#Practical Effects (trope)

[prokopetz]

Big-budget sci fi epic where one of the principal alien characters is a puppet whose operator is clearly visible at all times. Like, it's a really good puppet, you can totally see where the hundred million dollar budget went, but the puppeteer is right there. You can see them. This is never acknowledged.

[your-unfriendlyghost]

Hideous-not-yet-mutated-freekz

or a rough study of this shot in Freaked because I’m trying to stylize things more in terms of art yk?

(What is Freaked, you ask? why the hell have I drawn 2 things for a cult movie no one’s heard of?)

because it’s a really fuckin fun movie that’s why

would be a shame if you could watch it for free on the internet archive

[milfbro]

I appreciate Misha in Bury Your Gays being unlike any horror protagonist because he knows how much it would cost to fly a scary lookalike of his super tall villain to the middle of Montana just to scare him

[thousandyearphantombunker]

Would you rather but it's instead chosing which one the worst of three evil in fictional stories

which is worse to you: an overly pushed super duper special sympathy sue ball of mush or/a useless hatesink that exists only to be the butt of a joke (both usually having unfortunate implications) or/ an abusive ass who the writers keep trying to make into a woobie and have them become friends with the main character

Which is worse to you: a love triangle where the B-love interest is suddenly out of nowhere written as abusive to make sure the A-love interest gets with the protag or/ a ship where when the two characters finally get together they lose their goals and personalities and become nothing but domestic fluff or/ will they won't they hell- like there's no reason for them to still be dragging their feet in the relationship and yet it's still being drawn out usually with meaningless conflicts that end up making everyone go 'maybe you shouldn't be together if your taking this fucking long to actually date and petty shit keeps you from getting along'

Which is worse to you: villainizing predators (carnivores not the other kind) for hunting food and moralizing animal behaviors, or/ acting like killing an animal is an irredeemable evil even if it's for food or self defense, or/ treating all vegetarian and vegan characters like they are elitist idiots whose reasons for not eating meat are 'stupid' or 'offensive'

Which is worse to you: super crips who can do anything and everything perfectly and are inspiration porn telling everyone you can do anything so long (usually while implying severely disabled people don't exist or that they are bad rep) or/ disabled characters being praised for everything they do and just living their lives, doing normal everyday basic tasks and showing how nice it was for that normal not person to buy the badly decorated cake a disabled person made them or/ a disabled person's aides or accomodations being treated as holding them back-unneeded- or as some symbol of incompetence, a deficiency in intelligence or physical strength (cause usually in these stories treat being unintelligent or weak is evil and makes you either a slow inbred Luddite evangelical Republican from the 90s with a lazy eye and 'hick accent' who voted for evil man because classism and ableism go hand in hand --or in the case of physical disability they have to be a villain cause who could be happy on a wheelchair- they have to be a villain cause the writer can't imagine disabled people being happy! Or anyone who complains about their disability causing them issues is actually the bad guy or just lazy cause look at the cool supercrip who is successful and happy despite having a missing leg or having dyscalculia unlike them- who are usually even more disabled or impacted differently than said super crips)

Which is worse: a story where someone without superpowers or magic or fancy shit lives in a world where other people have that stuff and they still end up being a hero and the story is supposed to be about them overcoming the obstacles of having no special abilities of their own- only for them to get powers and shit and it completely ends up ruining the story because weren't they supposed to be a badass normal/ or a story where the main character constantly complains about being super powerful and stuff and instead of them having any actual reason to be upset with their powers (like uncontrollable magic outbursts or having a ton of responsibility or their power coming at an actual cost) it's fantasy racism but like a really badly done allegory or/ 'this character goes through zero training, doesn't study, is disinterested in everything having to do with school or magic or science or fighting or whatever yet they are somehow more skilled than the people who do care and put in effort and somehow consistently manage to one up them (I don't mind if the character is naturally pretty good at something even something they aren't super into but unless they are passionate about a skill or something they and they actively practice it they really shouldn't be beating out people who actually have hones their abilities- I can believe you are naturally good at math and running even though you don't really try and you still get low A-grades but you are not beating the guy who on top of being a prodigy at math and track also puts in the effort and passion to compete in mathletes especially if you have zero interest and actively hate the subjects and treat people who like them like idiots on top of the whole never practicing thing- it makes no sense for someone who is disinterested in everything to be so good at the thing they are disinterested in! Like yeah maybe your naturally good at fire magic and can pass the test on it with an impressive grade despite the fact you didn't study I can believe that but I don't believe you can beat out the guy who on top of doing amazing on the test has dedicated his life to learning the craft and is also actually interested in it!)

Pick which one is the worst to you out of each of these horrible run on messes

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

Some Inspectators noticed that the 12th Inspector era

used less digital effects than previous incarnations of the programme.

[tearlessrain]

please help me- i used to be pretty smart but i’m having so much trouble grasping the concept of diegetic vs non-diegetic bdsm!

gfkjldghfd okay first of all I'm sorry for the confusion, if you're not finding anything on the phrase it's because I made it up and absolutely nobody but me ever uses it, but I haven't found a better way to express what I'm trying to say so I keep using it. but now you've given me an excuse to ramble on about some shit that is only relevant to me and my deeply inefficient way of talking and by god I'm going to take it.

SO. the way diegetic and non-diegetic are normally used is to talk about music and sound design in movies/tv shows. in case you aren't familiar with that concept, here's a rundown:

diegetic sound is sound that happens within the world of the movie/show and can be acknowledged by the characters, like a song playing on the stereo during a driving scene, or sung on stage in Phantom of the Opera. it's also most other sounds that happen in a movie, like the sounds of traffic in a city scene, or a thunderclap, or a marching band passing by. or one of the three stock horse sounds they use in every movie with a horse in it even though horses don't really vocalize much in real life, but that's beside the point, the horse is supposed to be actually making that noise within the movie's world and the characters can hear it whinnying.

non-diegetic sound is any sound that doesn't exist in the world of the movie/show and can't be perceived by the characters. this includes things like laugh tracks and most soundtrack music. when Duel of Fates plays in Star Wars during the lightsaber fight for dramatic effect, that's non-diegetic. it exists to the audience, but the characters don't know their fight is being backed by sick ass music and, sadly, can't hear it.

the lines can get blurry between the two, you've probably seen the film trope where the clearly non-diegetic music in the title sequence fades out to the same music, now diegetic and playing from the character's car stereo. and then there are things like Phantom of the Opera as mentioned above, where the soundtrack is also part of the plot, but Phantom of the Opera does also have segments of non-diegetic music: the Phantom probably does not have an entire orchestra and some guy with an electric guitar hiding down in his sewer just waiting for someone to break into song, but both of those show up in the songs they sing down there.

now, on to how I apply this to bdsm in fiction.

if I'm referring to diegetic bdsm what I mean is that the bdsm is acknowledged for what it is in-world. the characters themselves are roleplaying whatever scenarios their scenes involve and are operating with knowledge of real life rules/safety practices. if there's cnc depicted, it will be apparent at some point, usually right away, that both characters actually are fully consenting and it's all just a planned scene, and you'll often see on-screen negotiation and aftercare, and elements of the story may involve the kink community wherever the characters are. Love and Leashes is a great example of this, 50 Shades and Bonding are terrible examples of this, but they all feature characters that know they're doing bdsm and are intentional about it.

if I'm talking about non-diegetic bdsm, I'm referring to a story that portrays certain kinks without the direct acknowledgement that the characters are doing bdsm. this would be something like Captive Prince, or Phantom of the Opera again, or the vast majority of bodice ripper type stories where an innocent woman is kidnapped by a pirate king or something and totally doesn't want to be ravished but then it turns out he's so cool and sexy and good at ravishing that she decides she's into it and becomes his pirate consort or whatever it is that happens at the end of those books. the characters don't know they're playing out a cnc or D/s fantasy, and in-universe it's often straight up noncon or dubcon rather than cnc at all. the thing about entirely non-diegetic bdsm is that it's almost always Problematic™ in some way if you're not willing to meet the story where it's at, but as long as you're not judging it by the standards of diegetic bdsm, it's just providing the reader the same thing that a partner in a scene would: the illusion of whatever risk or taboo floats your boat, sometimes to extremes that can't be replicated in real life due to safety, practicality, physics, the law, vampires not being real, etc. it's consensual by default because it's already pretend; the characters are vehicles for the story and not actually people who can be hurt, and the reader chose to pick up the book and is aware that nothing in it is real, so it's all good.

this difference is where people tend to get hung up in the discourse, from what I've observed. which is why I started using this phrasing, because I think it's very crucial to be able to differentiate which one you're talking about if you try to have a conversation with someone about the portrayal of bdsm in media. it would also, frankly, be useful for tagging, because sometimes when you're in the mood for non-diegetic bodice ripper shit you'd call the police over in real life, it can get really annoying to read paragraphs of negotiation and check-ins that break the illusion of the scene and so on, and the opposite can be jarring too.

it's very possible to blur these together the same way Phantom of the Opera blurs its diegetic and non-diegetic music as well. this leaves you even more open to being misunderstood by people reading in bad faith, but it can also be really fun to play with. @not-poignant writes fantastic fanfic, novels, and original serials on ao3 that pull this off really well, if you're okay with some dark shit in your fiction I would highly recommend their work. some of it does get really fucking dark in places though, just like. be advised. read the tags and all that.

but yeah, spontaneous writer plug aside, that's what I mean.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

the art & science of parenting 101 ─ p. js

↳ summary ── the art & science of parenting 101 (PSY1009): in this interactive course, students will explore the psychological, social, and biological foundations of parenthood. through a mix of theory and hands-on practice, you'll master the art of raising a simulated baby—aka the 'robot child'. late-night feedings, tantrum taming, and crisis control are all part of the deal.   what you didn't expect to be part of the deal? getting paired with jay park—the last person you'd trust to raise, well, anything. you’re pretty sure he couldn’t even take care of a pet rock. now, you’re stuck co-parenting this robot baby together for 40% of your final grade.  warning: sleep deprivation is guaranteed. and maybe, just maybe, some unexpected feelings for your disaster of a partner. good luck! 

↳ pairing ── jay park x y/n [ft. enha members!]

↳ genre ── e2l!au, college!au, (fake)parenting!au, he-fell-first, she-fell-harder type beat lolz || fluff, crack

↳ ✎ᝰ. 20.5k [ONCE AGAIN -- this was not intentional..if you know me i just have too much fun writing sometimes & get too attached to the characters...]

↳ contains ── mentions of parenting & parental neglect (sorta, only a smidge of like five words), crack! bc if you know me i self indulge in crack whoops, jay & y/n being opposites & school rivals, jay's annoying smirk like a million times, reader & jay are psych majors, jay's also a photographer, cheesy ass kisses, jay & reader are awkward! so awkward! there’s SO much tension . but in a cute awkward crush way

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── omg it’s finally done. tell me why it took me so long to finish, i promise i didn’t mean to but life’s been busier lately :’) aNyways! ugh i luv writing e2l!jay for some reason,,,he fits the trope so well in my eyes heh but i hope you all like him & the characters as much as i enjoyed writing them !!! as busy as i am i love indulging in my crack x enha writes :P hope u enjoy & tell me what you think <333

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

Welcome to PSY1009, The Art & Science of Parenting 101! Throughout the next 12 weeks, we’re going to dive deep into the wondrous world of parenting—dirty diapers and all. To kick off our course, we’re starting with our campus-famous project: raising your very own robot baby for the first half of the semester (with the help of your assigned partner, of course). Before our first class, we ask that you complete this pre-project questionnaire on your current views and opinions about parenting. No pressure—there are no right or wrong answers (maybe only judgements from your future robot offspring)!

Q1 – The Art & Science of Parenting 101 aims to apply different psychological approaches to parenting. What theories and methods do you believe are important to parenting? 

Y/N's Submission [8:25AM, September 18th]:

"I strongly believe that effective parenting revolves around a strict routine, which can be reinforced through the principles of operant conditioning, as developed by B.F. Skinner. Proper feeding schedules, consistent nap times, and regular development check-ins are essential—I think a structured timetable would ensure a baby's needs are met efficiently and consistently. With a set schedule and a focus on developmental milestones, I believe we can maximize a child's growth potential, even if it's just a robot baby.”

Q2 – What do you expect to learn and gain out of this co-parenting experience?  

Y/N's Submission [8:29AM, September 18th]:  

"I expect to confirm that a well-organized system is the key to successful parenting. I want to test my hypothesis that if you follow a set structure, yes, even with a robot baby, things will run smoothly. I am hoping that this experience runs smoothly with no unnecessary surprises.” 

✭・.・✫

Satisfied with your answers, you click 'submit' and close your laptop, feeling a wave of satisfaction as you settle into your seat—center of the second row—as you wait for the 9AM lecture to start.  

It's 8:30AM.  

You're the only one in the room.  

Yeah, you're a little early. So what? One can never be too prepared. You've waited for this course forever, and you're determined to not only ace it (like you do with every class) but to dominate. So yes, coming early is characteristic of you, as you want to ensure you get the best seat in the classroom: center of the second row—center to get the best view of the professor's podium, and second row to be close enough to show you're engaged, but not close enough that it screams, Look at me, I'm a tryhard!  

It's clear you've come prepared. Plus, this class isn't just any ordinary elective—it's the elective to take. Only the top students majoring in psychology get in, available only through direct invite by the professor. If you were invited to PSY1009, it meant you were the crème de la crème of psychology students. The best of the best. The elite. The— 

Your train of thought is derailed when an all-too-familiar figure strolls into the room with that signature smirk. Backpack slung lazily over one (1) shoulder (as if two straps are too much effort), hair clearly still bedhead status, wearing whatever clothes he fished off The Chair (you know, the one—where all questionable, semi-clean laundry lives). 

He strolls past you—of course—and plops down right in front of you.

Front row.  

Try-hard. 

"Y/N, fancy seeing you here," Jay Park spins around, a knowing look plastered on his face, eyes gleaming. "I missed seeing that frown of yours all summer." 

"What are you doing here, Jay?" You roll your eyes and scoff at his comment. "Don't tell me you got into this class. It's for serious students."  

Jay's grin only widens to your despair. "Contrary to your deeply misinformed opinion, Professor Kim actually loves me. I'm a great student."  

“I don’t believe it,” you deadpan back. “You never turn your assignments in on time, and quite frankly, I'm surprised you were even able to find this classroom."  

Jay shrugs, unfazed. "What can I say? Professor Kim doesn't just look at deadlines, she looks at talent. Guess that says a lot about me, huh?"  

You mumble something under your breath about ‘talent for procrastination’ but before he can fire back, Professor Kim walks into the room, cuing the silence of all the students who've filled up the class.  

"Good morning, class! I'm so happy to see so many familiar faces."  

Jay turns his head back towards the front of the room, as you instantly straighten up, flashing your favorite professor a smile. This is officially the fifth course you've taken with Professor Kim. It's no secret you’re one of her biggest fans—the countless early mornings you've spent waiting at your computer, finger hovering over the ‘enroll’ button the second registration opens so you can be one of the first students to sign up for her classes have proven that. Challenging but rewarding, her classes are always worth the effort.

And yet, for reasons beyond your comprehension, Jay Park—Jay Freaking Park—somehow always ends up in the same classes. Every. Single. Time. It’s like a curse.  

A loud, messy, procrastinating curse…

…that just so happens to have a side profile almost as annoyingly good that it only pisses you off more. 

You wonder if he’s actually here to learn or if he’s just here to spite you. Because, honestly, the amount of classes you’ve shared with him is no longer a coincidence. Five semesters in a row? Suspicious. 

