful sip. She lowers the cup, her lips pressing together thoughtfully before she nods.

“…Yep. Mine’s better,” she declares, setting your drink back down in front of you. Her voice is steady, but the tips of her ears are pink, and she quickly tucks her hands back into her lap.

You exhale a quiet chuckle, shaking your head as you take the cup back. You take another sip, only to pause. There’s something faintly sweet on the rim—something that wasn’t there before. It takes you a second to place it: her lip balm.

The realization makes your face warm, but you don’t mention it. Instead, you glance at her, only to find her already looking away, her focus suddenly very intent on her own drink.

And just like you feel one step closer to being that couple.

The two of you drift through the mall almost aimlessly.

Lunch together, getting mistaken for a couple, her clinging to your sleeve, coffee, her lip balm on the rim of your cup. It’s all there, lingering in your mind's eye.

The idea strikes you suddenly, almost impulsively: you should buy her something. A small token, maybe, to mark the day. After all, she’s been by your side through all of it, even when things got awkward.

It feels right.

“Hey,” you say, nodding toward a gift shop. “Let’s check it out.”

Minjeong glances at the shop, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she shakes her head, her voice soft but firm. “It’s just a gift shop. We don’t need to go in.”

You shrug, already stepping toward the entrance. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Maybe they have something cool.”

She hesitates, but she follows you in anyway, though her steps are noticeably slower than yours. The shop is cozy, filled with shelves of trinkets, plush toys, and holiday-themed knickknacks. You start browsing almost immediately, picking up a snow globe and giving it a shake. Minjeong lingers near the entrance, her arms crossed loosely over her chest.

“Look at this,” you say, holding up a small, glittery keychain. “Isn’t this kind of your vibe?”

She glances at it, her expression neutral. “It’s… shiny.”

“Exactly,” you say, grinning. “Shiny is good.”

She doesn’t respond, her gaze drifting to a nearby shelf. You move on, picking up a stuffed reindeer and holding it out to her. “What about this? It’s cute, right?”

She eyes it for a moment, then shrugs. “I guess.”

Her lack of enthusiasm is starting to feel deliberate, but you press on, determined to find something she’ll like. You hold up a scented candle, a notebook with a floral design, even a pair of fuzzy socks. Each time, her responses are polite but distant, her tone clipped.

Finally, you turn to her, holding up a small, delicate bracelet. “Okay, what about this? It’s simple. Classy. Totally you.”

She looks at it, then at you, her expression softening for just a moment before she shakes her head. “You don’t need to buy me anything,” she says, her voice quieter now. “Really.”

There’s something in her tone—something almost pleading—that makes you pause. You lower the bracelet, studying her face. “Why not? It’s just a little something. ”

She looks away, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “It’s not that. I just… don’t need anything. Let’s go.”

Her insistence feels strange, almost out of character, but you don’t push it. Instead, you set the bracelet back on the shelf and follow her out of the shop. As you step back into the mall, she exhales softly, almost like she’s relieved.

You glance at her, trying to read her expression, but she’s already walking ahead, her hands back in her pockets. There’s a distance between you now, physical, yes, but also something you can’t quite name. You want to ask her what’s wrong, but the words don’t come. Instead, you fall into step beside her, the silence between you uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

You’re wrestling with the idea that you fucked things up.

Minjeong is still walking beside you, but something feels… off. The usual rhythm between you—the comfortable silences, the easy back-and-forth—it’s not quite there anymore. You keep replaying the moment over in your head, dissecting every word, every hesitation in her voice. Was it too much? Did I push too hard?

She looked relieved when you dropped it. That’s what gets to you the most.

You risk a glance at her. She looks normal enough—hands tucked in her pockets, gaze flitting over the decorations lining the streets—but now that you’re paying attention, you notice the way she keeps her shoulders just a little too stiff, her head angled to the floor like she’s deep in thought.

You want to fix it. Whatever it is.

But you don’t know how.

And so, as the two of you step into the crisp winter night, a quiet, creeping fear settles in your gut—

Maybe you ruined the day.

You’re half considering diving head first into the snow when she finally turns to look up at you.

“I’m not mad at you, you know.”

Oh thank God.

You blink,“You’re not?”

Minjeong raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Do I look mad?”

You hesitate. “…A little?”

She rolls her eyes, sighing like you’re the most dramatic person she’s ever met. “Well, I’m not,” she says, shifting her weight. “So you can stop looking like a kicked puppy.”

The tension in your chest loosens, but not completely. “Are you sure? Because if this is one of those ‘I’m fine’ situations where you’re actually seething and plotting my demise, I’d rather know now.”

That earns you a small huff of laughter, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “I promise I’m not mad. I just…” She pauses, her gaze flickering away for a brief second before she shrugs. “I don’t really like receiving gifts. That’s all.”

Something about the way she says it, the way her hands burrow even deeper into her pockets, makes you think it’s not all. But she’s looking at you so earnestly, like she’s hoping you’ll just take her words at face value, and—well.

If she doesn’t want to talk about it, you won’t push.

“…Alright,” you say,“I guess that means I’ll have to keep my incredibly thoughtful, totally amazing gift ideas to myself.”

Minjeong snorts. “Tragic.”

“You have no idea.”

And just like that, the air between you feels lighter again. It’s not entirely resolved, but at least you're not back to square one. For now, it’s enough.

Enough for you to start teasing her again, that is.

“So,” you start, watching Minjeong out of the corner of your eye. “Do you really talk about me back home?”

Minjeong stiffens for half a second before tilting her head, feigning confusion. “Huh?”

“Karina said you talk about me.” You shove your hands deeper into your coat, biting back a smile. “A lot.”

She scoffs, her breath coming out in a visible puff of air. “Okay, a lot is an exaggeration.”

You give her a look.

Minjeong keeps her eyes trained ahead, jaw set. “Barely,” she amends, her voice forcibly casual. “Like, a little. A tiny bit,” she emphasizes with her fingers.

You raise an eyebrow, unconvinced.

She exhales sharply through her nose, as if this whole conversation is an inconvenience. “Okay, fine—occasionally.”

You hum in response, nodding thoughtfully. “So, like... once a day?”

She clicks her tongue. “No.”

“Twice a day?”

Minjeong glares at you. “No.”

“Oh, three times?” You gasp dramatically. “Four?”

She whirls on you, cheeks dusted pink—probably from the cold, but also, maybe not. “You know what?” she says, voice a little too calm.

And then she bends down.

You blink, barely processing the movement before—

A snowball collides with your chest.

You stumble back half a step, mouth parting in surprise. Minjeong straightens, smirking in satisfaction, brushing leftover snow from her gloves.

“Oh,” you say slowly. “Oh, you wanna play that game?”

Minjeong takes a step back, as if realizing what she’s just set into motion. “Now, let’s not be rash—”

You don’t let her finish.

Your hand scoops up a fistful of snow in record time, and Minjeong yelps as she scrambles away, laughing.

She sprints toward a park bench and ducks behind it just as your snowball whizzes past her, landing harmlessly in a bush. Peeking out, she grins. “You missed.”

You shake your head, already gathering more snow. “I’m just warming up.”

Before you can throw, she lunges from her hiding spot and fires another snowball. You twist, but it still clips your shoulder, sending a flurry of cold against your neck.

“Okay—” You cough, shaking snow from your hair. “You’re gonna regret that.”

Minjeong shrieks as you charge at her. She haphazardly throws another snowball before turning to flee, but the fresh powder slows her down just enough. You scoop up more snow mid-stride, barely breaking pace as you launch it at her back.

Direct hit.

She lets out a gasp, whipping around. “Oh, you did not just—”

Another snowball grazes her arm.

Minjeong’s jaw drops. “Oh, that’s it.”

She grabs a double handful of snow and starts forming ammo at an alarming rate.

Your eyes widen. “Wait—”

Too late.

She launches one after another, relentless, laughing as you duck and scramble for cover. “Where’s all that confidence now?” she teases.

You manage to get behind a tree, pressing your back against the bark as snow explodes inches from your shoulder. “I am—” You dodge left. “—simply—” Dodge right. “—tactically retreating!”