But realistically, and unfortunately, Jay does study the same major as you, which means those last five semesters? Oh, those were five long semesters of endless debates on discussion boards, in-class duels over psychological theories, and the infamous showdown for the TA position in Professor Kim's Intro to Psychology course. And the worst part? Neither of you got the job because Professor Kim—in a diplomatic twist that made zero sense to you—deemed you both 'equally qualified.' So, the job went to the third best candidate instead. Tough luck.  

You open up your laptop again, opening a perfectly organized Google Doc, ready to take notes on whatever pearls of wisdom Professor Kim is currently bestowing about your upcoming project—which, in hindsight, you should really be paying attention to. You should be. But something so ridiculous, so blood-boiling, pulls your attention elsewhere.  

Jay's desk is completely...empty. 

No laptop. No notebook. Not even a measly little pencil. Did he bring an empty backpack? Or did he just walk in here like he's casually waiting for someone to present him his grade on a silver platter? He's just sitting there like this is a casual hangout—probably expecting his robot baby to parent itself while he simply supervises.  

Before your self-induced inner monologue spirals into complete rage, you suddenly hear your professor's voice cut through the class, breaking you out of your mental rant.  

"Y/N and Jay." 

Wait. What?

Your head snaps up so fast it's a miracle it didn't pop off your neck and roll away.

You blink. You must have misheard.

"Y/N and Jay," Professor Kim repeats as if she could read your confused expression, voice too nonchalant for the life-wrecking news she's about to deliver: "You two are partners."  

The words hit you like a bus. No, not even. The words hit you like a bus driven by a T-Rex that flips over, crashes into a building, and explodes into a million ashy pieces. And there you are—standing right in the middle of the wreckage, somehow (and unfortunately) still alive to suffer through every second of it—while Jay, smug as ever, whips around in his seat to face you.  

And of course, there it is: that look of his that screams 'This is going to be so much fun for me, and so much pain for you.' 

"Guess we're parents now, Y/N!" Jay chimes, his voice dripping with so much sarcastic enthusiasm you swear he just got handed an Oscar for Most Annoying Human. If that tone were a substance, you'd bottle it up and use it as insect repellent. On him. Repeatedly.  

You blink at him, you're sure—you're praying—this has to be some elaborate prank. Maybe Jay bribed Professor Kim with his rare attempt at turning in an assignment on time just to mess with you. Or maybe the universe just hates you and this is your karma for stealing your roommate's last ramen packet that one time a year ago.  

But no, Professor Kim keeps rattling off other pairs like it's business as usual, as if your entire academic career and sanity isn't currently being flushed down a metaphorical toilet, while you sit there, paralyzed, your brain rapidly melting into a useless puddle from the sheer thought of being paired with him.  

"What's wrong, Y/N?" Jay teases as he leans over the back of his chair towards you, puppy dog eyes on display. "You don't want to play house with me?"  

You narrow your eyes at him, mentally wielding your imaginary bug spray like it's a holy weapon. 

"I don’t," you reply flatly. "In fact, I’d rather perform open-heart surgery on myself with a plastic spoon than co-parent with you." 

Jay’s eyes light up as his hand goes to his heart. "Aw, you really know how to make a guy feel special. This is why I like our little relationship, you know?" 

"Relationship?" You scoff loud enough to make the people sitting three rows behind you to glance in your direction.

You bring your voice down to a whisper, leaning towards him. "The only thing we have in common is a shared oxygen supply." 

"See, that’s the spirit," he says, turning back to face the front like he didn't just ruin your life.

And somehow, that pisses you off even more. Is it his voice? His stupidly perfect hair? The fact that he has the audacity to breathe in your general direction? At this point, he could literally sneeze, and it would still feel like a personal attack.

Is it too late to switch majors? Or schools? Maybe even countries? Surely, restarting your entire college career as a super senior would be better than spending the next six weeks parenting with Jay. Jay Park, who has probably never held anything more fragile than a Red Solo Cup.  

Jay Park, who is just sitting there, all calm and collected, clearly loving every second of your misery.  

While you're frozen in pure, unadulterated horror.  

Your grade? Plummeting as we speak.  Your robot baby? Probably going to need therapy by day two. And you?  

You're screwed.

Q1 – The Art & Science of Parenting 101 aims to apply different psychological approaches to parenting. What are your current theories and methods that you believe are important to parenting? 

Jay’s Submission [10:09AM, September 18th]: 

"I think babies need more freedom to explore and make their own choices, even if that just means grabbing random things. Bowlby's attachment theory leans towards a secure attachment, but I don't think that means hovering over them 24/7. It's about being there when they really need you, not scheduling every second of the day. I also believe letting babies learn through their own experiences is key. Strict behaviorism, such as Skinner's, sounds exhausting and I don't think a rigid system is what makes a good parent. Babies are messy, and that's okay." 

Q2 – What do you expect to learn and gain from this experience? 

Jay's Submission [10:12AM, September 18th]:  

"I'm hoping to learn how to be a responsive, yet flexible parent without overcomplicating it. The goal is to find balance between being hands-on without hovering. And, I think this whole robot baby thing will teach me how to handle unpredictable situations—because no matter how much you plan, life is going to surprise you. And also, being able to say I know how to change a diaper under 30 seconds sounds pretty cool :)" 

✭・.・✫

Jay's screwed.  

Like, completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed. 

He was already kinda skeptical he’d make it past his 40s if he kept living the way he does, but now? Now, he’s not even sure he’ll survive the next 24 hours. Why? Well, today’s the first official meeting with you—as co-parents—at the campus coffee shop at 12PM sharp. 

It's 12:17PM.  

He's late.  

Seventeen whole minutes late. To your meeting. And you're basically the human embodiment of an atomic clock. You’re probably sitting there, checking your watch every few seconds, calculating his absence down to the millisecond. Jay can practically feel the murderous vibes you’re radiating from halfway across campus.  

And while Jay sometimes finds your need for punctuality weirdly endearing (but don't tell anyone that), he also values not getting scolded on a Saturday morning (12PM is still morning to him, don't judge), especially when he could be sleeping in.   

As the café comes into view, Jay considers just throwing the towel in. Maybe he could fake a sudden illness, or better yet, skip town and maybe fake his own death or something. 

There's no point. Knowing you, you'd probably hunt him down for sport.  

With a sigh, Jay pushes open the door to the café, bracing himself for impact.  

And there you are. Exactly how he imagined.  

Seated at a small table by the window, papers perfectly aligned, laptop open, and two different colored highlighters placed meticulously side by side. Your foot taps in perfect sync with the café's background music, your eyebrows knitted together in focus, and your teeth chewing your bottom lip as if you're about to crack the Krabby Patty secret formula. The window next to you allows the afternoon sunlight to spill through and reflect off of you, making you look...dare he say it...almost pretty.

If Jay wasn't fearing for his life, he might have actually stopped to admire the view. Might have.  

When Jay finally reaches your table—17 minutes and 46 seconds late (but who's counting)—you look up, meeting his gaze with a look that's somewhere between not surprised but definitely not impressed. 

"Well, well," you say, quirking your mouth up ever so slightly that Jay thinks he might see you smile for the first time in, like, ever. "Look who finally decided to join us! Must be nice living on Jay Standard Time."  

Jay flashes his usual, unbothered smile as he pulls out the chair across from you.

"Oh, c'mon, Y/N. Seventeen minutes is nothing in the grand scheme of life."  

"Yeah? Tell that to our future robot baby when you're seventeen minutes late to feed it and its batteries die."  

"Yikes. That got dark quick," Jay's mutters, grin wavering. "But hey, glad to see you're finally accepting the fact that it's our future baby!"  

"Future robot baby," you peer your eyes at him from above your laptop. "Anyways, did you read the guidelines?"  

Jay rubs the back of his neck as he leans back into his chair. "Uh, define 'read'."  

Without missing a beat, you slap a packet of papers down on the table.

"Here's the breakdown. Feeding schedules, emotional development tracker, diaper changes, mood swings—the whole shebang. We're going to have to approach this strategically."  

"Woah, okay," Jay's eyebrows shoot up, his brain trying to catch up with the words you just spewed at him. "First, how the heck is a robot going to develop emotionally—that's a little scary if you ask me. Like, dystopian, Black Mirror, scary. And second, since when is parenting just following a spreadsheet? Isn't part of it, you know, winging it?"  

At the words 'winging it', your eye twitches so violently, Jay half-expects you to reach across the table and strangle him with his own hoodie strings. 

"Winging it?" You shut your laptop and lean forward. "Winging it is exactly how we end up with a malfunctioning robot baby that starts a fire and fails us. Parenting is all about structure, consistency—"  

"—and having a little fun," Jay cuts in, mouth quirked with mischief. "I mean, what's parenting without some chaos?"  

"Chaos," you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him, "is what you bring into my life on a daily basis."  

"Yeah, and yet you secretly love it," Jay shoots back, leaning in to meet you, as if daring you to disagree.  

You stare at him, unblinking. It's either you're plotting his slow and painful demise or seriously considering what he just said. No in-between.  

And yet, somehow, Jay almost finds it endearing how you can look like the world's most innocent golden retriever while also simultaneously sending him six feet under with just one agonizing glare. Almost.  

Finally, you sigh, "This isn't a joke, Jay. This is 40% of our grade."  

"And I'm 100% ready!" Jay shoots back with a wink, to which you respond with a full-body eye roll.  

"Oh yeah? Alright, Mr. Ready-for-Anything, what's your brilliant plan?"

"Hmm," Jay leans back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head as if he's got it all figured out (he doesn't). "Well, for one, I was thinking maybe...shifts. We split responsibilities based on our schedules. I'll take the baby on certain hours, you take it other hours, and we'll spend our free days together. And if we're not together and there's a baby crisis, we stay on call." 

In complete honesty, that came from out of nowhere. Jay didn't even know any ideas were subconsciously cooking up within him until the words tumbled out of his mouth before he realized it. But there's no way he was going to tell you that, not when you don't immediately tear his idea to shreds. In fact, you actually look...impressed? 

Or so he thinks. Jay definitely needs to get better at this whole 'reading your expressions' thing.  

"Huh," you murmur to yourself, fingers tapping against the table. "That's...not the worst idea you've ever had."  

Jay feels elated. Validation? From you? Phew, this means his life is spared. Thank god.  

Jay flashes you a satisfied smile and while you don't return it, he hopes you're secretly softening. Just a little. Behind that straight face, you're probably low-key impressed, but no way are you letting him see that.  

"Don't get too excited," you say, as if you've got some sixth sense for whenever Jay throws a mental victory parade. "This is only day one. Of, like, 42. We've got a long way to go."  

"Okay, okay," Jay raises his hands in surrender, though there's no hiding the smirk on his face as he still mentally takes the win. "Message received. Let's just figure out our schedules?"  

You nod, pushing your laptop aside to make space for a sheet of paper you've already prepared—because of course you're prepared. It's like you're about to whip up some elaborate high-stakes legal contract that probably involves blood signatures.

"Okay," you say, clicking your pen, picking a bright blue that basically stabs Jay's eyes by simply existing, but whatever makes you happy, I guess.

You write 'Jay's Schedule' at the top, neatly highlighting it with a pink highlighter that somehow hurts even more. Jay wonders if this is a secret ploy to blind him into submission. He wouldn't put it past you.  

"What's your typical weekly schedule like?"  

Jay squints, clearly thinking hard, as he tries to remember what a 'typical' week looks like for him. Mostly it's a mix of spontaneous decisions, power naps, and gym sessions sprinkled between classes.  

"Uh...well," Jay rubs the back of his neck. "I usually sleep in until like 11...sometimes noon, depends on the vibe, you know? Classes after that, gym a couple times a week, maybe? And, um, naps are non-negotiable. Make sure you pencil those in too."  

Your pen freezes mid-air, hovering like you're considering whether to throw it at his face or not.  

"Naps? Non-negotiable? For someone who wakes up at 11AM? We're raising a child, Jay, this requires commitment!"  

Jay raises a calm eyebrow. "Hey, sleep is very important for brain function! You wouldn't want me underperforming as a parent, right?"  

Your eye twitches. "No, Jay. That's already my biggest fear."  

But instead of escalating the snark, you bite your lip, clearly restraining yourself from unleashing a full lecture on time management. Jay struggles to stifle his own laugh at your reaction. If looks could kill, you'd have him buried under six feet of color-coded charts and to-do lists by now.  

Finally, you sigh, accepting your fate and jotting down ‘Jay’s naps: apparently crucial for survival’ in your notes with a frown drawn next to it, while Jay gives you an approving nod from across the table. 

"Alright, my turn," you flip the page over with dramatic flair, carefully writing 'Y/N's Schedule' in the same stab-your-eyes-blue and pink highlight combo as Jay mentally braces himself for what's to come.  

"So," you continue, starting with that no-nonsense tone that's clearly meant to be serious—but to Jay, there's something almost charming about how strict you are. "I wake up at 6."  

Jay's brain immediately short-circuits. Forget charming.

You’re downright crazy. 

"6? As in AM? On purpose?"  

You blink back at him, as if he's the one saying something ridiculous.

"Yes, Jay. On purpose."  

His mind reels, purely amazed, yet utterly horrified at the thought. 6AM? Who does that? He's seen 6AM before, sure, but only when he's stayed up all night, probably cramming for an exam. His mornings start at 10AM at best, and that's very, very rarely. There are birds chirping at 6AM. Who wants to live in a world where birds chirp you awake?  

When he doesn't respond—still in pure shock—you keep going, undeterred by his obvious existential crisis.

"I usually have class at 8AM until 1PM, then I try to pick up a shift here," you gesture around the very café you two are in, "and then—"  

"Wait, wait," Jay holds up a hand, needing a mental pause button. "You work here?"  

"Yeah," you nod, like it's the most casual thing ever. "Why, is that surprising?"  

Jay squints at you. He's never considered the idea of you pulling espresso shots and dealing with caffeine-deprived college students—he's always pegged you more as a 'quiet math tutor for third-graders' type. Or maybe someone who sells cute stationery at the campus bookstore, organizing pens in rainbow order or something. But now that he's picturing it, yeah, it kind of makes sense. Maybe that's why you're so uptight all the time—too much exposure to coffee fumes. Or, more likely (and evidently), you're just an insanely busy person.  

He likes the coffee fumes theory better.  

"I guess not," he admits, then surprises even himself by adding, "that's kind of impressive, though."  

He gives you a genuine smile, and you blink back, as if searching for the hidden jab that's usually lurking beneath his words. But it's not there this time...oddly. Slowly, your expression softens, and you give him the tiniest of smiles.

"Thanks? It's alright, I guess."  

It's nothing big—no, not at all—but Jay feels a weird sense of accomplishment at your reaction. Better than nothing. 

He leans in over the table, all faux-innocence—eyebrows raises, large puppy eyes and all.

"Does this mean you can get me a free coffee?"  

You lean in too, mirroring him, and he's not sure why his heart skips a beat at the close proximity. 

"Yeah...no. Nice try."  

Jay groans, throwing himself back in his chair dramatically. Worth a shot.  

"Anyway," you continue, totally unfazed, "I usually work here until 5, then Mondays I have a study group for Econ 301, and club meetings scattered throughout the week."  

Jay's head spins for maybe the nth time since he's sat down. Honestly, you lost him way back at 'class until 1PM.' Your schedule is like some kind of twisted Sudoku puzzle, except much more intimidating.  

"So...you're, like, busy...all the time?" he asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth as his brain tries to process how anyone can function like this.  

You give him a look that almost convinces Jay himself that he's the crazy one here.

"Yes, Jay. I am."  

"Wow, okay. So why did you even take this class? What happened to being committed? You don't even have time to breathe."  

You narrow your eyes, and he swears you're about to launch into some motivational TedTalk.