Minjeong snorts. “Coward.”

You take a deep breath, then suddenly dash out from behind the tree. Minjeong yelps and backpedals, trying to reload, but you’re faster.

Grabbing her wrist, you spin her around—

“Got you—”

But before you can celebrate, she shoves a handful of snow directly into your face.

You freeze.

She gasps, hands flying to her mouth, eyes wide with shock at what she’s done. Then, as the snow drips from your nose, she bursts into laughter—full, unrestrained, delightfully breathless laughter.

It’s contagious. You start laughing too, shaking the ice from your hair as you both stumble back onto a patch of untouched snow.

The chase, the cold, the sheer ridiculousness of it all—it drains your energy in the best way possible.

Collapsing onto the ground beside each other, your chests heave from exertion, faces still flushed from the cold and laughter. The sky stretches above you, endless and star-studded, the park around you quiet again save for the occasional rustle of the wind.

Minjeong sighs, a contented little exhale. “That was fun.”

You turn your head to look at her. She’s smiling up at the sky, strands of hair falling loose from beneath her beanie. The moonlight catches the edges of her face, making her look softer, serene—completely different from the person who just tried to pelt you into oblivion with snowballs.

“The stars…” she practically whispers, “they’re pretty.”

You’re sure they are. But who are you kidding? You aren’t looking at the stars.

“Yeah,” you begin, “they’re gorgeous.”

She holds her hand up to the sky, then wiggles her fingers, frowning slightly.

“But my hands are freezing,” she mutters, flexing them. “My gloves are soaked.”

You glance down at her hands, then at your own—also wet. A simple observation. A logical conclusion. And yet, the next thought sends a nervous flutter through your chest.

Should you…?

Would that be weird?

Before you can overthink it, you just move.

Pulling off your gloves, you reach over, fingers brushing against hers tentatively before you fully take her hand in yours.

Minjeong gulps.

Oh, no. She’s not saying anything.

Maybe you should say something. Maybe this was a bad idea—

“I, uh—” You swallow. Your voice sounds smaller than you expected. “Your hands are really cold.”

Her fingers are delicate against your palm, ice-cold but soft. You gently press her hand between both of yours, rubbing slow circles over her knuckles, trying to bring warmth back into them.

Minjeong still doesn’t say a word.

Your heartbeat kicks up slightly. You finally glance up to check on her—and immediately feel your entire body freeze.

She’s staring at you.

Bright red.

Like, steam-should-be-coming-out-of-her-ears red.

“…You okay?” you ask, your voice just a little too careful.

Minjeong opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

Then she looks away so fast you’re surprised she doesn’t get whiplash. “M-more than okay...”

You let out a soft, slightly breathless chuckle, though you can still feel your own ears burning.

“Right,” you murmur, squeezing her fingers gently.

She stays looking in the opposite direction, but—she doesn’t pull away.

You don’t either.

When your hands are of acceptable warmth, you clear your throat. “It’s getting late. We should probably go home. Get ready for the party.”

Minjeong doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she shifts, inching closer until her head lightly rests against your shoulder.

“M-Minjeong?”

“Can we stay here?” she murmurs, “just for a little longer.”

Your breath hitches.

You should be cold. The snow beneath you is biting through your coat, the chill in the air still lingers against your skin—but with Minjeong curled into you like this, the cold doesn’t seem to matter at all.

You swallow, suddenly unsure where to rest your hands—if you should move, if you should say something. But Minjeong lets herself relax into you. You glance down, only to find her eyes slipping shut, her body curling just into yours. The feeling of her pressed up beside you—even through layers of winter coats, is unmistakable.

Slowly, hesitantly, you move, lifting your arm and slipping it beneath her neck, letting her rest against you more comfortably. Your fingers brush lightly over her shoulder before settling there, holding her in place—not too tight, not too loose, but just enough.

A soft chuckle leaves your lips.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, resting your chin against the top of her beanie.

“Let’s stay a little longer.”

Thanks for reading! Part Two coming soon :DD

#aespa winter #minjeong fluff #minjeong x reader #winter fluff #winter x male reader #aespa fluff #aespa #aespa minjeong #kim minjeong

530 notes · View notes

aventurineswife · 5 months ago

Note

Yooooooo self-aware HSR AU!!!

I would LOVE to know what some characters might think of Reader constantly battling the 50/50s (like how the HSR VAs get together and pull on the banners) with a side of the gacha seemingly favoring Bronya. 😅🤣

Off the top of my head, probably the worst one could be when Reader lost more than seven 50/50s in a row. (Based on past experience. 🫠) And not too long ago, they tried to pull for Sunday when his banner was running and when they saw the Harmony symbol—

—well…no points for guessing who showed up in his place. 😅

And then Reader ended up going all the way to max pity.

Reader: “IS THIS KARMA FOR RUNNING HIM OVER WITH THE ASTRAL EXPRESS!??!?!?!??!”

LMAOOO THIS IS GOLD. 😭😭

Okay, so here's how I think it would happen 🤭 (might not be accurate to the characters, plus idk much about pity and stuffs but I tried from the knowledge I got from yt shorts lol)

Bronya, being the gacha queen, might definitely notice how she keeps showing up in your pulls—especially when she’s not the one you’re aiming for. At first, she’d be gracious, “You’ve summoned me again. I can only assume it’s because you trust in my abilities to lead us to victory.”

But after, like, the fifth time, even she starts getting suspicious. “Is this… intentional? Or is this fate…? Regardless, I’ll fulfill my duties, as always.”

(Meanwhile, March is trying so hard not to laugh in the background: “Bronya AGAIN? You’re doomed!”)

Seven losses in a row, though? That’s when Himeko and Welt step in with some serious concern. “Seven? I’d say the odds are against you, but that’s… statistically impossible. Are you sure the stars aren’t just playing with you?”

“Perhaps this is a reflection of the balance you must maintain across dimensions… or you’re simply cursed.” (Thanks for the pep talk, Grandpa...)

Meanwhile, Silver Wolf is like, “You’re fighting against an algorithm. That’s your first mistake.” And then she offers to “fix” it for you (she can’t, but she enjoys messing with your hopes).

The Harmony symbol flashes, your heart soars, and then… Bronya. AGAIN. The absolute audacity.

Reader: “WHY WON’T YOU LET HIM COME HOME!?”

Bronya, oblivious to your suffering, “I will stand by your side, no matter the circumstances. Was this not what you intended?”

Everyone else is just dying. March is clutching her stomach “HAHAHA you were trying to pull for Sunday, and you got Bronya? AGAIN? Oh, I’m gonna cry—this is too good!” (she would definitely take pictures of you suffering.)

Dan Heng would try to be supportive, offering his trademark calm wisdom, “Perhaps it’s better to focus on what you do have. Bronya is an asset in any situation.” But even he can’t fully hide the slight twitch of amusement at your misfortune.

Now the real kicker: when you lose another 50/50 for Sunday and start yelling about karma for running him over with the Astral Express. EVERYONE stops.

Sunday, if he somehow hears this, “...You… WHAT?” (i kinda wanna hc that these characters aren't actually present during the fights/battle scenes.)

The Trailblazer looks at you like you (more like your screen) just committed war crimes.

Meanwhile, March is choking on her drink, “Wait, you RAN OVER HIM? Like, with the ACTUAL EXPRESS? And now he won’t come home? That’s… yeah, that’s fair, actually.”

Even Himeko raises a brow, “Well… actions do have consequences, as they say.”

You’d swear you hear Kafka’s voice somewhere in the distance, smirking, “Seems like fate is toying with you. What a fascinating little game you’ve got going.”

By the time you hit max pity, the entire Astral Express crew has started following your pulling rituals. March has a notepad, “Alright, you’ve hit 79 pity. This next pull is gonna be the one, I feel it—oh… wait. Nope. That’s another Bronya.”

Pom-Pom is pacing nervously in the background, muttering, “At this rate, the economy of our inventory is going to collapse.”

When you FINALLY pull Sunday, the whole group cheers like it’s a world event. Dan Heng, however, just calmly says, “Perhaps you’ve learned not to anger the stars. Or… the train.”