"It's called efficiency, Jay. Also, I like to challenge myself. That's what parenthood is about, after all."

Jay stares at you like you've just self-declared yourself a cyborg.

"Oookayyy," he drawls, dragging out the word because, honestly, he's 99% sure you've completely lost it. The remaining 1%?  

It's slightly impressed by your sheer, terrifying level of commitment. He's over here winging life, including this conversation, while you've practically mapped out the rest of your entire existence. 

"Do you even, like, sleep? Or is that optional for you?"  

"Sleep is for the weak," you shoot him an amused glance, half-joking, half-serious.

Jay raises an eyebrow. "Good to know I'm weak, then."  

You stifle a laugh, but Jay catches the brief twitch of your lips before you quickly compose yourself. He’s known you for so long, and yet, this might be the first time he’s seen even a hint of your guard slipping. It’s subtle, barely there, but he notices. And for some reason, it makes him smile. You’re always so put together, so serious—but this small crack in your armor? Jay can’t help but appreciate it.  

Maybe, just maybe, he could get you to soften up more if he tried hard enough.

And yeah, he’s definitely going to try. 

But before he can try to tease you more, you snap back into business mode, instantly scribbling down more notes.

"Alright, so let’s just split the baby's care based on my work schedule and your...nap schedule, apparently."  

Jay leans back in his chair, catching that flicker of amusement in your voice—despite the serious look on your face—and he fights the urge to push a little more. There's something about that side of you—not the one behind the cold wall you've built of color-coded schedules and deadlines—that he wants to see more of. Somehow.  

"Works for me,” he shrugs and grins at you, “but if the baby's anything like me, it'll nap a lot. You might have it easy."

"And if it’s anything like me,” you mutter, barely pausing, “then it’ll easily get annoyed by you.”

Jay catches the ghost of a smile on your face, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it—which he definitely is. It’s enough to keep him intrigued. He leans forward, resting his chin in his hand like he’s watching some fascinating show. 

You don’t notice him staring—or maybe you do, but you’re too busy pretending you don’t. Either way, there’s a small, almost imperceptible shift in your body language that Jay senses. Your shoulders aren’t as tense, and you don’t look like you’re mentally calculating how many minutes you have left before you can escape this meeting.

Jay decides to take advantage of the moment. “So…do you think our robot baby is also going to be a superhuman genius? Like in a you way?” 

You finally let out a laugh, to his surprise, and he feels so satisfied he has to bite his lip to hold back a smile. “Definitely, but also part crazy. Like in a you way.” 

Jay chuckles, mentally declaring this conversation a victory. Your laugh fades but for a split second, he catches you studying his face like you’re trying to figure out what his deal is. And he doesn’t mind it at all—because, for once, you’re not giving him the usual death glare that sometimes seems permanently reserved for him.

Then, just as he starts to settle into this very rare, almost… pleasant vibe between you two, you suddenly snap back to reality, capping your pen and standing up. 

Jay frowns as he watches as you turn towards the coffee bar, not ready for this conversation to end just yet.  

"Wait, where are you going?" he blurts out, sounding more tragic than intended. 

You pause, turning back with a look that sends his pulse tripping.

"Do you want a free coffee or not?"  

The following Monday, at exactly 9:55AM, you and Jay are handed your robot baby—Jisoo, as Jay somehow convinces you to name it after his favorite celebrity—at the end of your class.  

You didn't even try to put up a fight. The moment Jay's eyes lit up at the idea, you knew you'd already lost. After three whole minutes of bickering and one PowerPoint titled 'Why Our Baby Deserves to be Named After Star Quality,' you realized there was no saving it. He had arguments. He had fan chants memorized. For a robot baby. Your robot baby. 

"Admit it, Jisoo has star quality," Jay beams, proudly looking down at the robotic baby in the baby carrier that came with her.  

You look from Jisoo to Jay, then back to Jisoo, unimpressed. "It's a robot, Jay. Not your bias."  

"Bias or not, she deserves only the best," Jay just shrugs, unbothered.

He glances down at the robot, which blinks its eyes open and closed with a soft whirring noise, its chubby plastic arms flopping lifelessly by its sides.  

There's a beat of silence as you both stare down at it, unsure of what to do next.  

"It's kind of creepy, right?" you finally mutter, breaking the knowing silence between you two.  

Jay snorts. "Not even 'kind of.' A lot."

He leans in to inspect it, his brows furrowed, "So, does it just…sit there?”  

"No, it's on schedule. It says here it won't eat for another three hours and it has a clean diaper, so everything should be fine. Babies are predictable once you understand their needs, Jay," you huff, already pulling out the meticulously detailed notes you took during class.

Jay lifts an eyebrow as he turns to face you, "Right...because in real life, babies are totally like robots and are totally predictable. Got it."  

You open your mouth to respond, probably with something unnecessarily snarky (you don't know what yet though, you haven't gotten to that part yet), when a loud, high-pitched wail shatters the air, cutting through the now-empty classroom you two are in. The robot baby's face contorts into an exaggerated crying expression, its mechanical arms flailing (which you didn't even know was possible) like it's preparing for takeoff. 

"What the—" Jay instinctively jumps back like Jisoo is a grenade on her last few seconds.

"Why's it doing that? What did you do?"  

"I didn’t do anything!" You snap, panic slowly rising as you flip through your notes quickly. "It's not supposed to be crying! It shouldn't be hungry, and it's definitely not tired yet!"  

The wailing intensifies, vibrating through the room as the cries echo louder and louder, Jisoo clearly not caring about your carefully crafted timeline. You glance down at your schedule. Why is it crying?  

You groan and snatch Jisoo out of the carrier, awkwardly holding her in a way that's probably not safe for any life form, real or otherwise. The wailing doesn't stop. In fact, it gets louder, as if Jisoo's personally offended by your existence.  

"Hold her!" You quickly thrust her into Jay's arms, a horrified expression written all over his face. "You deal with it."  

"Deal with what? It's a robot!" Jay stares at the baby in his arms like it's going to explode. "Oh god, are we even sure this is safe?"  

"Yes, Jay! It's a baby!"

You're sure you're borderline going insane from the combination of the screeching baby and Jay's apparent lack of brain cells.  

Jay's eyes widen as Jisoo practically vibrates with the force of its cries. He tries to mimic the way you were holding her, cradling her against his chest like she's made of glass. It doesn't help. Jisoo keeps wailing, and now Jay looks genuinely distressed. 

"Uh, shh, little buddy, it's okay...Should I, like, burp it? Sing to it?"  

“Sing?” You give him a look like he’s completely lost it, but Jay’s already humming off-key under his breath. 

The baby, predictably, continues screeching. 

You both just stand there, staring at the baby, then at each other, the panic palpable in the room. Jay continues bouncing it lightly, as if this will magically solve everything.

“Does it have an off switch?” he asks, glancing at you like you've parented a robot baby before. 

You continue to frantically flip through your notes, pages rustling in a blur. “No, Jay! We can’t just turn off our baby!” 

“Well, I don’t know, Y/N, but I’m pretty sure babies aren’t supposed to sound like they’re summoning a demon!” Jay retorts, his tone climbing the ladder of panic. "Maybe she's hungry or something."  

“It can’t be hungry, it's not supposed to be!" You’re still too busy scanning your notes as you shake your head in disagreement.

Jay just shakes his head, gently cradling the baby even though he's sure it's about to lift off into space from how much it was shaking right now. 

“Sometimes you can’t schedule everything, Y/N. Maybe it just needs a bottle, like, right now.” 

The idea frustrates you. “But it’s not time yet. If we feed it off-schedule, it’ll mess everything up for the day.” 

The baby’s cries reach a shrill pitch, like it’s protesting your protest. Jay looks at you, then back at the crying baby, then back at you again. 

“I think it’s already messed up, so maybe we just... feed it?” he says, half-grinning, half-exasperated. 

You hesitate. It feels wrong. Babies are supposed to follow patterns, stick to a routine...or so you thought. You let out a frustrated sigh, your brain bleeding from the sheer sound of the glass-breaking screams.  

“Fine,” you mutter, grabbing the bottle from the supply bag. “But if this throws off the whole schedule, it’s your fault.” 

Jay grins, but there’s something softer in his expression behind it as he watches you struggle with the bottle...and your need for control.

“Deal.” 

You hand the bottle to him, and he places the nipple into the baby’s mouth. The wailing stops almost instantly. The sudden silence is deafening, and both of you are stunned for a moment, looking down at the baby who’s now peacefully drinking. 

You let out a small gasp of relief and turn your head up to look at Jay, who's widened eyes meet yours.  

Jay lets out a held breath. “Well. That was traumatic.” 

You roll your eyes, though there’s a slight twitch at the corner of your lips as you mutter, “I think I just lost three years of my life."  

Jay watches as you carefully take Jisoo from his arms and place her back into the carrier, making sure everything is in order. He’s still catching his breath, but he glances at you—relaxed, for once, after the panic—and it makes him feel something weird. He almost laughs. 

“I dunno,” he says, a little teasingly. “I think we handled that pretty well.” 

“Great, now just five weeks and six days of this left." You give him a look, but there’s a tiny, fleeting smile this time. "I just don't understand why it was crying. It's not supposed to need food until—"  

Jay cuts you off with a chuckle. “Y/N, it’s a baby. Real ones don’t run on algorithms. They just... cry when they need something. Like this little gal. I mean, you can't exactly schedule crying, right?” 

The silence stretches for a moment as you watch him, realization dawning a little slower than you’d like to admit. “I guess,” you mutter reluctantly, earning yourself a content-looking Jay.  

"Look at us—team effort," Jay says, as he beams a smile to you before glancing at Jisoo. "We're naturals at this whole parenting thing."  

"Yeah, okay," you roll your eyes, but the smile on your face says differently as you reach out to unnecessarily fuss with the small blanket in Jisoo's carrier.  

Jay's eyes light up at your response.

"A smile? The Y/N gave me a smile? Admit it, we make a great team, huh?"  

You scoff, but the look on your face proves there's no bite to it—Jay knows there's no bite to it.  

Maybe, just maybe, he has a point.  

You'd never admit it to him, though. 

Not yet.  

To your pleasant surprise, the past two weeks have been...weirdly smooth. Like, suspiciously smooth. You and Jay have somehow managed to fall into an actual routine—dropping off and picking up Jisoo like two semi-functional adults who almost know what they’re doing. You still wouldn’t call it 'seamless', as Jay himself struggled with having a consistent schedule for once in his life, but at least you’ve gotten through the weeks without major incidents or spontaneous combustion. So far.

That doesn't mean you'll admit to anyone—least of all yourself—that you and Jay might actually make a decent team. His parenting methods are still objectively abysmal...to you, at least. I mean, just the other day, he almost put Jisoo's diaper on upside down. Upside down. You didn't even know that was possible, but leave it to Jay to surprise you more and more.  

Despite his questionable approach to baby care, Jisoo's still alive (you think), and somehow you've managed not to explode at him yet (key word: yet). So, that's...something, I guess.  

Today, though. Today is a different beast entirely.  

It's Sunday, and miraculously, you've managed to give yourself the evening off. No café shift, no emergency club meetings. The stars have aligned, and for once, you have free time. And what did you decide to do with this rare gift from the universe?  

Spend it with Jay. Parenting. Together. In his apartment.  

You blame Professor Kim for this cruel twist of fate. Something about submitting photographic evidence of co-parenting. After all, this is a partner project.  

Teamwork, she called it.  

You like to call it pure suffering.  

Which brings you here, standing outside Jay's apartment with a tote bag of baby supplies on one shoulder, Jisoo's carrier on the other, and a silent prayer on your lips. If this apartment is even half the disaster you're imagining—frat house, landfill, or some unholy combination of both—you're fully prepared to turn around and run for the hills.  

You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for whatever horrors await behind the door, and knock three times.  

Precisely five seconds later, the door swings open, and...yep, there's Jay. His hair is a mess, his clothes are rumpled, and you can't tell if he's been a) napping, b) playing video games, or c) all of the above.  

"Hey," he greets you with a lazy grin, eyes half-lidded like he's still half-asleep.  

It's 6PM.  

You stare at him, deadpan.

"You look like you've been hit by a truck."  

Jay snorts as he raises an eyebrow.

"You should see the truck."  

Before you can fire back with something equally sarcastic, you catch a glimpse of his apartment over his shoulder, and—you blink, confused. Wait. Wait.  

Well this can't be right.  

You were expecting a disaster. Maybe a few pizza boxes, a stray sock on the floor, some suspicious stains on the couch. But no.

Instead...it's clean. Like, really clean.  

The floors are spotless, there's a shelf with neatly stacked books, and are those...framed photos on the walls? Like, actual art? Your own apartment doesn't even have actual art, just print outs from Walgreens of photos you thought were cute on Pinterest and your Justin Bieber posters you got from a magazine back in high-school. Now you're starting to feel ashamed.  

You do a double-take, your brain struggling to process what's happening, as Jay still stands in front of you, confused at your gawking.

"Y/N? You good?"  

You snap your mouth shut, as you spot a vacuum neatly tucked in the corner of the living room.

"I...I'm just surprised you even know what a vacuum is." 

"You'll learn I'm full of surprises, Miss Y/N," he says, casually leaning against the doorframe as he looks down at you, his gaze making you shift in your stance in front of him. "Come on in."  

You step inside cautiously, like you're waiting for something to jump out at you—maybe a camera with someone saying 'You've been pranked, this isn't Jay's actual apartment!'  

But nope. His apartment is just...nice. It smells like eucalyptus and citrus, for crying out loud.  

You set Jisoo's carrier down on the couch, the robot itself still fast asleep, as your eyes scan the room, still half-expecting to find a hidden mess somewhere. But instead, something else catches your attention.  

On the wall, next to his kitchen, there's a collection of professional-looking photographs, all framed neatly. This is what caught your eye earlier from the doorway. You find yourself slowly walking closer to get a closer look: landscapes, city stresses, a few candid shots of people—all in the same style, same camera quality, same angles. You tilt your head, intrigued.

Jay comes up behind you to see what you're looking at and you turn to him, "Are these...yours?" 

"Oh," he scratches the back of his neck, looking almost shy. "Yeah. I do some photography sometimes. Just a hobby."  

You blink up at him. Jay Park? A photographer? This was not on your Jay Park Bingo card. 

"Huh," you say, before realizing how dumb you sound. "I didn't know you were into that."  

"Well, there's a lot you don't know about me, Y/N. Full of surprises, remember?" Jay replies, his head tilting to match yours with a cocky smile, which—ugh, okay fine—makes you feel just the tiniest bit flustered. Not that you'll admit it.  

"Oh, really?" You raise an eyebrow. "And here I thought your only hobbies were napping and showing up late." 

"That's just the surface level," he says with a wink, walking over to his coffee table and grabbing his laptop. "I was actually editing photos before you showed up." 

Intrigued, you follow him to the couch and sit beside him as he flips open the laptop. You squint at the editing software on the screen—full of layers, sliders, and all sorts of professional-looking tools that immediately make your head hurt. Jay scrolls through the images, and honestly?

They’re good. Really good. Like, if you didn’t know better, you’d think some of them could be in a magazine. And not the kind of magazine you got your Bieber Fever posters in.  

"Wow," you say, nodding, genuinely impressed. "That’s… actually really cool." 

Jay freezes, his head snapping toward you with a look of disbelief. He stares at you, eyes narrowing like you’ve just broken some unspoken rule.

"It's been ten seconds...you just gave me an actual compliment without a sarcastic follow-up."  

You let out a small giggle, "Geez, you always make me sound like some soulless witch or something."  

"I mean… soulless witch might be a bit much. But, like… emotionally unavailable overlord? Hmm, maybe," Jay grins, leaning back in mock thought.