At the end of it all, Bronya might start feeling awkward about always showing up. If you mention your struggles, she’d quietly apologize, “If I’ve interfered with your plans… I am sorry. I only wanted to be of help to you. Perhaps the stars are telling us something we don’t yet understand.” (Translation: she’s just as confused as you are.)

This AU would honestly be too much fun. Every pull would feel like an event for the Astral Express, and I can already imagine March becoming your emotional support bestie through it all. 😭🙏

338 notes · View notes

slattlicker · 3 days ago

Note

Schlatt has said in a chuckle sandwich ep that he buys expensive furniture (VERY EXPENSIVE)

and so imagine ted is at his place and he spills something on the couch and so schlatt gets really mad righttt

but later schlatts like fucking u on the couch and u cum/squirt all over it and you think he’s going to be really mad but he loves it and makes u do it again <3

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * visitation rights ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: he hires you to redecorate his condo. you hate the layout. he hates your attitude. the couch is the only thing worth keeping—so, naturally, you try to destroy it. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: inspired by a sinful little ask about furniture, bodily fluids, and schlatt being possessive. i may have taken... several creative liberties ♡ hope that’s okay.

warnings: explicit content (MDNI !!!) · hate sex · exes with unresolved everything · belt kink · oral (f & m) · overstim · degradation · possessive behavior · cumplay · ruined furniture · pettiness as foreplay

✦ note: post-scene behavior may look like aftercare, but it’s more possessive than nurturing. emotional resolution is not present—please tread carefully if you’re seeking softness or a happy ending. there isn’t one.

enjoy, pervs ♡

✧✧✧

schlatt's pov

the condo was a fucking disaster.

to be clear, it was massive—open floor plan, polished concrete, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a view of the skyline that probably made architects weep. it screamed luxury. class. money.

but whoever had picked out the furniture should’ve been tried at the hague.

there was a sectional couch in deep emerald velvet—opulent, sculptural, stunning—and it clashed with everything else in the room. a glass coffee table sat crooked on a synthetic cowhide rug, as if begging to be put out of its misery. the wall art? faux-motivational quotes in metallic cursive. one said, “hustle in silence. let your success make the noise.”

schlatt stood in the middle of it all with a hand on his hip, coffee in the other, wondering how the hell he let it get this bad.

it wasn’t like he didn’t have taste. he did. for watches. cars. whiskey. leather. things that were loud in quality, quiet in branding. but interior design? that was austin’s thing.

and it was austin who noticed. who took one look around the condo during poker night, laughed for five full minutes, and said, “you live like a divorced banker who just lost custody.”

“fuck off,” schlatt had said.

“seriously. you need help.”

“i’ve got a guy, actually,” austin had added, wiping his eyes. “she’s brilliant. brutal. you’ll hate her. but she’s the best.”

that was three weeks ago.

and now here he was. dressed like he had a meeting on wall street. two undone buttons. rolex peeking from his cuff. coffee in hand like he wasn’t pacing a condo that looked like a tech startup’s idea of cozy.

he heard the knock and exhaled slowly. calm. in control.

he opened the door.

and there she was.

her.

✧✧✧

y/n's pov

you had prepared for this meeting like any other: portfolio, mood boards, fabric swatches, and an ironed outfit that screamed competence. you wore black. structured. polished. earrings small. hair perfect. lipstick unforgiving.

professional.

because you were. this was your job. not therapy. not nostalgia. not a goddamn walk down memory lane.

still, when the door opened, you had to pause for a millisecond.

schlatt.

older. broader. hair a little longer, face a little sharper. he wore the same brand of cologne, though—you caught it faintly as he stepped back to let you in. warm. smoky. familiar.

you ignored it.

“hi,” you said crisply. “i’m here for the walkthrough.”

he blinked. “you’re the interior designer.”

“i am.”

“you’re austin’s interior designer.”

you gave him a tight smile. “that a problem?”

“no,” he said quickly, stepping aside. “no, just—didn’t realize. i mean. wow.”

you walked in without further comment, heels tapping against the hardwood. the place was just as bad as austin had warned.

“jesus christ,” you muttered, surveying the couch. “you let a computer algorithm decorate this place?”

“it came mostly furnished.”

“and you just… kept it like this?”

“i’ve been busy.”

you didn’t respond. you were already taking photos, opening cabinets, checking natural light.

he hovered.

“you’re not gonna—like—mention it?” he asked finally.

you glanced at him. “mention what?”

“that we… you know.”

you tilted your head slightly. “oh. that.”

“yeah. that.”

you offered a dry smile. “ancient history.”

he blinked.

you turned back to your notes. “let’s keep it that way.”

it hit him harder than it should’ve.

because for a second, when he saw you standing there, he thought maybe—

but no. of course not.

you were here to work. you had your clipboard and your laser measurer and your pressed slacks, and he was just the idiot who didn’t know how to buy a rug that didn’t scream cryptobro bachelor pad.

he cleared his throat. “right. yeah. totally.”

you didn’t look up. you just said, “let’s talk about that couch.”

the couch was the only thing in the condo with any real value.

not because of the color. or the fact that it was modular.

because they bought it together.

six years ago. when they still shared keys. and spotify playlists. and the occasional sunday morning worth remembering. it had cost more than some people’s cars—custom italian velvet, deep emerald, walnut trim and brass feet, imported from milan. schlatt had haggled for it like a man possessed.

he remembered how proud he was when it arrived. how the two of them arranged the pieces together, testing configurations, arguing about the chaise. how they broke it in like it was sacred. movie nights. lazy mornings. one disastrous attempt at assembling ikea drawers while tipsy.

it was the only thing he fought for during the breakup.

he’d let you take the espresso machine. the knives. the record player. the apartment.

but not the couch.

and now you were standing in front of it like it meant nothing. like it was just another piece of evidence in the case against his taste.

he watched you jot something down in your notebook, tapping your pen against your chin. you were muttering to yourself. pacing. taking measurements. referencing swatches against the fabric.

and then you said it.

"it’s the only thing worth saving."

you didn’t look at him when you said it. but it stuck. worse than a knife, sharper than pity. because you didn’t say it like it meant anything. you said it like a professional. like someone doing a job.

still, it caught him.

because now you were designing around it.

you’d said it was the only anchor in the entire mess. that everything else had to go. but not the couch.

you circled it like it was art. you built your palette around it. you asked if he remembered the name of the fabric—of course he did. you held up a swatch of slate velvet and murmured, "this might finally do it justice."

and schlatt—who hadn’t thought about milan or memory or what it meant to sit on something shared until this very moment—suddenly couldn’t think about anything else.

✧✧✧

schlatt's pov

it had been three weeks since the initial walkthrough, and schlatt had more or less surrendered the condo to her.

not willingly. not graciously.

because she hadn’t just taken over his space—she’d taken over him. breezed in with that smug little clipboard, those stupidly expensive heels, her swatches and her attitude, and acted like he didn’t even exist outside of her vision board.

now she was seated at his kitchen island, tablet propped up like a guillotine, swatches fanned beside her coffee like an art exhibit. her blazer was flawless. her ponytail severe. she looked like she’d sue someone for misusing a throw pillow.

“mr. schlatt,” you said without looking up, “i’ve mocked up revised layouts for the media room, living room, and bedroom. i’d appreciate your feedback before proceeding with orders.”

he squinted at you. “you’re calling me mr. schlatt now?”

“it’s our professional dynamic.”

“you used to call me ‘baby’ when you wanted something.”

you tapped your screen. “yeah. and you never delivered.”

the grin that tugged at his mouth was involuntary. but you didn’t acknowledge it. you just rotated the tablet toward him, like you were dealing with a difficult client and not your ex.

“this is the proposed media room,” you said flatly. “lighting balance, scale, acoustic layout. i’ve matched the walnut paneling to matte black fixtures and hidden storage. clean. sharp.”

he leaned in. “sharp’s one word for it. looks like i’m about to start monologuing to the avengers.”

you arched a brow. “is that a complaint?”

he shrugged. “it’s the first time this place has looked like it belongs to someone with an actual spine.”

that earned him a flicker of a smile. sharp-edged. pitying. “glad to hear you’re growing one.”

you clicked to the next render.