You burst out laughing before you can stop yourself, the sound catching Jay off guard. He looks at you, wide-eyed, like he’s just witnessed a rare phenomenon. And maybe he has—because even you can’t remember the last time you laughed this freely.

"Wow. I should annoy you more often," Jay smirks, clearly way too satisfied with himself. You’re not entirely sure if he meant it to sound that smooth, but your brain certainly processed it that way. Heat rises to your cheeks before you can stop it, and you quickly clear your throat, a small, flustered smile playing at your lips. 

You try to gather yourself, praying your voice doesn’t betray you.

"Don’t push your luck, Park," you manage, but the teasing edge in your voice is softer than usual—way softer. And, of course, Jay knows it. You know it. You’re still smiling, and—unfortunately for you—so is he. 

Jay suddenly clears his throat as he shifts in his seat, "So...should we order like a pizza or something? Are you hungry?"  

And because lately the universe apparently has a personal vendetta against you, your stomach chooses that exact moment to let out a sound—one that resembles between a whale’s mating call and a frog being strangled. 

Jay stifles a laugh, trying to act casual but failing miserably, "Okay… pizza it is." 

“Shut up,” you mutter, giving him a playful shove that’s just enough to make him fall back into the couch cushions. 

"No, you tell your stomach to shut up," Jay snickers, grabbing his phone to place the order. 

You’re about to fire back with something—anything—but a soft wail interrupts you from the baby carrier. 

"Someone needs attention," you say, scooping Jisoo up and cradling her in your arms. “It’s about time for her to eat anyway.” 

As you juggle Jisoo with one hand and dig through the baby bag for her fake bottle of milk with the other, Jay watches you from his spot on the couch, a curious look in his eyes.

“While you feed her, I’ll take care of the pizza. I’m guessing you’re more of a plain cheese type, huh?” 

You freeze for a second, then whip your head around to give him a mock-offended look.

“First, you think I’m a soulless witch, and now boring? I at least add pepperoni and sausage. Give me some credit.” 

"Okay, okay, noted," Jay lifts his hands up in surrender, "So adventurous. I'll remember that next time you call me irresponsible."  

You roll your eyes at him as you adjust Jisoo in your arms, holding the bottle steady at her mouth. It’s quiet for a few moments, the only sounds being the soft hum of your fake baby and Jay tapping on his phone. 

Suddenly Jay puts his phone down, turning to you with an unreadable expression. “You’re really serious about this whole parenting thing, huh?” 

You blink, still rocking Jisoo in your arms.  You're thrown off by the sudden shift and sincerity in his tone.  

“Well… yeah. I think it’s important, you know? Responsibility, structure… that’s what makes people feel safe. Especially kids. They need to know they’re taken care of.” 

Jay’s expression shifts as he listens, a more thoughtful look settling on his face.

“You're a strong believer of that, aren't you? Structure and schedules and all that?"  

His voice is a lot quieter now, lower, and you realize you've never really had a serious conversation (that wasn't a class debate) with him before—at least not long enough to hear this version of Jay. The serious Jay. And if you're being honest, it's making you a bit flustered. You hesitate, hoping your voice doesn't crack or something equally embarrassing.  

“I mean… I guess so. I was raised that way. My parents always had everything planned out. It was like...nothing ever went wrong because there was always a system, a backup plan.” 

Jay raises an eyebrow, leaning forward a little in his seat.

“But didn’t that feel, I don’t know... suffocating? Like, what if things don’t go according to plan? You can’t control everything.” 

Your first instinct is to scoff, but something stops you. It's a valid question, and for some reason, you don’t feel the need to throw up your usual defenses for once. That's new.  

“Maybe sometimes,” you admit. “But I don’t know any other way. It just feels like if you’re not prepared, things fall apart. And that’s the worst feeling—like watching everything crumble because you weren’t ready for it.” 

Jay is quiet, studying you with an intensity that feels new. His teasing smirk is gone, replaced with something more serious.

“Yeah, I get that. I didn’t have a lot of structure growing up. Parents were kinda… there, but not really. I think that’s why I don’t plan much. Life happens whether you’re ready or not.” 

You blink as you sit back in your seat, absorbing his words. It’s the first time you’ve really thought about Jay outside of his 'laid-back' image of him you've had in your head, and honestly, you’re surprised by how heavy his words feel. 

“But…you’re actually good with Jisoo,” you say, almost cautiously, unsure if you’re diving into uncharted territory. “You’ve been handling this project better than I thought you would.” 

Jay laughs softly, shaking his head as he looks at Jisoo in your arms.

“It’s just a robot baby, Y/N. No big deal if I mess up.” 

"It’s not just about the robot baby,” you counter, realizing you're saying more than you intended. “You actually care. You’re not graded on how well you change diapers or keep her entertained, but you’re still putting in effort. You’re trying. And that matters.” 

There's a beat of silence as you see Jay pause. For once, he doesn't have a comeback. Instead, he's just looking at you—really looking at you—like he's trying to figure something out, and you feel the heat slowly creeping back onto your face. You're sure you're turning an unflattering shade of red under his gaze on you, and part of you, no, all of you, is begging for him to say something immediately before you combust.  

Then, with a suddenness that almost makes you jump, he leans over and nudges your arm lightly.

“Okay, Dr. Phil. Don't go getting all soft on me now."  

You let out a playful scoff to mask your relief, thankful for the release of tension in the air. But something about the conversation lingers in the air, hanging like a question neither of you is ready to ask. And despite the teasing, your mind can’t help but circle back to how Jay had looked at you—serious, curious… something else. 

Before you can dwell on it too long, the doorbell rings. Saved by the pizza gods. Jay springs up from the couch to answer the door, and you gently place the now-snoozing Jisoo back in her carrier. The conversation still swirls in your head as you watch Jay grab the pizza, too caught up in your thoughts to not even question how suspiciously fast it arrived. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, watching Jay at the door from your spot on the couch, your thoughts too heavy for someone who is literally holding a pizza box. 

For someone who sure likes to plan everything out, you definitely weren’t prepared for Jay Park—and how he's quickly becoming the exception to every rule you've ever made. 

✭・.・✫

The first thing that jars you awake is a piercing scream—Jisoo's, of course. Your eyes shoot open as you squint into the dim light, your eyes adjusting and blinking your way out of the accidental nap you fell into. You're trying to make sense of your surroundings through your blurry vision when...it hits you.  

This isn't your room. You're still at Jay's apartment, wedged into the corner of his couch, and apparently, you fell asleep. Post-pizza-food-coma style. And also apparently, your mutual robot child has decided now was a perfect time for a meltdown.  

The second thing you notice is the faint background noise of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire still playing on Jay's TV in front of you. Your memory jogs back to when you two finally came to a consensus on which movie to watch over dinner, and naturally, the deciding factor ended up being 'young Robert Pattinson,' and no, it wasn't your deciding factor. You didn't expect Jay to even have an opinion on this, but apparently, his love for Cedric Diggory is a hill he's willing to die on.  

And then...that brings us to the third thing. A sound from the other end of the couch—Jay's soft snores. You two must have dozed off at some point during the movie somehow and of course, he's still passed out cold, totally oblivious to the screams of robotic despair coming from the baby carrier seated between you two. You glance over at him, out cold with his head tilted back, looking completely unbothered by Jisoo's increasingly offended screams.  

But even through all these realizations, what really slaps you awake, more than Jisoo or Jay or Cedric Diggory, is the smell. It hits you like a rogue sock to the face, and for a moment, you're convinced that Jay definitely has some biological-grade garbage decomposing somewhere in the apartment after all. The smell is like a powerful, radioactive wave, and all you can think is, What in the world is this guy hiding in here? And why is it now coming to life?  

You sit up from your spot, still half-asleep, and follow the foul scent in horror until you realize the source.  

Jisoo.  

Sure, you have changed Jisoo's diapers plenty of times over the last two weeks, but before? There was no smell. At most, you get these weird, vaguely sticky robotic poops in her diaper that barely registered. Now? Now it’s like Professor Kim somehow remotely gave Jisoo a software update and coded her to emit a scent so pungent that it feels borderline illegal. You're convinced this is Jisoo’s final boss form—peak realism unlocked—solely just to spite you and your nostrils.

While you’re here on one end of the couch, one button away from confirming an Amazon Prime order to ship over a bottle of bleach for you to dip your nose into, Jay is still in blissful dreamland, not even flinching. You stare at him in disbelief, hoping your sheer mental outage might magically wake him up. No such luck. 

You grab the throw pillow that's wedged under you and chuck in right at his face.  

"Jay!" You're still half-asleep, so your voice comes out like a strangled whisper, somewhere between pleading and passive-aggressive murder.  

Jay jolts, sitting up with a sleepy yelp, blinking in confusion.

"Huh? What happened? Is Cedric okay?" His panicked gaze darts around the room wildly before they finally settle on you, across the couch. 

"What happened?" You raise a finger to the screaming, stinky, betrayal-machine between you two. "That happened, Jay. Jisoo happened."  

Jay blinks slowly, squinting at Jisoo, his brain clearly struggling to boot up, and then makes the fatal mistake of sniffing the air. The realization suddenly dawns slowly, and you can see the look of horror hit.

"Oh my god, how is she even capable of...of that?!" His voice breaks three octaves as his hand shoots up to pinch his nose.  

"I don't know!" You squawk, equally traumatized. "She's never done this before—I didn't even know she could!"  

Jay groans and rubs his eyes, hoping this is all a bad, bad dream. No such luck, yet again. He glances around helplessly. "So, uh, who's changing her?"  

You shoot him a glare as you get up from the couch and start looking for the baby bag.

"We're changing her, Jay."  

"We?" Jay winces, inching towards Jisoo with all the enthusiasm one has when approaching a radioactive waste barrel. He slowly reaches down to take Jisoo out from the carrier and he starts muttering to himself.

"Great. Fine, this is fine. Just another bonding moment with our adorable robo-daughter." He finally picks her up, reluctantly holding her at arm's length like she's a ticking time bomb. It's so ridiculous that, despite the war-crime-level smell permeating the room, you can't help the small laugh that you let out.  

"What?" Jay glares at you, though a look of amusement tugs at his lips. "You think this is funny?"  

"No," you say, barely stifling your giggles. "It's just—you're holding her like she's about to explode."  

Jay gives you a doubtful look, "Y/N, I'm not convinced she's not about to explode."  

You shake your head, still giggling as you shuffle the carrier off the couch and lay out a blanket, turning Jay's couch surface into a makeshift changing station.

"Alright, c'mon. Lay her down and hold her legs up. I'll handle clean-up duty. And maybe...brace yourself."  

Jay exhales like a man about to face his greatest fear. He gently lays Jisoo down and lifts her legs up with the tips of his fingers, his face still contorted as if you're both dealing with a toxic hazard. At this point, it probably is.  

"Oh my god," he breathes. "This is it. This is how I die."  

You crouch down in position so you're at level with the couch and say a mental prayer before you pull open the tiny diaper. The moment you do, the both of you immediately recoil as a scent that should not even be allowed to exist wafts up and fills the room.  

“Oh god.” 

The scent is so ungodly it feels like it came from the depths of hell itself and punched you both right in the face. It doesn’t just waft up—it attacks. You’re pretty sure you lost at least another three years off your life from one breath alone. 

"That's not legal," Jay chokes as he flings himself back at the sight, dropping Jisoo’s little toes in the process, flailing around as if the air itself betrayed him. "There's no way that's legal." 

You freeze in sheer horror, staring at the scene before you: Jisoo’s somehow realistic poop smeared across every surface of her bottom it possibly could spread to, the stench intensifying with every passing second.

Jay starts pacing the room, spiraling into an existential crisis.

“No, no, no, this isn’t normal. This is—this is a crime scene! This can’t be right.” 

“Jay,” your voice is muffled as a hand tries to cover both your nose and mouth from the contaminated air, “Jay, focus!” 

Jay looks at you from across the living room, wide-eyed and pale, like a deer caught in headlights.

“You expect me to—in this economy—” 

“Grab. The. Wipes.”

Jay groans and he stumbles back towards you, hesitantly rifling through the baby bag. His hands finally find the pack of wipes and he peers over your shoulder from behind you, as if you’re his shield. 

“Are you just gonna stand there, or are you going to help?”

“I am helping,” Jay protests weakly, waving the pack of wipes like they’re a magic wand that might save you both.

You roll your eyes and turn back to Jisoo, “Okay, grab her legs again. I’ll wipe.” 

His eyes watch in horror as he reaches over you to take hold of the robot’s feet. With a deep breath, you start furiously scrubbing Jisoo’s little body, trying your best to breathe as minimally as possible, sticking your hand out towards Jay whenever you need a new wipe. 

“I signed up for fake parenting, not surviving a biohazard. This isn’t bonding; this is trauma,” Jay incoherently mumbles, placing a wipe in your hand. 

"I think this trauma is exactly what we're supposed to be learning and 'bonding' from," you retort, carefully tossing a soiled wipe into the designated waste bag.  

"Oh, so Professor Kim is forcing us to bond over mutual suffering? Very sweet," Jay deadpans as he hands you another wipe. 

"Exactly. Parenting at its finest."  

Finally, after you definitely lost three years of your life, the horror show is over. Jisoo is cleaned, diapered, and—somehow—actually looks peaceful for once. Like she didn't just commit a crime against humanity. 

Jay exhales, looking at her with a newfound joy. "Well. She's definitely...less terrifying when she's not screaming and emitting toxic fumes."  

You plop yourself on the couch and cradle Jisoo like she's a tiny, innocent angel instead of the cause of your collective suffering.

“I’m genuinely afraid to know what they put in her system for this to happen.” 

Jay collapses onto the couch beside you, visibly relieved, "Whatever it was, we did it. We survived. We did that." 

You can't help but laugh, still a bit punch-drunk from the adrenaline and exhaustion of it all, "We better get an A+ on this project."  

Jay chuckles, leaning his head back against the couch. The room falls into a brief silence, just the two of you sitting there, basking in the weird accomplishment of it all. Then, as if on cue, you both start laughing—a deep, exhausting kind of laugh that two people only share after a 'you had to be there' type moment. There's something about the whole ordeal—how ridiculous, how hilariously awful it was—that just makes it impossible to not laugh.  

"Now do you think we make a pretty good team?" Jay grins, nudging your shoulder with his.   

You roll your eyes at him, "I don't know...depends."  

Jay raises an eyebrow, "Depends on what?"  

"Depends on whether you can make it through the rest of the project without crying again," you quip, lips twitching into an amused grin.  

Jay gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. "Excuse you, I did not cry. My eyes were sweating from Jisoo's toxic fumes. A completely normal biological response, thank you very much."  

"Sure, Jay," you deadpan, shaking your head.  

"Besides," he continues, leaning back smugly, "I did all the heavy lifting. Literally. I held the live grenade."  

You snort, glancing down at Jisoo in your arms before handing her off to Jay, "You're unbelievable."  

"And you're stuck with me, partner," he grins back, rocking Jisoo in his arms. "You too, Jisoo." 

You lean back into the couch, watching Jay coo at the now-peaceful baby. Somewhere between his flair for over-the-top dramatics, his secret love for young Robert Pattinson, and (for some reason) endearing passion for photography, you realize…maybe Jay Park isn’t the complete disaster you thought he was. 

"Yeah," you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I guess I really am stuck with you."  

And for the first time since this ridiculous project started, you don't mind that as much as you thought you would.  

Jay would like to make a few things clear. 

First of all, none of this is his fault. 

He hopes you understand that, as his thumbs fly over the keyboard of his phone like his life depends on it.

Because, in a way, it does. 

Jay [11:32 AM]: “i swear it’s not my fault, but my friend, jake, his entire load of laundry is now the color of strawberry milk. and apparently i’m the only one that can help him. can i drop jisoo off with you for like… an hour? tops?” 

He stares at his phone, waiting for your response like you hold the key to his survival.

Because, in a way, you do. 

He hears Jisoo coo from her carrier, like even she knows how dire this situation is. Finally, his phone lights up with a buzz. 

Y/N [11:33 AM]: “i’m volunteering at a dog adoption event on campus, but sure, drop her off here :)” 

Jay blinks at his phone. A dog adoption event. Of course, you'd be saving puppies on a Saturday. Of course. Like some kind of unreasonably perfect human. And here he is, about to save a fully grown man from having to wear solely pink t-shirts for the next week.

Fantastic.   

With a sigh, Jay turns to Jisoo, who blinks back a stare that can only be described as the (robot) baby equivalent of good luck, bro. 

By the time Jay reaches campus, he's bombarded with the sight and sound of...dogs. Dogs everywhere. It's as if he's entered the chaotic lovechild of a Disney movie and a petting zoo, complete with wags, barks, and the smell of kibble. And then he sees you. 

You're smack in the middle of a fenced playpen, laughing, surrounded by every breed of fluffy chaos imaginable and passersby cooing 'aww' at the sight. And what a sight it is.  

You look ridiculously happy, and for some reason, that makes something in Jay's chest feel weirdly tight. He wonders what it must feel like to be able to make you smile that widely, that brightly. It's unnerving. He's not used to seeing you so relaxed, so content—or maybe he's just not used to noticing how good you look when you're not glaring at him.  

"Y/N!" a voice calls from the volunteer tent, snapping Jay out of his daydream. Jay watches from the distance as you haul a golden retriever pup into your arms and walk over to the tent, naturally falling into conversation with your friend and immediately organizing papers. Meanwhile, Jay stands there, dumbfounded at your unbothered, graceful rhythm that you seem to fall into like second nature. 

Jay thought he had you figured out, filed neatly in his mental drawer of uptight-control-freaks-that-happen-to-smell-like-roses-and-have-perfect-smiles, but now? Something about the way you look—so confident, so caring, so...natural—catches him off guard.

Now, you're like some serene multitasking goddess in the middle of pure chaos.  

That brings us to the second thing Jay would like to clarify (more so to himself): he definitely doesn't think you look good in, like, an attractive sense, or anything insane like that. Absolutely not. He just is simply impressed at how you seem to manage and carry yourself quite elegantly. This is pure admiration. Admiration, okay?  

But...while he's here, staring in 'admiration', it suddenly hits him—you're not just good at taking care of Jisoo. You're good at taking care of everything.  

And that makes his heart do a weird flip.  

The realization that he's been staring for way too long jolts him back to the present. Focus, Jay. There's a Jake somewhere out there, lost in a sea of pink underwear.  

Jisoo carrier in hand, Jay manages to push his way through the dog-packed crowds until he reaches you, but the second you turn around, flashing him that wide, carefree smile that he's still not used to, he's back to stumbling over himself.  

He’s 99% sure he audibly gulps. 

“Oh, Jay, you made it!” you say, shifting the puppy to one side of your arms to free a hand to grab Jisoo's carrier immediately. Your smile is disarmingly genuine. Jay thinks he may need to sit down.  

“Uh, yeah—um, thanks for taking Jisoo," he swallows, his voice barely steady as he's unsure what this feeling is that came over him. He doesn't know if it's the fact that he's seeing you in a completely different light right now, carrying both a live, adorable puppy, and a (not-so-live) baby, but something is different, and he's at a loss for words. "You look pretty—uh…busy.”  

He curses himself. Busy? Really? 

“Oh, no biggie,” you give him an easy, encouraging grin, one so casual that it really shouldn't make his knees feel like Jell-O. "Honestly, I'd be out here every weekend if I could. But you of all people know my schedule."  

Of course, you'd say something like that. Jay tries to think of a normal response, but his brain is spinning with all sorts of not-normal things about you—like how you look so aggressively pretty right now. 

And it’s a little infuriating. 

"Yeah, no, totally," Jay clears his throat, scratching the back of his head. "Because who doesn't want to be covered in dog hair and slobber for fun?"  

You roll your eyes, smiling. "Says the guy who's about to be knee-deep in a laundry crisis. Isn't that a little messy, too?"  

Jay huffs, feeling himself return just a little bit back to normal. “Listen, Jake’s a special case, okay? You can’t just leave him in that pink laundry disaster and expect him to survive.” 

"Right..," you laugh, rocking back and forth on your feet, your smile lingering as a comfortable silence falls between you.  

Maybe it's the way you're looking up at him, or the fact that a literal golden retriever is currently nuzzling into your neck, but Jay is doing everything in his power to keep his cool. You're looking at him in a way that isn't remotely judgmental (for once), and it's throwing him completely off-balance.  

Before Jay can pull it together and say something else, another voice calls your name, waving you over to a different table. You turn back to Jay, giving him an apologetic glance.  

"Do you mind watching Jisoo—and, um, this puppy—for a sec?"  

Before he can answer, or even process your words, he's standing there with an actual puppy in one arm, and Jisoo in her carrier in the other, and his life has become a circus he never auditioned for.  

"Sorry! They just need me real quick!" You say with a grateful smile as you hurry off.  

As you rush off with another apologetic smile, Jay's brain, for better or for worse, decides that grin of yours is now his mental screensaver. He watches you go, dumbly smiling before he catches himself. 

Not attraction, he reminds himself. Totally not attraction.  

He looks down at his arms—one occupied by a carrier with a robot baby, the other holding a wriggly puppy.  

"Bet no one's ever been in this situation before," he mutters, awkwardly standing there as he waits for your return. Honestly, Jay has never felt so awkward or nervous before. Right now, he feels like the epitome of the standing emoji, just simply existing and there, waiting for your next command and hoping he doesn't screw it up.  

Jay tries to hype himself up. You can do this, Park. It's just a dog. And a baby. And you. You've got this. You totally have everything und— 

Before he can finish his mental pep talk, the sound of your laughter rings from across the event, making Jay's head snap over in record time. He tries not to look—he really does—but the sound is too angelic to not. But right when he does look over, he immediately wishes he didn't. 

You're standing there between two of your friends, and you're giggling. With some guy he's never seen before. And this guy, is nudging your shoulder and making you laugh so hard you're practically doubling over. He feels a distinct twist in his chest. 

Jay’s definitely not jealous. Nope. Not even a little. It's just...curiosity. Pure, innocent curiosity about what that guy could possibly be saying to make you laugh so hard. Because Jay has never seen you laugh like that with him—ever.

And suddenly, the longer you continue laughing with that guy, Jay feels something hot and uncomfortable bubbling up inside.  

Fine, it’s jealousy.  

Definitely jealousy.

He scowls at himself. Now he’s basically a bitter standing emoji, clinging to Jisoo and a puppy while glaring from afar. 

And there Jay stands, bitterness levels maxed, holding both a puppy and a robot baby, while across the way, your roommate Esther gives you a knowing smirk while you're recovering from your giggling fit. Your giggling fit which was caused by Heeseung making a comment about how he stepped in dog poop more times than the average human-being accidentally should.  

“You didn’t tell me that was Jay Park,” Esther says, trying not-so-subtly to sneak a glance at the bitter standing emoji himself, awkwardly shifting his feet in the distance, avoiding to look in your direction. “You said he was annoying, lazy, and a pain to be around. You didn’t mention he’s a total cutie.” 

“He was annoying, lazy, and a pain to be around,” you scoff, though you're clearly not thinking that right now as you catch a glance of him trying to balance both the puppy and Jisoo. "But...I don't think he's so bad anymore."  

You definitely don't add that he's a total cutie. Okay, maybe you think it, but saying it out loud is a whole other thing.  

“Oh, so you totally like him,” Heeseung snickers from your other side, nudging you again.  

You make a sound that's half out-of-tune trumpet, half hiccup, before breaking into a laugh to cover your sudden panic.

"No, I don't!" You clear your throat, trying to stay cool.  "We're just—look, we're just stuck together for this project. That's all. Even if I did like him, which I don't, he definitely doesn't like me back. We're probably just going to go back to bickering with each other to no end."  

“Right,” Heeseung chimes in, giving you a look that says he's clearly unconvinced. “Just saying, though—someone who doesn’t like you wouldn’t be staring at you like that, and looking at me like I just committed a first-degree crime just for breathing in your direction."  

You follow Heeseung’s gaze and, sure enough, you catch Jay trying to look casual while bouncing the puppy and acting like he totally didn’t just get caught. Your eyes meet, and he does a 180 so fast he nearly launches Jisoo into orbit. 

You quickly turn back to your friends, heat rising to your face as you catch Esther and Heeseung giving each other a knowing look before smirking at you. You roll your eyes and grab the both of them by the back of their shirts, turning them in the direction of the event, "Okay, okay, enough with the delusions. Shouldn't you guys be signing off some puppies or something?"  

"Don't say we didn't tell you so!" Esther calls after you as you turn on your heels towards Jay, furiously convincing yourself that they're so wrong.  

There's no universe in which Jay Park, the Jay Park, would ever be into you. The Jay Park, who can get any girl he wants, the Jay Park who's just too different from you, the Jay Park who you proclaimed your school rival (self-proclaimed). Absolutely not.  

When you get back to him, Jay’s desperately trying to look natural—so, naturally, he’s scratching the puppy’s belly while Jisoo clings to his chest like a tiny koala. Your heart gives a little traitorous squeeze, but you ignore it. Get a hold of yourself, Y/N.  

“Looks like he likes you,” you say, trying to sound casual as you nod to the puppy, who's squirming excitedly under Jay's attention. 

“He’s adorable,” Jay replies, blushing faintly as he shifts the puppy around.

“So, uh, everything okay over there?” he asks, totally not imagining a deep, romantic conversation to explain your laughter. 

You’re caught off-guard, blinking, wondering if Jay somehow became psychic and caught onto your previous train of thoughts about him, until you realize what he meant.

“Oh! Yeah, they just… needed help with paperwork.” 

Jay’s expression hardens ever so slightly as he tries to imagine a world where paperwork could possibly be that funny.

“Cool, cool,” he nods stiffly, side-eyeing Heeseung in the distance who’s still chatting with Esther. 

"Well," Jay shifts awkwardly as clears his throat, "I should get going to Jake. He's probably in tears by now, honestly."  

You frown at that, and Jay instantly self-identifies himself as the worst person on the planet. He barely resists the urge to apologize for everything he's ever done, from breathing in your direction to any other crime against humanity he's committed in your eyes.  

"Aw, come on," you say, teasingly, though even you're not sure why. It's just...fun having him around. "Stay a little longer. For the puppies!"  

Jay opens his mouth, fully ready to decline when he catches sight of your expression—those big, pleading eyes that make it impossible to say no. 

And that's it. He's doomed. Right then and there, Jay knows he's doomed.  

Is Jay currently surrounded by more puppies than he ever thought could physically exist in one place?

Yes. 

Does he think your puppy eyes are somehow cuter than all the puppies combined?

Annoyingly, also yes.  

And so, Jay would like to make some new things clear, for the record:  

First, there is no way any of this is his fault. If Jake ends up crying over outfit choices and demands to know why Jay ditched him for puppies, Jay has a rock-solid explanation. He’ll explain the situation, which obviously couldn’t be helped. Hanging out with you? Totally justified. Perfectly valid.  

And second, well—Jay would like to clarify that it's official now. Whatever he was feeling before?

Yeah, definitely attraction.  

Your fingers drum against your blanket. You stare blankly at your bedroom ceiling. You let out another deep sigh. You toss and turn, adjusting your position for maybe the hundredth time. It's no use.

You're bored.  

And that, in itself, is a shocking revelation. You're never bored. Your schedule is usually packed to the brim—between assignments, club meetings, work shifts, and impromptu Save the Puppies campaigns, there's hardly room for boredom. But today?  

Today, life has gifted you a rare stretch of free time. No assignments to finish, no midterms to study for, no dog adoption events or café shifts. And apparently, you have no idea how to handle that.  

You turn to look at Jisoo, who's chilling in her spot on your bed next to you, not having a single ounce of consciousness for you to share your boredom with.  

With another sigh, you grab your phone and scroll aimlessly through your apps. You eventually land in your Photos app and swipe through mindlessly until a recent picture stops you in your tracks.  

It's a selfie Jay took of the two of you, Jisoo sandwiched between your faces. The infamous day of the pizza-night-turned-accidental-nap-turned-godforsaken-poop-incident. You'd submitted the photo to Professor Kim as proof of your co-parenting efforts, but now, looking at it again, you can't help but smile.  

It's strange. The memory should be traumatic—okay, it is traumatic—but in hindsight, it's also...kind of fun. The chaos, the banter, the way Jay somehow managed to make everything feel less overwhelming just by being there.  

Funny enough, that day was also the last time you remember having any sort of free time, and you remember complaining that you had to spend the day with Jay of all people. But now, looking back at it, you honestly did have fun. Being with Jay was...fun.  

Your thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before it unconsciously drifts towards the Phone app. You hesitate, realizing with a jolt that you're one tap away from calling Jay. It's like your brain suddenly shut off and something took over you. What's gotten into you?  

You blink at Jay's contact on your phone, your thumb still hovering over his name.  

No. Bad idea.  

You don't need Jay to entertain you just because you're bored. You're perfectly capable of having fun on your own...obviously. Obviously, even though the last hour of groaning and ceiling-staring suggests otherwise.  

Besides, Jay's probably busy doing...whatever it is Jay does at 4PM on a Saturday. Napping, probably.  

And what would you even say? Let's hang out? Like some middle schooler asking out their crush? Not to mention, you already have your 'Jisoo' plans in two days, so it's not like you have an excuse to see him.  

You sit up abruptly, shaking your head as if to clear the fog of ridiculous thoughts. Seriously, do you even hear yourself right now? Looking for an excuse to see him? Since when did you need excuses for anything, let alone something as absurd as spending more time than necessary with Jay Park?  

This has to be some kind of stress-induced meltdown. It's the only logical explanation. All those late-night study sessions, midterm panic attacks, Jisoo diaper changes, and endless extracurriculars must've finally fried your brain. And now, here you are, teetering on the edge of reason, actually wanting to see Jay Park.  

Great. Now you have a new problem.  

Because as much as you try to convince yourself otherwise, the truth is glaringly obvious: you want to see him. And that, more than any amount of free time or boredom, is the real problem. 

You've officially lost it.  

I've officially lost it, you chant in your head as your thumb hovers dangerously close to Jay's name on your screen again.  

I've officially lost it, the words grow louder, taunting you, as you hover over the call button. 

I've officially lost it, your thoughts scream as you give in, pressing down and watching in horror as your screen shifts to Calling Jay Park. 

And now, your heartbeat picks up with every ring. You can't decide what's worse—him answering or him ignoring the call. Maybe if he doesn't pick up, it'll be a sign from above that you're better off leaving this madness alone. Maybe—

"Hello?"  

Your train of thought screeches to a halt.  

"Y/N? Are you there?"  

"I'm here!" You blurt out, your voice jumping two octaves higher than usual. Real smooth, Y/N.  

"Hi...what's up? Are you okay? Is something wrong?" His voice is soft over the phone, a little concerned, like you're about to tell him Jisoo had another diaper emergency.  

You falter for a moment, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written there.

"No! Nothing's wrong! I just—uh–" Quick, think of something normal!

"I was wondering what you're up to."  

"Me?" He sounds genuinely surprised, and you can practically hear the smile in this voice. At least, you think. Or, once again, you've officially lost it. "I'm at the campus gallery, setting up for my photography showcase. It's tonight."  