“for the living room, i kept the sectional. temporarily.”

he tensed. “temporarily?”

you didn’t look up. “it’s the only item in here with visual weight. but it doesn’t fit the palette long-term.”

his voice dropped. “you remember that couch.”

you finally looked at him. “of course i do.”

a silence passed. ugly. heavy.

and then, like nothing, you held up a swatch. “i’m pairing it with smoked oak, brass accents, and tobacco suede. you said you liked warm tones, right? still masculine. just not… depressingly so.”

he scowled. “you saying my place is depressing?”

“i’m saying it feels like a linkedin influencer who drinks four raw eggs for breakfast and thinks a quartz coaster is interior design.”

“jesus.”

you smiled, thin and mean. “i’m trying to help.”

he stared at you. “you’re trying to win.”

“i already did. six years ago.”

he barked a laugh. “you left. that’s not winning.”

you turned the tablet one last time. “here’s the bedroom mockup. layered neutrals. clean textiles. a space for someone who doesn’t wake up and immediately ruin his own day.”

he looked at it. then at you.

and for the first time in the conversation, he didn’t have a comeback.

you took a slow sip of your coffee. “you have until friday to approve the first round of orders. if you ghost me again, i’ll assume you’re too emotionally fragile to make choices, and i’ll do it all myself.”

he leaned back, voice tight. “you always did love being in control.”

“and you always loved being told what to do,” you replied smoothly. “especially if i said it with my hand around your throat.”

his jaw clenched. you smiled sweetly.

“see you friday, mr. schlatt.”

✧✧✧

the condo looked good.

too good.

it had your fingerprints all over it—every clean line, every muted tone, every stupidly perfect shelf styling. and he hated how much better it was. hated that you were the reason.

all that was left was the living room.

and the couch.

your couch. that he fought to keep. that he won.

he walked in expecting to see you fluffing throw pillows or straightening lamps like usual—but you were standing over the tablet with that look on your face. the one that meant you were about to do something calculated and pretend it was casual.

“you’re redoing the living room?”

you didn’t even look at him. “it’s the final piece.”

he stepped closer. “what piece?”

you turned the tablet.

a couch. not the couch. just… a couch. sleek beige leather, boring brass legs, the kind of thing you’d see in a hotel lobby pretending to be chic. it looked like it came with a name like 'angled nugget chaise' and a fake sustainability pledge.

he stared at it.

then at you.

“you’re replacing my couch.”

“it’s not yours.”

that was fast. sharp.

he blinked. “i bought it.”

“we picked it. together.”

“six years ago.”

“and?”

he scoffed. “so what, now you’re just gonna design the whole place to passive-aggressively erase me?”

you looked up, deadpan. “trust me—if i was trying to erase you, i’d start with the whiskey stains in the bedroom and the framed photo of your own car in the hallway.”

“oh, fuck off.”

“no, really.” you tapped the screen with a manicured finger. “this one actually matches the palette. it doesn’t scream ‘mid-twenties man who cried during Heat.’”

he stepped forward. “that couch is the only good thing in this entire room.”

“it was the only good thing,” you corrected. “until i fixed the rest of it.”

his voice dropped. “you’re just pissed you didn’t get to keep it.”

“please.” you laughed, humorless. “if i wanted to keep it, i would’ve. i let you have it.”

“bullshit.”

you folded your arms. “you think i was gonna drag a 700-pound milanese monstrosity up three flights of stairs in a walk-up just to remind myself of you every day?”

his jaw clenched. “you think it reminds me of you?”

“god, schlatt,” you snapped, voice low, venomous. “you live like a man still clinging to the best thing he ever had and fucked up anyway.”

silence.

searing. ugly. real.

you both stood there, frozen. the couch between you like a crime scene neither of you could stop revisiting.

you arched a brow. “still can’t handle being told the truth, huh?”

he looked at the tablet again. “that couch is fucking ugly.”

“so were you. i still slept with you.”

his eyes snapped back to yours.

and for a moment—just one—there was no condo. no layout. no job.

just you. him. and six years of quiet, rotting history embedded in green velvet.

then he laughed. dry. humorless. “i’m flying out tomorrow.”

“good for you.”

“gone four days.”

you tilted your head. “i’ll hold down the fort.”

he watched you—suspicious. silent.

then turned away, muttering as he headed down the hall, “don’t touch the fucking couch.”

you didn’t answer.

just smoothed your blouse, closed the tablet, and gathered your things like a professional.

like someone who’d made peace.

like someone who hadn’t just been given a four-day window and a very, very stupid challenge.

and when the door closed behind you—

you were already texting your movers.

✧✧✧

he noticed the second he stepped through the door.

not because the replacement was ugly. god, no. it was—objectively—beautiful. italian leather, camel-toned, butter-soft. sleek lines. deep seats. the kind of thing you’d see in a luxury showroom with price tags that didn’t use decimals.

but it wasn’t his.

it wasn’t theirs.

the couch was gone.

the emerald velvet. the walnut trim. the brass feet. the years of history sealed into the seams. gone.

he stood in the middle of his living room like someone had died there.

for a moment, he thought maybe he was losing it. that she’d just rearranged things. moved it to another room. he checked. bedroom: still the same. media room: untouched. storage: empty.

that fucking couch was gone.

✧✧✧

“austin.”

“hey, man! how was the trip?”

“austin. where does she live?”

there was a pause on the other end of the line. “…what?”

“the couch is gone.”

“oh.”

“she stole the couch.”

there was another pause.

then, cautiously: “schlatt. buddy. you’re the one who said she could take full creative lead.”

“i meant the walls! the bookshelves!”

austin sighed. “you’re calling me because your ex—who you kept hired—replaced the couch she probably still dreams about burning, and now you’re having a meltdown?”

“it’s our couch...she wouldn't burn it.”

“yeah...you remember that she left you six years ago, yeah?”

“i want her address.”

austin groaned. “god, it's JUST a couch!”

“austin.”

“fine. but i’m not bailing you out if this turns into a felony.”

✧✧✧

he shows up at your place just before sundown.

no warning. no text. no civility.

he knocks once, hard, and waits.

when the door opens, you look stunned for half a second—until your eyes flick to the man in front of you, and your mouth curls like you’ve been waiting for this.

“you took the couch,” he says.

you blink once. innocently. “i updated the layout.”

“you took the couch.”

you lean against the doorframe. “and replaced it with one better suited to the home’s color story and modernized atmosphere. i even upgraded the seating depth.”

“that couch is mine.”

you snort. “please. you barely noticed it in the shop window, you were so worried about being early to the Duomo. you just paid for it.”

he steps forward. “you had it removed while i was out of state. that’s premeditated.”

you fold your arms. “and what are you gonna do? call the cops? tell them your evil ex reclaimed the overpriced sofa you emotionally imprinted on like a fucking duckling?”

he scowls. “you don’t even want it. you just wanted to take it away from me.”

you smirk. “exactly.”

it hits him like a slap. because she’s not even denying it.

“you’re insane,” he says.

“you’re welcome,” you repeat, stepping back toward the door.

but instead of retreating like a normal person, he moves. fast.

“schlatt—”

he wedges his foot in the doorway and muscles his way past you like he owns the place.

“are you serious—?”

“i’m taking the fucking couch.”

“you are not taking the couch.”

“it’s mine!”

“you gave me control over the layout!”

“i didn’t say steal the one good thing i had left!”

he’s already halfway into the living room, arms braced against the back of the couch like he’s going to deadlift it out the door by sheer rage and spite.

you follow after him, seething. “do you have any idea how deranged you sound right now?”

“oh, i’m sorry, are you not the one who surgically extracted my soul-couch while i was 900 miles away?”

you whirl around the arm of the couch to face him. “you abandoned that couch to a fake cowhide rug and a hustle grind mindset poster. i fucking rescued it.”

“you kidnapped it!”