The campus gallery. His photography.  

You blink, this is news to you. You vaguely remember Jay asking if you could watch Jisoo tonight, and he hadn't given you a reason back then, but this is why he couldn't be on Jisoo duty today. Because of his showcase.  

"Wait, really?" You ask, hoping the interest in your voice doesn't show too much.  

"Yeah. I didn't mention it? Guess I forgot," he chuckles lightly. "It's not a big deal, just a student showcase. I'm just setting up now, making sure my pieces are hung straight and stuff."  

You swallow, a sudden wave of curiosity washing over you. You find yourself smiling to yourself, feeling a wave of endearment wash over you for some reason. The idea of Jay being completely focused and serious about a passion of his is...it's nice. It’s hard to reconcile the carefree, sarcastic guy you know with the thoughtful perspective he must have to capture the kinds of photos he does. 

"You should come by," he says suddenly, breaking you out of your thoughts. His voice is casual, but you think you catch a small, hopeful note in it. "If you're free, I mean. No pressure."  

You hesitate, your mind racing. Go? Don't go? It's just a showcase. It's not like it means anything. Right?  

"I'll think about it," you manage, trying to sound nonchalant.  

"Cool." There's a smile in his voice again. "Let me know. I'll save you a front-row seat."  

"Front row seat? For a gallery?" You deadpan, rolling your eyes as if he can see if over the phone.  

"Hey, I'm just being a good host."  

"Hmmm," you smile to yourself again. "Maybe. We'll see."  

But your decision was made the second he suggested that you should come. 

It doesn't mean anything. Friends come support each other all the time, right? Wait—

Are you and Jay even friends? You shake your head, trying to dismiss the warmth starting to spread in your chest.  

It's just photography.

It's just Jay.

Nothing to overthink here.  

✭・.・✫

“Okay, Jisoo, in and out,” you whisper to the robot baby in the carrier that's perched in your arms as you stand frozen outside the campus gallery doors. "We're just stopping by to say hi. Two minutes max. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Nothing dramatic."  

Jisoo stares back at you, wide-eyed and unhelpfully silent, which you take as strong moral support.

"Thanks, Jisoo," you mutter, like a lunatic seeking validation from a robot.  

Maybe you shouldn't even go in. It's basically the end of the event anyway—what are the odds he'd even notice you didn't show?

Slim. Probably. Right?  

It's not like you didn't have a valid excuse for your lateness. You did have to change Jisoo’s diaper before you left, and that was a whole thing. But let's be real. 

The real delay?

The real delay was you standing in front of your closet for a solid half hour like a contestant on America's Next Top Existential Crisis. What do you even wear to casually drop by someone's photography showcase? Something that says, Hey, I'm effortlessly supportive, but I totally don't care if you notice me (yes I do).  

Spoiler alert: that outfit does not exist.  

And then—because clearly, you love to torture yourself—you spent another thirty minutes pacing around your room trying to figure out why you cared so much in the first place.  

It's Jay. Jay. The guy who thought sticking googly eyes on Jisoo's bottle would make her drink faster. Why are you stressed? Why are your palms sweaty?  

But despite all that, you somehow made it here, standing outside the gallery with your stomach doing flips like you're about to walk into your own trial. You made it all the way here, so might as well go in, right?  

You swallow hard, adjust your grip on your emotional support robot baby, and push the door open. 

And there he is.  

Center stage, right where he belongs—or at least where he seems to thrive. Standing in front of a massive wall of his framed photographs, the studio lights catch his profile just right. It's almost unfair, like he's been personally photoshopped by the gods themselves. He's surrounded by a small crowd, gesturing animatedly with his hands as he speaks, his smile so bright you're convinced it's starting to hurt your eyes.  

But his eyes? There's this sparkle in them. Not the usual playful glint you've grown used to, but something deeper, softer. You've never seen him look so alive, so utterly in his element, and it's doing weird things to your chest. 

You can't help but wonder—what does it feel like to make him look that happy? Not that it matters, obviously.

It's just a thought.

A completely useless, irrelevant, go-away-right-now kind of thought.  

If you weren't busy trying not to trip over your own feet and accidentally drop Jisoo, you might have stopped to take it all in. To admire the way he looks standing there, talking about something he clearly loves, like he's found this magical pocket of the universe where nothing else matters. Might have.  

But instead, your thoughts screech in a halt, jolting you out of your daydream.  

Abort mission. This was a terrible idea.  

Why did you come here? Why is your face hot? Can Jisoo smell fear?  

Before you can think of a single coherent reason to not turn around and bolt, Jay glances up. And he spots you.  

His eyes light up even more—if that's even physically possible. "Y/N?" He calls out, grinning widely.  

Great. Now you're here. He's happy to see you. You're standing in the middle of his gallery with a robot baby that can most definitely smell your fear.  

Fantastic. Just fantastic.  

Jay's voice cuts through your existential spiral, "Y/N!" He's waving you over as he calls out your name again, like you're a long-lost friend who's just returned from war. 

Well, to be fair, you are fighting a war—against your own dumb feelings.  

"Hey!" You croak, trying to sound casual but ending up somewhere between a dog's favorite squeaky toy and a rusty car horn. You internally flinch at your own voice.  

"Wow, you came," he says, his sweet smile still on display as you shuffle over to where he's standing. "And you brought Jisoo! My biggest fan."

He reaches out to cup Jisoo's cheeks, and you almost smack yourself in the head for feeling jealous over your own robot baby.  

"Yeah, well," you start, trying to sound nonchalant. "I figured, you know, project partners should support each other...teamwork and all that."  

Jay raises an eyebrow, clearly trying to stifle a laugh, "Right. Teamwork. Totally."  

You shift your weight from one leg to another, awkwardly looking up, eventually landing your eyes on the wall behind him, scanning the photos on display. Each photo is so him—a little chaotic, a little bold, but somehow...strikingly beautiful. There's a photo of a rainy city street, the light catching every droplet; a close-up of a sunflower against a brilliant sky; a candid of a kid laughing, his face tilted up toward the sun.  

You suddenly feel a weird, warm pull in your chest. It’s one thing to see Jay cracking jokes and making sarcastic comments during late-night baby meltdowns. But this? This is a side of him you’ve never seen before—one that’s thoughtful, intentional, passionate. 

You don’t realize how long you’ve been staring until Jay speaks up, his voice softer now. “Do you like them?” 

You blink, startled, and then nod a little too quickly. You hope he doesn't notice (he does).  

"Yeah. I mean...these are really good, Jay. You're–" you cut yourself off, realizing you're about to say something embarrassing.

''–talented," you finish lamely.  

"Thanks," Jay tilts his head, looking almost shy. "That means a lot, actually."  

His voice is so genuine that it throws you off. You weren't prepared for this level of sincerity. It makes your stomach flip in a way that's both exciting and mildly terrifying.  

Jay gestures toward the wall, his hands shoved into his pockets like he's trying not to fidget.

"I wasn't sure if this was your kind of thing, thought you'd be busy and stuff, but I'm glad you came. I, uh..," he scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, "I was kind of hoping you would."  

Oh.  

Oh?  

OH.  

Your brain immediately short-circuits. He hoped you'd come? Like...in a we're-in-this-together-as-project-partners way, or in a please-let-this-mean-something-more-than-project-partners way? Is this what cardiac arrest feels like? Should you call someone? Should you call him? No, wait, you're already talking to him—focus! 

You clear your throat and try to channel every ounce of chill you simply do not possess.

"Well," you say, attempting to keep your voice steady and failing miserably, "I'm here."  

It comes out barely louder than a whisper, and you immediately regret every life decision that's led you to this moment. But then Jay smiles—soft, something smaller, more private—and it's like the world shifts slightly off its axis.  

"Yeah," he says quietly, his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that makes you forget how to breathe. "You are."  

And just like that, the noise of the environment dissolves, and the rest of the world shrinks to nothing but the space between you and him. The moment feels impossibly big like it might swallow you whole, and yet so small it could shatter with the slightest breath.  

You're pretty sure you're about to combust. Explode. Turn into a human firework fueled entirely by sheer tension and whatever it is that's happening right now. God, why does he have to look at you like that? Like you're not standing here internally unraveling?  

You break eye contact to glance down at Jisoo, and you're positive she's giving you a look that screams, Stop being weird, you two.  

"Anyway!" You blurt out, desperate to break the tension.

"Which one's your favorite?" You gesture to the photos, your eyes darting anywhere but his own. 

He laughs, and the sound is warm and unguarded, "C'mon, I'll show you."  

He grabs your free hand without thinking, tugging you toward the far end of the wall. And just like that, you're helplessly following him, heart racing again, wondering how the hell you got here—and why you never want to leave.  

So much for in and out.  

Jay pulls you towards the far end of the gallery, his hand wrapped around yours like it's the most natural thing in the world.  

It's not.  

Your brain is in full-blown meltdown mode. Red alerts, sirens blaring, a voice screaming, "WE'RE HOLDING HANDS, PEOPLE!"  

But there's no way you're about to let him see how much this is affecting you, so you shove the chaos down, pretending like your hand isn't currently experiencing the touch equivalent of fireworks...and hoping that it isn't sweaty.  

"This one," Jay says, stopping in front of a photo that's somehow both ordinary and magical. It's a simple shot of your campus football field, taken from the bleacher stands. You've stood in those very bleachers too many times to count—for school events, games, the occasional half-hearted attempt to pretend you like sports. But somehow, in this shot, the field looks...different.  

The grass glows like it's soaked in liquid gold under a sky caught between dusk and twilight. The field is empty, yet it doesn't feel lonely. There's something about it that Jay managed to capture—like it holds a thousand stories and secrets, quietly hopeful in its stillness.  

"It's beautiful," you murmur, the words slipping out before you can catch them. 

"Yeah," Jay lets out a breath. "It's my favorite spot on campus. I go there a lot when I need to think or just...get away a bit."  

You glance at him, startled at the sudden vulnerability in his voice. Jay never strikes you as someone who gets lost in his head; he always seemed too confident, too effortlessly sure of himself. But right now, he's not looking at you—he's staring at the photo, like he's seeing something beyond it.  

"I took it on one of those days—I was just overthinking a lot about life. About who I am, I guess," he continues. "I didn't think it'd turn out good or anything, but...I don't know. It felt right."  

Your chest tightens. There's something so raw in the way he's speaking, like he's letting you see a side of him he usually keeps hidden. It makes you wonder how many other layers Jay Park has, and why it feels so important to uncover them all.  

The silence between you stretches as you watch Jay continue to study his own photograph. There's a softness in his gaze, a quiet vulnerability that makes you feel like you're seeing him a way few people ever do.  

But then he blinks, breaking the moment, and suddenly he's looking at you. You stiffen, panic bubbling up at the possibility that he might've noticed you staring at him.  

"Sorry," he says, his voice carrying a self-deprecating chuckle. "It's really cheesy and stupid."  

You find yourself shaking your head before he even finishes his sentence.

"No! Not at all, really," you blurt out, the words stumbling over themselves in their rush to escape. You feel the heat creeping up your neck, mortified at your sudden intensity.  

Jay raises an eyebrow, amused, but doesn't say anything, so you clear your throat and try again, softer this time, "I mean it. You have a good eye, Jay."

You mean it more than you've meant anything in a while, and you hope he knows that.  

For a second, he just looks at you, like he's taking note of something, his head tilted ever so slightly. And then, slowly, his lips curve into that small, genuine smile that makes your chest feel annoyingly warm.

"Thanks, Y/N."  

Your heart does a little somersault. Oh great. There it goes again.  

And as if Jisoo can sense the moment might be getting too serious, she lets out a cry. You stumble back, jump scared enough by the loud and sudden sound, and Jay reacts instantly, steadying you with his hands on your shoulders.  

"You okay?" He asks, his face so close that you can now confirm there are literal, actual flecks of gold in his eyes. Of course there are.  

You blink. I've officially lost it. Completely, utterly, hopelessly, lost it.  

You nod, your voice stuck in your throat. Am I okay? No. No, you are not okay. You are decidedly not okay.  

Jay clears his throat, stepping back—though his hands linger a beat longer than they probably need to, but still a second too short than you should probably want to. 

You want to scream into the void.  

"Looks like it's time for Jisoo's dinner," he says lightly with a small chuckle. 

You fumble for words, your brain still offline.

"Uh—yeah. I left her bottle at my place, and I should probably get going anyways," you manage, your voice a little too breathless for comfort.  

Jay glances at his watch, pausing for a moment before looking back at you, something hopeful flicking in his eyes.

"I'm pretty much done here," he says, tilting his head towards the door. "It's late. Let me walk you home."  

You hesitate, torn between insisting you're perfectly fine on your own (you're not) and letting him (you want to). But the way he's looking at you—like it's no big deal, like he simply wants to—makes the decision for you.  

"Okay," you say, quieter than you mean to, and before you can second-guess yourself, Jay's already taking Jisoo's carrier from your arms, effortlessly shifting it onto his own.  

"Let's go," he says, flashing you a small smile that feels like a punch to your stomach in the best way possible.  

And just like that, you're walking side by side into the cool night air, your breaths visible in the chill, easily falling into a comfortable rhythm as you walk through the quiet campus, the streetlights above casting long shadows ahead of you. 

There’s something easy about walking with him like this. It shouldn’t feel this natural—your heart’s doing somersaults and pirouettes like it’s auditioning for a circus—but it does. You steal a glance at him, and he’s focused on the path ahead, his profile calm and soft in the glow of the lights. 

"So," Jay breaks the quiet as he stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, "Can you believe the project's almost over?"  

You let out a small laugh, tilting your head, "Honestly, no. Feels like just yesterday I was praying you'd drop the class."  

Jay laughs, a sound that seems to echo in the quiet environment.

"Wow, Y/N. I thought we were bonding."  

"We were," you tease, turning to him with a barely concealed smirk. "I just also thought you were going to be a disaster of a partner."  

He scoffs, giving you a mock-offended look, "I proved you wrong, right? I was amazing since day one."  

"You handed Jisoo to me like she was a bomb, Jay," you remind him, unable to stop yourself from laughing.  

"I was assessing the danger!" Jay protests, his grin widening. "And excuse me, I've stepped up. I've made bottles, I've cleaned her, I even know how to put on a diaper the right side up!"  

"Jay, the fact that you had to learn which way was right side up is concerning in itself," you manage to let out with a giggle. 

"Details, details," he waves a dismissive hand. "Point is, I'm practically father of the year."  

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. A sharp breeze suddenly hits the both of you, and you visibly shiver from the lack of warmth your outfit provides. All that time choosing an outfit, and you still couldn't pick a weather-appropriate one. Stellar, Y/N.  

And of course, Jay notices immediately. Before you can so much as form a protest, he's shrugging his jacket off and draping it over your shoulders, your body immediately stiffening as his hands brush against you lightly in the process.  

You open your mouth to say something—anything, even just a whispered thank you—but Jay beats you to it, sparing you the effort of finding actual, coherent words. 

“So,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just sent your brain spiraling, “what do you think you’ll do when it’s over?”

"Uh," you blink, still needing a second to reorient yourself. "Sleep, for once."  

Jay laughs again. "Fair. You deserve it. But you'll miss me, right?"  

"Not even for a second," you deadpan without hesitation.  

"Liar," he teases, bumping your shoulder lightly.  

You reach your building all too soon, the doors looming in front of you like an unwelcome reminder that this walk, this moment, is about to end. You stop just before the steps and turn to face him, rocking on your heels.  

"Okay, maybe a little," you admit, shrugging. "But only because you make me look like the competent one by comparison."  

"Wow," Jay shakes his head, but there it is again. The smile—the small, amused one that makes his eyes crinkle just enough to be unfairly attractive. 