“you’re lucky i didn’t torch the rest of your awful furniture and salt the earth!”

he lunges. not at you. at the couch, like he’s going to hoist it right over his shoulder and walk out the door. it doesn’t budge.

you shove his arm. “get your hands off it!”

he shoves back. “get your hands off me!”

you stumble, nearly trip on the rug, and he instinctively grabs your arm—steadying you—and then—

there’s a beat.

just one.

the grip doesn’t loosen.

your face is close to his now. too close. breathing hard. cheeks flushed. chest heaving.

you hiss, “let. go.”

but you don’t move.

and neither does he.

his voice drops. rough. “you don’t even want the couch.”

your eyes flash. “no. i just want you to suffer.”

and then—

he kisses you.

hard.

rough and hot and furious.

your teeth clash. your hands push. pull. your mouths crash like something breaking. it’s not tender. it’s not sweet.

it’s years of resentment and want and what if all igniting at once.

you break for air, gasping, but don’t move away. he’s still gripping your arm, and your hands are fisted in his shirt like you might throttle him or yank him closer. or both.

“you’re such an asshole,” you breathe.

“you stole my fucking couch,” he growls back.

you grab his face. he kisses you again.

this time, it’s worse. this time, you moan into it.

and that’s all it takes.

something in him snaps—like your mouth unlocked a door he’s been holding shut for six years.

he pushes you backward without breaking the kiss, hands gripping your waist. you hit the back of the couch hard—the couch—and he crowds you against it like a man who’s been starving.

“this what you wanted?” he growls against your mouth, lips slick, voice wrecked. “steal my shit, bait me into losing it—was that the plan?”

“no,” you gasp, shoving at his chest, only to claw his shirt back toward you. “i was just aiming to piss you off. the rest is a bonus.”

he huffs out a laugh, biting at your jaw, dragging his teeth across your skin until you shudder. “you’re a goddamn menace.”

“and you’re predictable,” you shoot back. “you think i didn’t know you’d come for it?”

his mouth is hot on your neck now, biting just hard enough to make you hiss.

“you always were a fucking brat,” he mutters.

you dig your nails into his back. “you always liked it.”

he growls—actually growls—and lifts you like it’s nothing. your back hits the couch cushions and he follows, mouth devouring yours, one hand already sliding up your thigh with zero patience, zero hesitation.

“gonna fuck you right here,” he murmurs, voice low and venomous. “on the couch you stole. gonna make it mine again.”

“you wish,” you breathe, grinding up against him. “you couldn’t handle me then.”

“oh, sweetheart.” his hand slips between your legs, and you gasp. “i can handle you just fine now.”

you arch under him, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. he’s kissing you like a man drowning—rough, relentless, with teeth and tongue and six years of anger slamming into every movement.

you hate him. you hate him so much.

but god, he still knows exactly how to ruin you.

your blouse gets shoved up. your bra pushed aside. his mouth is on you, sucking and biting hickies into your skin.

“you want it rough?” he mutters. “you want me to remind you what this mouth can do? what these hands used to do?”

“you owe me,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “you owe me six years of orgasms and a new espresso machine.”

he huffs a laugh, breathless. “fine. let’s settle the debt.”

and then he’s moving down.

fast. desperate. determined. you don’t even have time to be smug. you barely have time to breathe.

because the second his mouth hits you—

you go silent. eyes wide. breath caught.

his tongue is cruel. precise.

your hand flies to his hair before you can stop yourself—fingers curling in tight, nails scraping across his scalp like you’re staking a claim.

he groans into you.

it’s low. guttural. monstrous.

and he doubles down.

tongue dragging through you in slow, devastating strokes, nose brushing where you’re aching, lips sucking your clit into his mouth with a rhythm so deliberate it makes your toes curl.

“fuck—” you breathe, voice wrecked.

he doesn’t let up.

he doesn’t want to let up.

because this is about more than making you come—it’s about proving something. about punishment. about pride. about planting his name back into your skin with nothing but his mouth.

you pull his hair harder, tilting his head just so—and he lets you, humming against you like he wants you to take control just to prove he’ll rip it right back.

your hips twitch, buck, grind—and his hands tighten on your thighs, holding you in place like you’re some desperate little thing he’s keeping pinned just to watch you squirm.

“stay still,” he mutters, voice muffled. “you wanted this.”

you don’t answer. you just tighten your grip in his hair and pull.

he grunts at that. nips at your clit in retaliation— enough to make your legs jerk as you yelp at the sudden pain.

your thighs are trembling. your grip on his hair is bruising. your head tips back against the couch cushions, mouth falling open, every breath a broken little sound you hate giving him—but you can’t stop.

not when he’s flicking his tongue just right. not when he’s groaning into you like he likes this. like he missed this.

he pulls back, spitting warm and lazy right onto your cunt—then spreads it with his tongue, slow and smug.

“still with me?” he mutters, thumb pressing hard at your inner thigh to hold you open.

you glare down at him. “barely.”

“good.” his mouth finds you again. “shut up.”

and you do. because the second he locks back in, there’s no room to talk. just heat. pressure. tongue working you over like he’s methodical about it, like there’s a pace he’s decided on and he’s not changing it for anything.

your hips twitch again. he slams a hand down on your stomach—flat, solid, grounding.

“don’t move.”

you’re barely breathing now. hands twisted in his hair like rope. mouth open but nothing coming out.

your head spins.

he hums against you, tongue flicking harder now. tighter circles. crueler rhythm. like he can feel how close you are and wants to make it hurt.

“fuck, schlatt—”

he cuts you off with a sharp slap to your thigh. not hard. not gentle. just enough to sting.

“don’t say my name like that,” he growls. “you know what to call me when i'm giving you everything you want.”

you bite your lip at that, the title stuck in your throat.

he notices.

his mouth curls into something slow. smug. dangerous.

“hm,” he says, tongue flicking once—deliberate, precise—right over the spot that makes your breath hitch. “thought so.”

you glare down at him, eyes glassy. your voice comes out low. strained. “don’t get cocky.”

he drags his mouth over your cunt again, slow and wet. “oh, baby.” another stroke. “i’m already there.”

you want to hit him. you want to ride him.

you want to wipe that look off his face with your thighs around his head and your fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re anchoring yourself to a sinking ship.

but right now, you’re boneless—wrecked—half-shaking and flushed all the way down to your chest.

he sits back on his heels, lazily licking his fingers like he’s tasting victory.

then he nods at you—chin tilted, tone cool. “on your knees.”

you don’t move.

he waits.

one beat. two.

you roll your eyes. “still bossy.”

“and you still like it,” he says, already reaching for his belt.

you hate that he’s right.

you push up slowly, legs unsteady, jaw tight—but you go. you kneel in front of him, still flushed, still breathing hard.

he pulls his pants down just enough, cock already hard, flushed, leaking at the tip.

you look up at him, glare sharp.

he tilts his head.

“what’s the word?” he asks.

your lips part. the word still burns. still chokes.

but the way he looks at you—like he knows you’ll say it, like he’s earned it—

your throat clicks.

“…sir.”

his breath stutters.

just for a second.

then it’s like a switch flips—his eyes go darker, his grip in your hair turns solid, possessive.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice low, rough. “there she is.”

the belt slides from his loops with that unmistakable hiss of leather, and you freeze—not scared. just…watching.

he holds it up. lets it hang between two fingers. then steps forward and wraps it around your throat. snug. not choking. not yet.

he pulls it just enough to lift your chin. make you look at him.

“keep your mouth open and your manners sharp,” he warns. “you know what to call me.”

you blink up at him, wide-eyed. lashes fluttering.

then your mouth curls.

and you murmur—soft, sweet, poisonous—

“yes, daddy.”

his expression snaps.

the belt tightens—not harsh, just a warning. his free hand grips your jaw.

hard.

“try again.”

you smile, all teeth. “master?”

his hand slams to your cheek—not a slap, not quite—but a sharp tap, a reset. his thumb pushes your jaw open.

“you’ve got one more chance to behave,” he growls. “say it right.”

you tilt your head just enough to test the belt's pull.

and purr, "sir."

his jaw clenches. nostrils flaring.

then his hand is back in your hair, belt still tight in his grip.

“open your mouth, since you’ve got so much to say.”

you do.

he feeds it to you inch by inch, slow and steady, keeping control with the belt as a leash—guiding you like he’s done this a thousand times.

you hollow your cheeks. he groans. head tipping back for a second before locking eyes with you again.