You glance up at him, wishing the walk had been just a few blocks longer. Or a few miles.  

"Well," you say finally, forcing your gaze away from his own. "Thanks for walking me. And for carrying Jisoo." 

You reach for Jisoo's carrier, and Jay hands it over without hesitation, but not before shrugging like it's no big deal.

"No problem," he says. Then, as you're adjusting the carrier on your arm, he adds, "And thanks again, Y/N. For coming tonight. It really meant a lot."  

Your heart does that stupid fluttery thing again it's been doing all night, and you're starting to think you need a medical consultation.  

"Yeah, well," you clear your throat. "Partner support, you know?" You sound dumb, Y/N. Dumb.  

Jay smirks, but there's something gentler in his expression now, a flicker of something you can't quite name. 

"Goodnight, Y/N. And goodnight, Jisoo," he says, giving a small wave to the baby carrier, making you giggle slightly.  

He takes a few steps back, his hands slipping into his pockets, and gives you one last smile before turning to walk away. But before he gets too far, something bursts out of you, unwarned.  

"Jay!"  

He stops, turning on his heels, his brows lifting in surprise. "Yeah?"  

You step forward, closing a bit of the distance between you, suddenly hyper-aware of how your voice wavers.

"Um, I was wrong. You're...not all that bad." Why am I doing this? "I'm sorry if I've been...you know, intense. These past few years."  

Jay blinks at you, his surprise turning into something softer. You take a deep breath, pushing through the self-inflicted awkwardness. 

"You've been a really good partner," you add, offering a small, genuinely smile. "And well...you're pretty cool."  

His studies your face for a moment, the look longing and careful, like he's piecing together something fragile. A faint smile tugs at his lips, and there's a warmth in his expression that sends heat rushing to your cheeks.   

For a moment, the two of you just stand here, caught in the glow of the streetlamp. The world around you feels distant, like someone's hit the mute button on everything but the sound of your heartbeat.  

Jay's smile widens ever so slightly, and he nods, his voice quiet but firm, "I'll see you around, Y/N."  

He takes a few steps backward, his gaze holding yours until he finally turns and starts walking away. You watch him disappear into the night, the outline of his figure fading with the streetlights, and only then do you realize you've been holding your breath.  

As you step into your building and climb the stairs to your apartment, the night replays in your head on a loop—his laugh, his smile, his everything.  

When you finally reach your door, you lean against it for a moment, his large jacket still wrapped around you. Your thoughts crash into you all at once, and two things become alarmingly clear:  

You are completely, utterly, hopelessly in like with Jay Park.  

You're in so much trouble.  

“Congratulations, everyone!” Professor Kim clasps her hands together at the front of the classroom, a wide smile on her face. “You’ve survived six weeks of parenting. Hopefully, you’ve learned something useful—and that it hasn’t scared you off from actual parenthood one day. Each baby had a monitor tracking its status, so I’ll be extracting that data, combining it with your progress reports, and factoring it into your grade.” 

Jay leans toward you from his seat next to you, his breath warm against your ear.

“That’s a little creepy…she’s going to take Jisoo apart? The poor thing.” His smirk is half-guilty, half-amused, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from laughing out loud. 

This is new. Six weeks ago, he was Mr. Front-Row Enthusiast, and sometime between then and now, you’ve somehow managed to convert him into your next-row-back partner. He’d grumbled at first when you insisted about your theory that the front row screamed try-hard, but since then, he doesn’t even glance at the seats up front anymore. 

“Grades will be out soon! I’ll see you all next week,” Professor Kim announces. “And don’t forget to submit your reflection posts!” 

The shuffle of bags and jackets fills the room as students thank her on their way out. Slowly, the lecture hall empties, until it’s just you and Jay lingering at your seats. 

“Well,” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you stand. “That’s it. No more parenting lessons for us.” 

Jay heaves a dramatic sigh, his lips pulling into a pout that’s far too endearing for your peace of mind, “I can’t believe it. I already miss Jisoo.” 

You chuckle lightly but feel an odd tug in your chest, “Right? I got so used to carrying her and her baby bag everywhere. It’s weird not having her around.” 

And it is weird. You never thought you’d feel this way about a glorified hunk of plastic and wires, but now, without Jisoo, something feels…off.  

Or maybe it’s not just Jisoo. Maybe it’s the fact that this project, unexpectedly enough, turned into an excuse—a reason to spend so much time with Jay. Now that it’s over, what happens next? 

The thought hangs between you as the two of you head out of the building. The campus is alive with the hum of students, the energy buzzing around you as everyone heads to their afternoon classes. You both stop outside, standing awkwardly side by side as the silence stretches. 

No more 'Jisoo days' to plan for. No more excuses to text. No more shared tasks or inside jokes. 

Will he go back to his front-row seat, forgetting these last few weeks? Or will he—will you—pretend none of this ever happened? 

Jay shifts beside you, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flicker to yours, then away again, as if he’s waiting for you to say something first. 

“Well,” you finally say, breaking the quiet because it’s just too heavy to bear. “I have to head to my next class.” 

“Right. Yeah,” Jay says quickly, too quickly, his hands both fidgeting with the straps of his backpack. “Makes sense.” 

He hesitates, his mouth opening like he’s about to add something, but then he stops. You notice the way he’s looking at you, like there’s a thousand things he wants to say but can’t figure out how to start. You feel that familiar heat creep up your neck, the same one you tend to get whenever you’re around him nowadays.  

“Alright,” you finally say, shifting on your feet. “See you around, then?” 

Jay’s lips turn up in a small, almost longing, smile, “Yeah. See you.” 

He doesn’t move, though. Neither do you. It’s like both of you are waiting for the other to take a step away first, and the pause grows longer and longer until you can practically hear the universe screaming at you to just go already. It’s getting unbearably uncomfortable for all of us, Y/N.  

And when you finally start to turn, before you can even take three steps, his voice stops you. 

“Hey.” 

You glance back over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?” 

Jay scratches the back of his neck, looking like he’s fighting some kind of internal battle.

“Uh, you were also a really good partner. You know, with Jisoo. I mean, you were kinda terrifying at first with all your color-coded schedules and spreadsheets, but…” 

His smile softens, and his voice drops a little, “You were great. Really. I think I learned a thing or two from you.”  

Your stomach flips in a way that’s both infuriating and addictive. 

“Thanks,” you say, trying to sound casual even though your brain is short-circuiting. “Means a lot from someone who had to Google which way a diaper goes.”  

He laughs, the sound bright and warm in the cool air, “Okay, one time, Y/N. Let it go.” 

“Nope.” You grin, turning fully toward him now, your nerves settling under the familiarity of teasing. “You’ll never live it down. It’s my parting gift to you.” 

Jay presses a hand to his chest, feigning hurt, “Wow. I pour my heart out, and this is what I get in return?” 

“Exactly.” 

He chuckles again, shaking his head before finally stepping back, breaking the invisible bubble that’s been holding you both in place.

“Alright. I’ll see you, Y/N.” 

“Bye, Jay,” you say, forcing yourself to turn and start walking away.  

You make it a few steps before you hear his voice a second time, softer this time, almost hesitant. 

“Y/N.” 

You glance back, your heart skipping a beat. 

Jay looks at you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before his lips curve into a small, lopsided smile.

“Text me when you get home later tonight, okay? After your day is done.”  

You blink, caught off guard.

“What?” 

“Just…so I know you got there safe,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. But the way his voice dips at the end betrays him. 

Your chest tightens in a way that officially feels dangerous. But you know you never want to get enough of this feeling.   

“Okay,” you manage to say, the word quieter than you meant, but it was the most you could muster up with the bubble stuck in your throat.  

Jay nods, his smile widening just a little.

“Good.” 

And this time, when you turn away, you can’t stop the smile that sneaks onto your face. 

✭・.・✫

By the time you get home, it’s late, and the apartment is quiet. Esther is nowhere to be found—probably out with Heeseung or at the library pretending to study. You toe off your shoes and drop your bag by the door, the routine feeling strangely empty without Jisoo’s carrier on your arm and her baby bag strapped to the other.  

With a sigh, you find your way to your room and collapse onto your bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Jay’s parting words have been echoing in your head all day, barely letting you focus during the rest of your classes—“Text me when you get home.” 

You hover over your messages for a second longer than necessary, typing and deleting a draft once, then twice, then a third time, before finally hitting send: 

Y/N [8:52PM]: home safe 👍 

You stare at the screen for exactly three seconds before flinging your phone across your bed. You roll over, face buried in your pillow, half hoping he doesn’t reply so you don’t have to overanalyze the significance of a thumbs-up emoji. 

But, of course, your phone buzzes almost instantly. 

Jay [8:53PM]: good 👍 sleep well. 

A small, ridiculous smile tugs at your lips. You really shouldn’t be this giddy over such a mundane exchange, over a thumbs up emoji, but somehow, here you are. 

And that’s when you start going insane. You shoot up from your spot in bed.  

Why did he tell you to text him? Does he say that to everyone? Or was it just…you? And why does he keep looking at you like that? You’ve never been the kind of person to spiral like this, but lately, everything about Jay has you unraveling in ways you don’t know how to handle.

Clearly.  

You groan, flailing your arms like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“Get it together, Y/N,” you mutter to yourself, but it’s no use. Every little interaction from the past six weeks replays in your head on a loop—his laughter, his stupid jokes, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. 

Your thoughts are interrupted by a sharp buzz from your phone. You glance over, half expecting a random notification (the other half hoping Jay double texted you) but instead, it’s the one you’ve been waiting for without realizing it: 

Professor Kim: Final grades are posted! 

Your heart leaps. Practically fumbling with your phone, you open the grading portal, scanning the page with a held breath. And there it is, staring back at you in bold letters: 

Semester Project Grade: 100% 

“YES!” you exclaim, punching the air like a successful cartoon character. You’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt, practically bouncing in bed. It’s the kind of happiness that makes you feel like you’re going to burst if you don’t share it with someone. 

And there’s only one person you want to share it with. 

Before you know what you’re doing, your closet doors are wide open, your hands rifling through. Your hands land on his jacket—the one he lent you after the showcase—and something about it feels right. You shrug it on, ignoring the way it smells faintly like him (and comfort), and grab your keys without a second thought. 

By the time you realize what you’re doing, you’re already halfway to Jay’s apartment. It’s not like you had a plan—just this overwhelming need to see him.  

Because somehow, he’s become the first person you want to share everything with, want to experience every moment with, want to feel every feeling with, and that thought is both exhilarating and terrifying all at once.  

But you’ve never been so sure of anything else before.  

Your breath hitches as you reach his familiar door, hand raised to knock. You hesitate for a moment, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this is. Who shows up at someone’s place at this hour, unannounced, just to tell them about a grade? What if he already saw it and didn’t even think twice? You look insane, Y/N. Insane.  

But then you think about the way he looked at you earlier, the way he smiled when he said “good job.” 

And you knock.  

✭・.・✫

Jay doesn’t know what’s happening. One second, he’s on his couch editing photos, and the next, someone’s trying to break down his door. At least, that’s what it sounds like. The pounding is so aggressive it makes his mug of tea tremble slightly on the table. 

Heart racing, Jay tosses his laptop aside and scans the room for a weapon. Nothing. Great. In a flash of panic, he grabs the TV remote because, sure, it’s sleek, ergonomic, and maybe intimidating in the right light. 

Bracing himself for certain doom, he yanks the door open— 

“Oh.” 

It’s you. 

At his doorstep. 

Unannounced. 

In his jacket. 

Jay flatlines. All he can do is stare at you in the oversized jacket—his oversized jacket—looking like you walked straight out of one of his dream scenarios. The rational part of him is trying to keep it together, but the feral part of his brain is screaming She’s in my clothes. Marriage now. 

You tilt your head, studying his expression.

“Jay? Are you…okay?” 

He blinks, realizing he’s been standing there for a good five seconds with his mouth slightly open.  

“Uh. Yeah. Totally. Uh—what’s up?” 

“Well first, why are you wielding a TV remote like it’s a sword?” 

Jay glances down at the remote in his hand, then back at you.

“…I thought you were a robber.” 

“A robber?” you repeat, struggling not to laugh. “What kind of robber knocks?” 

“I don’t know, maybe a polite one!” 

You let out a giggle and shrug, “Fair enough. But anyway, I’m here because—did you see?” 

“See what?” He frowns, confused, and still recovering from his adrenaline rush. 

“Professor Kim posted our grades! We got a 100%!” 

Jay stares at you for a second before the words sink in.

“Wait—what? We got a hundred?” 

“Yes!” You’re practically bouncing, a bright smile lighting up your face. “A perfect score, Jay!” 

He laughs and steps forward, grabbing your shoulders in his hands.

“No way. We actually did it?!” 

“We did it!” You beam back, jumping up and down. “We crushed it!” 

Jay’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt, but he doesn’t care. There’s something about seeing you this happy, standing in his doorway like a whirlwind of energy, that makes his chest feel way too full, too complete.  

And for a moment, the two of you are just standing there, caught up in the moment, smiling at each other like idiots. 

When the excitement dies down, Jay notices the way you’re still slightly breathless, like you’d run all the way here.  

“Wait,” he squints. “You could’ve just texted me, you know.” 

“Oh,” you shift your weight, suddenly looking a little shy. “Yeah. But I just…wanted to see you.” 

Jay blinks. His brain is once again malfunctioning.  

“Oh.”  

Oh? 

OH.  

“Yeah. So…here I am,” you add, failing miserably to conceal the wobble in your voice.  

“Here you are,” he repeats, his voice back to that soft tone that knows how to make your heart go into overdrive.  

His eyes flicker to yours and stay there as the air between you suddenly feels heavier. Charged. 

“Is that all?” Jay asks, his lips twitching into a teasing smile. 

“Uh,” you clear your throat, looking anywhere but at him. “I guess.” 

Jay leans against the doorframe, studying you with that stupidly charming smirk of his, “Well, then.” 

“Well, then,” you echo, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his jacket like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever encountered (spoiler: it’s not. That would be Jay’s face. But we’re not admitting that just yet). 

Neither of you moves. Not even a millimeter. The silence stretches so long that you’re pretty sure somewhere in the world, a Netflix show just autoplayed its next episode. 

Then, suddenly, Jay watches as your face cycles through the emotional Olympics: panic, resolve, regret, and whatever it is that makes your eyebrows do that cute scrunch thing he secretly loves. 

“I should go,” you say, finally breaking the silence, your voice quieter now. “Sorry for barging in like this.” 

You look down at your feet, hands still mindlessly playing with the sleeve of his jacket. Jay’s stomach twists at the sight—at the quiet, unsure way you’re suddenly retreating.  

No. Absolutely not. He doesn’t know where his bravery is coming from (he suspects it’s sheer desperation), but he refuses to let you leave like this. 

Before you can fully turn away, Jay reaches out and gently grabs your sleeve, tugging you back like you’re his favorite person in the world—which, spoiler again, you totally are. 

“Wait,” he says, pulling you close enough that you bump into his chest. Both his hands find their way to your waist, steadying you with an ease that feels practiced. Like it’s where his hands were always meant to be. 

And that's when Jay knows for sure: he likes you. He likes you bad. Painful highlighters, confusing spreadsheets, and all. He likes the way you carry your stubbornness like a badge of honor. He likes the way you chew on your pen when you're deep in thought. The way you turn his every sarcastic comment into a competition he's somehow thrilled to lose.  

“You forgot something,” he murmurs, his voice soft and low as his eyes search yours, then your lips, then your entire face.  

Your heart stumbles, your brain short-circuits, and you’re pretty sure your face is now the color of a stop sign. 