“that’s it. just like that.” he hisses between his teeth. “always took my cock so fucking well.”

you hum around him, eyes narrowed.

his hips twitch.

“fuck, don’t—don’t pull that shit,” he mutters, voice tight. “you hum again, i’m gonna come down your throat too soon, y/n."

you do it again.

harder.

and his hand tightens on the belt. yanking you forward just a little—not enough to choke, but enough to remind you who’s holding the leash.

“you’re such a fucking brat,” he growls. “look at you. on your knees. drooling all over me like this is what you were made for.”

spit’s already running down your chin. you don’t care.

you grip his thighs for balance, working your mouth over him, letting him hit the back of your throat and stay there.

he groans—deep. fucked. eyes fluttering. “goddamn.”

you bob your head, slow at first, then faster, messier—let your nose press to his skin, let your spit coat everything.

he’s cursing under his breath now, hand gripping the belt like he’ll lose it if he doesn’t have you tethered.

“good fucking girl,” he grits out. “look at you. letting me use your mouth like it’s mine. like you never left.”

you look up at him, eyes glassy, face wrecked.

his hips snap forward at a punishing pace.

you gag. swallow around him. don’t pull away, no matter how sore your throat is gonna be in the morning.

he groans—loud, uncontrolled. “shit, i’m gonna—”

you pull off with a loud, wet pop.

he looks ruined. flushed. chest heaving. belt still clenched in one fist like he’ll drag you back if you try to run.

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

then smirk.

“missed this, sir?”

he stares down at you.

“get on the couch,” he says, voice like gravel. “hands and knees.”

you start to turn, blouse still bunched up beneath your arms, skirt hiked up, underwear somewhere on the floor.

he stops you with a tug on the belt.

“hold on.”

you glance back, breathless. “what now—”

rip.

the sound of fabric tearing cuts through the air like a gunshot.

you jerk as your blouse splits down the middle—threads popping, buttons scattering across the floor like shells.

“jesus—!”

he grabs the back panel, yanks again, and it comes clean off your arms, tossed over the couch without ceremony.

“you don’t get to look like you’re still in control,” he mutters, already reaching under you to pull the bra straps down. “not when you’re drooling all over my cock and soaking my couch.”

your bra barely holds on for another second before he snaps the clasp and peels it off like an afterthought.

you’re left in just your skirt, belt still looped around your throat, breath coming fast.

he steps back, takes you in—naked from the waist up, flushed, wrecked, trying to pretend you’re not into this.

then?

he rips the skirt at the zipper.

doesn’t even try to undo it.

just fists the fabric and pulls, and when it tears at the seam, he grins like it’s his favorite sound in the world.

you gasp, spinning halfway toward him. “that skirt was custom!”

he grabs your jaw, fingers digging in just enough to make you still.

"does it look like i give a fuck, dollface?"

then he turns you.

bends you over the couch like you weigh nothing.

hands and knees, belt still snug around your neck, chest bare, legs spread. what’s left of your outfit barely clings to you—torn, wrinkled, meaningless.

his palm lands hard on your ass once—twice—and then he’s lining up behind you, fist still wrapped in the belt around your neck.

“spread.”

you do.

you’re still catching your breath when he pushes inside you with a brutal thrust.

no warning. no easing in. just ownership.

your entire body jolts forward, hands scrabbling against the cushion.

“fuck!” you choke, back arching, walls clenching around him like your body’s trying to process the shock.

he groans—low, rough, like something primal just cracked inside him.

“still so fucking tight,” he mutters, fingers digging into your hips like he needs to ground himself. “six goddamn years, and you’re still perfect.”

you laugh—breathy, sharp. “don’t get soft on me now.”

he slams into you harder.

you yelp.

“that soft enough for you, sweetheart?”

you twist your head, glare over your shoulder. “i’m not the one simping.”

he growls and grabs the belt again, yanking your head up as he leans over you.

his voice is a rasp against your ear.

“say it again.”

“what?”

“say my name. right.”

you grit your teeth, spit pooling in your mouth.

“…sir.”

he groans, biting down against your shoulder—not enough to draw blood, just enough to make you jump.

“good girl,” he mutters. “knew you’d come back to me.”

“wasn’t for you,” you snap. “it was for the couch.”

his hips snap forward so hard the couch creaks under both of you.

you scream.

“liar,” he says. “i bet you planned this. you continued working for me...just to get fucked like this. to be ruined like this. and you know what?”

you’re gasping. shaking.

“just for that—you’re gonna come two more times,” he growls, “before i even think about pulling out.”

your laugh is wrecked. bitter. “what, trying to make up for six years of failure all at once?”

he grabs your hips tighter—slams in deep. you yelp.

“still running your mouth, huh?”

“still overpromising and underdelivering,” you bite back, breathless. “some things never change.”

he leans over you, the belt pressing against your throat as his body folds over yours. you feel him everywhere—skin, heat, teeth against your neck.

“say that again,” he hisses. “say it after you cum so hard you forget your own name.”

you whimper—but your tone’s still defiant. “bet you said that before you missed the launch party i wasn’t invited to.”

he stills.

his breath hits the back of your neck.

“you left,” he says, voice low. controlled. dangerous.

you shove back against him, grinding. “you let me.”

the next thrust is brutal.

you cry out, face pressed to the cushion, fingers fisting the ruined fabric beneath you.

“i told you i needed time after that promotion—”

“you vanished,” you spit, choking on the words. “you finally made it big, and i found out from a tweet.”

“you weren’t there at the party!”

“i wasn’t on the list, asshole.”

he growls and pulls the belt tighter—not choking, just enough to keep your breath on a leash.

“you think i just forgot about you?” he snaps. “that couch was the only fucking thing i kept because it mattered.”

your voice breaks. “you think that makes it better?”

“i think you wanted me to leave it. so i couldn’t have anything we built together.”

you twist beneath him, gasping, hate and arousal knotted together like wire. “i wanted you to look at it every day and remember you fucked it all up.”

“you think i don’t?”

his voice is wrecked now. too honest.

“i sit on this couch every goddamn night,” he mutters, thrusts slowing. “and all i think about is how you looked the day we bought it. that stupid smile. the fucking champagne. you remember that?”

your breath hitches.

“…yeah. i remember you spent half your paycheck on it.”

he slams back in—deep. angry.

“yeah. i fucking did.”

you’re trembling now—overstimulated, furious, close.

“schlatt—”

he growls, “try again.”

“…sir.”

“good girl.”

his hand drops to your clit—fingers circling fast, mean.

you sob through your teeth, legs shaking. “i’m—i’m gonna—”

“do it,” he snaps. “do it while i’m inside you. while you’re on this fucking couch we both worked and bled for.”

you cry out as it hits—sharp, brutal, a full-body collapse that steals your breath and leaves you soaked all over again.

he groans loud behind you, grip tightening, pace faltering. “one more.”

you shake your head. “i can’t—”

“yes you can. you will. you owe me.”

you try to speak. to push back. but he doesn’t stop.

not until you're twitching.

not until you're a mess of tears, spit, sweat, and slick.

you’re already coming—sharp, sudden, clenching around him so hard he chokes on his breath. you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, mouth open against the cushion as your whole body convulses.

but he doesn’t stop. not for a second.

his rhythm stutters, then doubles down.

“uh-uh,” he growls, hand slamming back to your hip, cock still fucking into you without mercy. “we’re not done.”

you whimper. “schlatt—”

“sir.”

your voice breaks. “sir—please, i can’t—”

“yes, you fucking can.”

then he yanks you up.

one brutal pull, and your spine is flush against his chest, his arm locked tight around your waist to hold you upright. he keeps fucking you—deep, relentless—while your knees barely stay under you, every muscle twitching from the last orgasm.

his other hand grabs under your thigh and lifts, forcing one leg up and open across the couch cushion, wide and vulnerable.

you try to squirm, but he’s got you pinned—mouth at your ear, voice a low snarl.

“touch yourself.”

you hesitate, shaking.

“i said—” he thrusts in harder, hips slapping loud against your ass— “touch yourself.”

your hand flies down. fingers shaking, slick already everywhere. you circle your clit like he told you to, gasping, sobbing, overstimulated out of your mind.

“harder.”

you obey.

your other arm reaches back, blindly grabbing at him—fingers tangling in his hair like you need leverage just to stay conscious.

he groans, hips stuttering as your nails scrape over his scalp.

“that’s it,” he breathes. “fucking mess. just like i remember.”

you’re whining now—nonsensical, desperate, legs quaking.

his mouth is at your jaw, then your cheek, then your neck, biting hard enough to leave something.

“you wanna cum again?” he hisses.

you nod frantically. “y-yes—fuck, yes, sir—”

his pace slows—not softer. just calculated. controlled. cruel.

“then say it,” he growls. “say you’ll give me the couch back.”

you choke. “wh-what?”

“say it.”

his thrusts stay steady, thick and deep and devastating, hitting everything with no mercy.

you squirm in his grip, breath caught between a sob and a scream.

“c’mon,” he murmurs into your ear, voice almost sweet. “you’re not gonna make me ask again, are you?”

your hand’s still between your legs, rubbing fast, shaking. you’re right at the edge—vision blurred, body twitching.

“say it,” he commands. “say it and i’ll let you cum again.”

“okay,” you gasp. “okay, it’s yours—fuck—you can have the couch back—”

“louder.”

“i’ll give it back—fuck—sir, i’ll give it back—!”

that’s all he needed.

“good girl.”

his hand drops from your thigh to your clit, slapping it once—wet and mean—and you scream.

you come again like a flood.

like your whole body’s been wrung out, broken open, used. it splurges out from where you're still connected to him, hitting the couch with an audible squelch, and his groan is the loudest yet.

“fucking look at that,” he mutters, watching the mess spread under you. “you just squirt all over this thousand-dollar couch for me, huh?”

you can’t answer.

you can barely breathe.

and that’s when he lets go.

his arm slips from around your waist and you drop—sloppy, gasping, twitching—straight down into the ruined cushion.

your legs give out completely.

you collapse into the mess you made, thighs still shaking, cunt dripping, face flushed and slack. you try to push yourself up, but your arms aren’t listening.

he steps back and watches you. wrecked. ruined. leaking and twitching on a soaked designer couch like it’s your only purpose.

his hand wraps around his cock—wet from you, flushed, pulsing—and he starts to stroke.

fast. aggressive. claiming.

“look at you,” he mutters, panting. “fucking pathetic.”

you lift your head weakly, blinking up at him through your lashes.

he grips your hair with his free hand—pulls your face up, not gently, not tender. just enough to make sure you’re watching.

“you want it on the couch?” he breathes. “or on that pretty little mouth that won’t shut the fuck up?”

you can’t speak. you just open your mouth.

invitation.

his groan is pure filth.

“of course you do,” he mutters. “of fucking course you do.”

it doesn’t take long.

not with the image of you soaked and broken under him.

not after watching you come so hard you gushed for him.

he strokes faster, hips twitching—

“take it.”

—and he cums.

with a grunt, his cock twitches in his hand and ropes of hot cum paint across your lips, your chin, your cheek—everywhere.

you flinch, but don’t pull away. you let it happen.

you let him mark you.

he releases your hair. you slump against the cushion again, breathing hard, face sticky, thighs wet, skin flushed from hairline to chest.

there’s a beat of silence.

he tucks himself back into his pants, exhaling slow like he just wrapped a goddamn meeting.

then—without a word—he walks into your kitchen.

your kitchen.

like he’s done it a hundred times. like he never stopped knowing where everything is, even if he's never been here before. are you this predictable with where you keep everything?

you hear the fridge door open.

a cap twist.

the clink of glass.

you don’t even try to move.

you’re still sprawled out—soaked, twitching, your cheek stuck to the cushion. your legs feel like overcooked noodles and your brain is full static.

footsteps return.

he rounds the couch, drink in one hand, chilled water bottle in the other, paper towel tucked under his arm.

sits on the clean end of the couch like it’s a fucking chaise lounge.

and then?

he pulls you gently—almost absentmindedly—across his lap.

you end up draped over him, belt still around your neck, skin sticky and hot, face flushed with exhaustion and—fuck—humiliation.

he hums to himself.

sets the glass on the side table.

cracks the water open, holds it to your lips.

you sip automatically. you’re too stunned to do anything else.

then he sets the bottle down, takes the paper towel, and starts wiping his cum off your face like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

no rush. no embarrassment. just the kind of slow, self-satisfied care you give to something you own.

he undoes the belt around your throat, finally. tosses it beside him.

you don’t thank him. you don’t speak. you don’t cry.

but your eyes sting—because this isn’t about the sex.

it’s about the fucking couch.

you gave it back.

you promised him.

he sees it. sees you. the way your jaw tightens. the flicker of shame.

and he smiles.

soft. evil.

“y/n,” he says, taking another sip of his drink. “you can have visitation rights.”

you want to shove him off the couch. but instead, you lay there.

silent. face clean. body ruined.

couch: totally, utterly his.

#i literally don't think i can write a pwp #i AM one of those people that needs a plot #so enjoy the most toxic couple ever LOLOL #vuewrites #jschlatt #schlatt #jschlatt x reader #schlatt x reader #jschlatt headcanons #schlatt headcanons #jschlatt imagines #schlatt imagines #jschlatt x you #schlatt x you

160 notes · View notes

er1nne · 2 months ago

Note

hellooo!

no pressure at all, but i was just wondering if there’s going to be a continuation for “the interview with drew goes viral” (after the part 2)

i really love your writing :)

hope you’re doing okay, have a nice weekend!

drew starkey x reader

summary: it’s been weeks since the interview blew over, and your mornings have finally settled back into something quiet. but one ordinary coffee run at your usual hour turns into something you didn’t see coming.

warnings : none just standard fluff, banner by @anitalenia

word count : about 2k, give or take a few words

author's note : i loveee getting request y'all pretty please send more. hope you all enjoy, lol was not expecting this to be a series but i don't mind

(do not copy or plagarize, original work)

it’s been weeks since the interview. weeks since your phone stopped vibrating with notifications, since your face stopped showing up uninvited in other people’s stories. the buzz has settled, the comments slowed, and your life, somehow, stitched itself back into a quieter rhythm.

the world moved on. it always does. even viral moments, no matter how loud, eventually quiet down. you started sleeping with your phone on do not disturb again, started opening apps without fear of your own face popping up. even the coffee shop barista had stopped asking, “was that really you with drew starkey?” every time you came in for your usual.

and you hadn’t thought about him in at least… a day.

okay, maybe a few hours.

fine. maybe that morning. but in your defense, his voice was everywhere—an ad here, a podcast there, some new trailer playing on loop in the background while you folded your laundry. the internet might’ve let go, but your algorithm definitely hadn’t. and besides, it’s not like you were holding onto anything. it was just a moment. a clip. a like.

nothing more.

you’d replayed it a few times in your head, sure. but only because it was weird, right? not because you were obsessing. not because you could still hear the way he’d said, “you’re good at this,” like it wasn’t just a compliment but a fact. like he knew you needed to hear it. like he meant it.

you told yourself it was all part of the job. the electricity, the nerves, the almost-flirtation that slipped between the cracks of professionalism. actors were trained to charm, and you were trained to stay grounded. or at least, you were trying to be.

still, there were moments—quiet ones, like when you brushed your teeth or rode the bus home from work—where his voice would creep back in. soft. sure. unshakable.

you knew better than to read into it. you did.

and yet.

the bell above the café door jingles as you step inside, the smell of roasted beans and sugar instantly warming your senses. you shuffle into line, tugging your hoodie up slightly and rubbing your hands together. it’s cold, and your brain is foggy from staying up too late scrolling through job emails and watching old episodes of reality tv you swore you’d quit. you’re here out of habit more than anything—this place is your go-to around 9am, that perfect pocket of time when there’s just enough people to feel like a soft buzz of life, but not so many that it’s overwhelming. not so few that it’s awkward if you drop your phone or your charger clatters to the floor. it’s the kind of space where you can blend in, plug in, get things done, maybe eavesdrop a little if you’re bored. you’re already rehearsing your order in your head and wondering if you should finally cave and try the seasonal flavor everyone’s been raving about.

your phone buzzes once in your pocket. some newsletter you forgot to unsubscribe from. you ignore it.

the person in front of you is taking their sweet time deciding between hot and iced, and you sway gently on your heels, eyes scanning the chalkboard menu as if it’s changed since yesterday.

you’re not thinking about him. not really.

okay, maybe a little. maybe there’s a flicker of him in the back of your mind, tucked between thoughts of oat milk and how long it’ll take your laptop to update. but not enough to matter. not enough to make your heart jump.

not until you catch a glimpse of him.

at first, it doesn’t register. there’s a table by the window, and someone’s sitting there—hood pulled low, head tilted down, a book open in one hand and a to-go cup in the other. you glance past him and then back again. your brain hiccups.

holy shit.

no. it couldn’t be.

except it is.

your feet stop moving. your breath forgets how to do its job.

drew starkey. in your coffee shop. the coffee shop you frequent every day like clockwork at 9 am. He's never been here at 9 am. like the universe just spun the wheel of chaos and landed on the most improbable option.

he doesn’t see you. not yet. and you don’t move. don’t breathe. don’t blink.

you consider leaving for a fraction of a millisecond. backing out the door, disappearing into the street like a ghost. but your feet are cement, your curiosity louder than your fear. you’re here now. and so is he.

and if this is just a coincidence—some glitch in the matrix—you’re not going to be the one who turns away first.

your heart drums against your ribs as you take one careful step forward, then another, trying to act normal—even though your version of normal currently includes borderline hyperventilating in line for caffeine.

you glance back toward the window. he’s still there. still tucked into the corner like a secret. hood still low, but his profile is unmistakable now that you’ve seen it—strong jaw, slight scruff, eyes flicking over the page like he’s reading but not really reading. his fingers tap against the side of his cup, and you can tell from the way he shifts in his seat that he’s not used to being still for long.

you wonder what he’s doing here.

this place is your 9 a.m. ritual spot—just enough of a crowd to not feel awkward, but not so many people that it turns into a social circus. it’s the kind of place where dropping your phone or spilling your coffee isn’t met with a spotlight. just a few regulars, some tired students, a playlist that never changes. it’s your hideaway in the chaos.

but him?

he doesn’t belong in a 9 a.m. scene. not because he’s out of place, but because you know he’s never here then. you would’ve noticed. you would’ve noticed.

you’ve heard from the staff—overheard, really—that he pops in sometimes. usually around 11, sometimes at 6. always late, always off-peak, when the shop is practically empty and nobody’s around to squeal or ask for photos. he slips in, grabs his drink, and slips out like a shadow. no fanfare. no trace.

but he’s here now.

and just as you’re wondering why, he lifts his head.

and sees you.

his eyes lock on yours almost instantly, like some part of him had already known you were there. the recognition flickers in his expression—first surprise, then something softer. and then he smiles. slow. cheeky. warm.

you swear your knees actually weaken a little.

he raises a hand, not waving exactly—more like a casual, almost shy acknowledgement, like you’re an old friend he’s bumping into on accident. except you’re not friends. not really. just an interviewer who went viral. a stranger with a mic.

you consider pretending not to see him. just ordering your drink and slipping into a corner, like you do every morning.

but then he stands.

and your brain short-circuits.

he pulls his hood a little lower, adjusting the bill of his cap as he walks over, glancing around like he’s making sure no one else has clocked him. when he finally stops in front of you, it’s like the whole room gets quieter.

“hey,” he says, voice low and almost bashful. there’s a smirk playing on his lips, but his hands are in his hoodie pockets like he’s trying not to fidget. “you always come this early?”

you blink. for a second, you’re sure you heard him wrong. your mind scrambles, trying to reconcile the fact that drew starkey—drew starkey—remembers you. remembers this. it had been one interview. one night. the clip hadn’t even gone viral. you weren’t even sure he’d looked at you long enough to lock in your name, let alone your routine.

the surprise must flicker across your face, because his smirk curves up a little more—sharper now, like he caught you off guard on purpose. your breath catches. he remembers me.

you try to play it off, smoothing your expression as your voice finally catches up. “uh—yeah. yeah, every morning. kind of my ritual.”

he nods, shifting on his feet. “i figured. i’ve been coming later. eleven-ish. or evenings. easier to go unnoticed.”

you raise a brow, teasing. “guess you didn’t expect to get caught slippin’ today, huh?”

his grin grows, sheepish but not embarrassed. “nah. i was feelin’ risky.” he leans in a little, voice dropping like he’s telling a secret. “figured i’d finally see what the hype was about with the early crowd.”

you laugh, more at the way he says it than the actual words. it bubbles up, unfiltered, and his eyes linger—like he’s trying to memorize the sound in real time. there’s something kind in the way he looks at you. focused. like the rest of the world blurs a little when you’re the one in front of him.

“well,” you say, arms folding loosely in front of your chest, “i’m flattered that my caffeine schedule is what convinced you.”

he shrugs, leaning back just slightly, but the smile stays. “it wasn’t just that.”

your heart stutters. something warm spreads across your chest like sunlight through fogged-up glass. the moment stretches, held by something invisible and quiet between you.

he tilts his head, then gestures with a chin nod toward the counter. “you got a second? i was just about to order another. figured we could… catch up?”

you nod before your brain even has time to catch up. “yeah. yeah, sure.”

“cool,” he says, already turning toward the register before looking back. “what’s your order? i’ll grab it.”

“you don’t have to—”

“i want to.” and there’s no hesitation. no performance in it. just the kind of soft insistence that makes your stomach dip.

you tell him your order—your usual—and he repeats it under his breath with a little grin, like he’s pocketing it somewhere in the back of his mind for later. when he steps up to order, you catch yourself smiling. like, really smiling. and the worst part is, you can’t even pretend to be annoyed about it.

he returns a few minutes later, balancing two cups and the smallest possible smirk.

“hope i got it right,” he says, handing you your drink. “this place has a million milk options. i panicked.”

you take a sip, trying not to look too delighted. “nailed it.”

he looks stupidly proud of himself. “guess i gotta come earlier more often.”

you raise a brow. “what, just in case i’m here?”

he holds your gaze, lips quirking. “i mean, clearly the early crowd has its perks.”

you roll your eyes, but it’s hopeless. you’re already cheesing. just a little.

the two of you settle into a table in the corner—your usual one, and he doesn’t even ask before gravitating toward it. the conversation is easy, smoother than you remembered, even with the chaos of the last few weeks between you. he tells you about a new role, you mention something vague about work, and then suddenly you’re laughing again—at something dumb he said, or maybe just the way he said it.

you glance over your cup, trying to hide your grin. “you really don’t mind being seen like this? just… out in public? with me?”

he shrugs, glancing around. no cameras. no whispers. just the quiet murmur of people too busy living to notice anything out of place.

“it’s not so bad,” he says. “kind of nice, actually.”

“yeah?”

“yeah,” he says, eyes on yours. “besides, if i get caught, i’ll just say i was here for the coffee. or…” he pauses, leaning back a little, like he’s testing the waters. “maybe i’ll say i was here for the girl who always comes at nine.”

and that’s it.

that’s the line that gets you.

because it’s dumb. and bold. and a little bit cheesy. but it’s him. and it’s real. and it’s the exact kind of moment you’ll end up thinking about later—when you’re brushing your teeth, or walking home, or lying awake at 2 a.m. wondering when the shift happened. when something that started as a clip turned into a conversation, and now maybe something a little more.

you look at him over the lid of your cup, warmth blooming in your cheeks.

ahh got it! let’s flip the tone to match that dynamic—she’s the regular, he’s the one switching it up for her. here’s a revised version that keeps it cute and slightly cheesy, but true to their roles:

“guess you might have to start showing up at nine more often.”

his smile tugs up slow, like he’s trying not to make it obvious how much he likes the idea.

“yeah… i’m starting to think nine might be my new favorite hour.”

he glances at you over his cup, eyes warm.

“funny how that works.”

188 notes · View notes