“Oh, uh, the jacket?” you stammer, looking down at where he grabbed your sleeve, grasping for any logical explanation. “You’re right. Sorry, I almost—” 

But before you can finish, Jay does something both incredibly bold and incredibly reckless. He leans in and presses his lips to yours. 

For a moment, you freeze. This isn’t real. Is this an alternate universe where Jay kisses you instead of just driving you insane? 

But then, the realization sinks in—Jay is kissing you. Like, actually kissing you. And wow. 

The first touch of his lips sends a rush through your entire body, like every nerve has suddenly woken up all at once. He’s hesitant at first, almost like he’s giving you the chance to pull away, but when you don’t—when you finally let go of all the confusion, overthinking, and denial—you lean into him, your hands both instinctively reaching up, gripping the fabric of his shirt to ground yourself as you kiss him back, now realizing how much you desperately wanted this.  

And that’s all the encouragement Jay needs.  

His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against him, his fingers brushing the hem of the jacket you’re wearing—his jacket, you remember with a strange, fluttering thrill. The kiss deepens, gentle but insistent, a slow, breathtaking unraveling of all the tension that’s been simmering between you for weeks. 

It’s like the air shifts around you, the space between you collapsing into nothing. You feel his breath, warm against your skin, and the faintest hitch in it when your hand moves up to lightly curl against the back of his neck. 

He’s so close, and everything about this moment feels right—his familiar scent, the steady warmth of his hands on your waist, the way he tilts his head slightly to meet yours like he’s memorizing the shape of you. 

Your heart pounds, the world spinning just a little too fast and too slow all at once. It’s electric, and dizzying, and somehow everything and nothing like you imagined (because, yes, you’ve imagined it—so what?). 

Jay pulls back just slightly, his forehead brushing yours as he grins, his voice a playful mumble against your lips, not wanting to break the kiss, “You can keep the jacket.” 

Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it, your forehead dropping to his shoulder as you clutch at his arms for balance.

“Seriously? That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” 

“I’m a multi-tasker,” he replies, deadpan, his lips turning into a teasing smirk as he leans in and steals another quick kiss. He starts to pull back again, but you don't let him—your hand catches his sleeve as you dart up and chase his lips for one more peck, light and fleeting, but enough to make him smile like a fool.

You're completely, utterly, hopelessly obsessed with him.  

"Besides," he adds, the words smug as his arms tighten around you, "I've already sacrificed my jacket. Might as well give up my dignity too."  

You roll your eyes, “You’re still an idiot.” 

“And yet, I’m the idiot you kissed back,” Jay fires back, brushing a strand of hair from your face.  

You shake your head, your voice soft and teasing, “You’re so—” 

The words trail off as you meet his gaze again, and before you can even think about stopping yourself, you tilt your head up, close the remaining distance between you, and kiss him first this time.  

Jay freezes for a second, caught off guard, before he fully melts into the kiss again, one hand instinctively curling around your waist to keep you as close as possible. There's no hesitation now, no teasing, no holding back—just the two of you in the quiet of his doorway, and the overwhelming certainty that neither of you wants to let this—this moment, this feeling—to end. 

When you finally pull back, Jay’s eyes are sparkling, his gaze holding an undeniable warmth. 

“You know,” he starts, voice light but tinged with something deeper, “if you keep doing that, I might start thinking you actually like me or something.” 

You raise an eyebrow, leaning in just close enough to make him squirm, your smirk playful. 

“And if you keep talking,” you murmur, your voice low and teasing, “I might change my mind.” 

Jay blinks, momentarily stunned, before letting out a breathless laugh, his arms instinctively circling your waist again, pulling you just a little closer.

“Noted. Say less. I’ll shut up forever. You’re stuck with me now.” 

Stuck with Jay? As in a more-than-project-partners kind of way? 

Yeah, you think, meeting the smile he’s giving you. 

You don’t mind that idea one bit. 

Now that the six weeks of parenthood is over, we ask that you write a reflection post in response to your pre-questionnaire answers we asked you at the beginning of the project. Were your expectations met? Exceeded? Any surprises along the way?

Y/N’s Submission [11:15AM, October 30th]:

Parenting, even with a robot baby, turned out to be nothing like I expected. I’ve learned that no matter how much you plan, babies (and life) have a way of completely ignoring your carefully crafted schedules. It was frustrating at times, but it also made things…unexpectedly fun.

Speaking of unexpected—let’s just say my partnership for this project caught me completely off guard, in the best way possible. Turns out, some surprises are worth breaking the plan for :)

Jay’s Submission [11:30AM, October 30th]:

Honestly? I expected surprises, but I wasn’t ready to lose three years of my life over a diaper change—or nearly go deaf from tantrums. Safe to say, I learned the hard way that being a little prepared isn’t such a bad idea.

But here’s the thing: turns out, babies (and certain project partners) have a way of growing on you. Who knew spreadsheets and sleepless nights could actually be…kinda great? I guess what I’m saying is, sometimes the best things aren’t planned. And also, I know how to change a diaper in 30 seconds now. The right side up :)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

the end! let me know what you think °ʚ(*´꒳`*)ɞ°

m. list here!

tag list (tenk u for all the luv): @neozon3nha @duckling-niki @somuchdard @jkslvsnella @jjongstar111

@haechsworld @joieouioui @zl-world @getoxo @onlyjjong

@puma-riki @e-r-i-15 @st4rwon

@jayla240 [ wouldn't let me tag you,,,sorry! i also had to format the tags weirdly to get this to work :') ]

cue all tags now...

[pedropascallme]

Teach Me Something

Pairing: König x f!Reader

Summary: “But the thermal wear was tight, hugging your body and intensifying your silhouette. Maybe it could be considered sexy; maybe part of you hoped that König would think so.”

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) p in v sex, fingering, oral (m & f receiving), face fucking, forced proximity, size kink, mentions of overstimulation, use of honorifics (“Colonel”) in a sexual scenario, dom/sub dynamics, dom!König but he's pathetically needy, rough sex, dirty talk (a lot of it is in German), creampie, implication of cumplay, if I missed anything please let me know!!

AN: One bed trope CAUSE I CAN. Also I don't speak German, so if you do speak German and this sounds like absolute gibberish to you, I'm sorry in advance <3

What had seemed like a promising respite from such a drawn-out mission had swiftly proven to be less than liberating and more of a tease.

On the outside, the safehouse looked like a cabin out of a Christmas movie—something cheesy and re-watchable that you might put on around the holidays as background noise. Sturdy, light wood, powdered with snow.

It didn't look out of place in the forested locale, and anybody passing through would likely think it was a fixture of the area; a quaint vacation home to a little nuclear family.

But on the inside, it was absolutely barebones, and that was putting it lightly.

A raw sort of cold crept in through cracks, and the breeze inched over the thick layers of dust on every surface. It looked like you and König would be the first people to use it in months, if not years.

The chill was uncomfortable, and while the fireplace would've been a delightful way to quell the chatter of your teeth, you knew you couldn't use it—smoke from the chimney could alert anybody of your whereabouts, and the last thing you wanted right now was more practice in self-defense.

There was a small armchair pushed into one corner, and the green velvet faded on the back to reveal frayed weaving. One single bed was pushed to the far side of the tiny room, seemingly frozen in time, and you wondered if the blankets would even peel back from the mattress.

The only source of light was a standing lamp, and when you yanked the cord, it flickered piteously.

Instructions had been clear, and you knew you'd only be here for a night before you had to keep moving, but you couldn't help but huff at the state of the cabin when you had spent all day on the move.

König walked in behind you with a huff; he hated snow, and he abhorred waiting in a safehouse like a sitting duck all the more.

“Mein Gott…” He shook his head, shivering dramatically.

“It’s just a little snow, Colonel.”

You could’ve laughed at the display. You knew he was overreacting; he tended to, and a man of his size couldn’t get cold very easily.

“We will freeze before evacuation, maus.” He grumbled, closing the door with a grunt.

“You’ll live.” You cooed, smiling.

You wouldn't go as far as calling him your friend, but König was certainly a welcome presence despite his intimidating demeanor. He was clever, and an effective soldier; a generally amiable person when he was in the right mood.

And it helped that he was nice to look at.

You appreciated that he actually spoke during operations. Some people—especially superior officers, you'd found—preferred to stay stoic and silent, even at the best of times. But König was chatty, in his own right.

It was clear that he liked the sound of his own voice, but you didn't mind; he could be funny, a refreshing source of entertainment on and off the field. His thick accent and less than stellar pronunciations often led to even more amusement in conversations with him.

He never spoke about himself—you didn't even think König was his real name; you knew it probably wasn’t. But it was the name he responded to, and it was the one you mumbled when thoughts of him forced their way to the front of your mind as you pressed down just right on your clit.

You made your way to the derelict bed, unhooking your chest rig and tossing it onto the mattress. You half expected the frame to collapse, but it was a pleasant surprise when all you got was a quiet squeak from the bedsprings.

“What are you doing?” König watched intently as you lay your belongings out.

“Putting my stuff down.” You looked at him over your shoulder, quirking a brow.

“On the bed.” He was just voicing what he saw, but you knew he had ulterior motives.

“Didn’t see your name on it,” you turned to face him properly, eying him where he leaned against the door. “Take the chair.” You nodded at the armchair in the opposite corner of the room.

König scoffed softly.

“You are joking?”

“Or you could take the floor,” you couldn’t help but smile; you enjoyed riling him up. “Plenty of room for you to stretch out.”

He shook his head, and you watched his eyes narrow behind the mask.

“No. You are smaller than me. You sleep in the chair; I have the bed.” He said it with a sense of finality, reminding you that he was, in fact, in charge.

“That’s not fair.” You argued, crossing your arms.

“You wanted me to sleep on the floor,” he pushed himself off the wall and took a step closer to you, “I am being kind.”

“You’re not,” you scowled, “Not at all gentlemanly, either.”

He chuckled, tilting his head to the side.

“If you will make such a fuss, we will sleep in the bed together, Kleine.”

“Seriously?” You balked at his words, caught off guard.

“Is it a bad idea?” It was almost as if he was goading you; toeing the line to see if you’d agree or if you’d back down.

It wasn’t uncharacteristic of him; he enjoyed teasing you as much as you enjoyed teasing him. He liked to see how hard he could push you when you were deployed together. It brought him a sort of contentment to see you squirm.

It was innocent, as far as you were concerned, and he knew he had the power to do it.

“No…” you decided not to bow to his prodding. “I just—are we allowed to…I mean, I’m fine with it, if you’re fine with it.”

You practically scoffed, uncrossing your arms and gesturing vaguely.

“I just…yeah. No—yeah, that’s a—…let’s just share,” you nodded, trying to reason aloud as you made your decision. “Better for…body heat.”

He nodded, and you were certain he was smiling beneath his mask.

You grabbed your chest rig from the bed and tossed it onto the armchair. Slowly, you began peeling off your kit. The thermal under layer of your uniform was perfect for sleep, and you weren’t about to crawl into bed with the military-grade fabric still on.

But the thermal wear was tight, hugging your body and intensifying your silhouette. Maybe it could be considered sexy; maybe part of you hoped that König would think so.

You shoved your clothes onto the chair with your chest rig, turning back to face the bed.

König had already prepared himself for bed, and you were nearly startled when you looked up to see his mask gone.

It was a rarity; he wore it 90% of the time, probably more as an intimidation tactic, but you also assumed it was a comfort thing.

The more shocking revelation was that he’d stripped down completely, forgoing even the thermals, as he sat on the edge of the bed in just his boxers.

“Not gonna get cold?” You quirked a brow, not at all unsatisfied by the unobstructed view of his form, but still a bit taken aback.

“It is nice in here,” he sighed, rolling his shoulders before rubbing a hand over his chest. “And your body will be warm.”

His phrasing made you roll your eyes, but you smiled just a little.

“Alright, Colonel,” you shook your head, “Sure.”

You ambled over to the bed, pulling the blanket back and frowning when you realized how thin the material was. But you situated yourself beneath it all the same, lying on your side and eager to curl up and allow yourself to get some rest.

When König maneuvered himself beneath the blanket next to you, you threw a look over your shoulder at him.

“No funny shit,” you glared, though it was playful, “Hands to yourself, or I’ll cut them off.”

König laughed lightly, folding his arms over his chest.

“I will not touch you, Kleine.” He was amused by your threat, but humored you.

“Good answer.” You settled back onto your side.

You found yourself unable to relax.

The room hadn’t warmed up in the short time you’d been inside, and you couldn’t seem to garner the warmth to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. The thermal clothing wasn’t doing much, and the wind howling against the wood of the cabin put you on edge.  

If you were less proud, you might have pushed yourself up against König in search of warmth and comfort. Instead, you let yourself continue to shiver, huffing softly.

But your exasperated sigh turned into more of a stunned gasp when you felt König reach out for you, tugging you into him until your back pressed against his chest.

“Said hands to yourself.” You mumbled, though the relief was immediate. The warmth of his body permeated the thermal shirt you donned and sept into your skin.

“Sh,” he splayed his hand against your stomach. “Dir ist kalt.”

“I’m not cold. I’m…” You tried to think of a valid argument, “I’m not cold.”

He grunted, a wordless response of disbelief.

The room fell quiet again, and you stayed pressed against his body. Part of you was tempted to grab his hand, lace your fingers with his and lean into the situation. But you stayed still and just appreciated the position you’d been pulled into.

“You understand me often now,” König’s voice broke through the silence. “You did not know German like this before.”

“Hard not to pick up on bits and pieces,” you were whispering, but you weren’t sure why. “Most of what you say over comms is German.”

“You are learning, maus,” he seemed pleased, his thumb brushing over your stomach. “Tell me.”

“I know that maus means mouse,” your voice picked up a bit, eager to share the small amount of German you had learned. “Was war das means what was that. Schnell is quickly, ich weiß is I know.”

You paused, thinking for a moment before you continued.

“Verdammt is damn it, and geh zum Teufel means go to hell. I think.”

He let out a small laugh behind you, and you felt his chest move against your back.

“Gut.” Though you couldn’t see it, you could hear the motion of his head against the pillow as he nodded.

You found the confidence to turn over, adjusting yourself enough to face him while staying pressed to his chest.

“Will you teach me more?” You asked, sincerely curious about the other phrases you'd heard him use.

He smiled. “What do you want to know, maus?”

“Will you…” you smirked, thinking, “Will you teach me more curses?”

“Girl after my heart,” he chuckled, running his hand over your back in an oddly docile gesture. “Ja, I will show you.”

He thought for a moment, squinting into the dark of the room as he considered where to begin.

“Em…to call someone’s mother a whore: huresohn.”

“Starting strong.” You laughed, chancing a glance at him.

“There are no weak curses in German.” He smiled down at you. “Scheiße is shit.”

“I know that one.” You yawned, placing an open palm on his chest.

“Fine, then, you are so proud of your skill; Weißt du was Schlampe ist?” He quirked a brow at you, smug.

“You’re going too fast—” you complained, pushing against his chest. “Do I know what what is?”

“Keep up, Kleine.”

“Kleine means small.”

“No—” He furrowed his brow, “Ja, it does, but also ‘little one.’”

You paused, looking up at him again.

“Little one?” You asked, echoing his words.

“Ja.” He nodded, sighing softly.

“Colonel, when you say things like that, I’m almost convinced you have a soft spot for me.” You smiled, putting your other hand on his chest and playfully pushing against him a bit harder.

“Vielleicht,” he moved to place his free hand over one of yours as you pushed him. “Ja.”

There was a pause, both of you taking a moment to stew in the silence and the feeling of each other.

“König…” You were whispering again, staring at how his hand dwarfed your own.

He looked down at you expectantly.

“I have—…I want to know one more thing.” You shuffled up the bed slightly, trying to position yourself to match his eyeline.

“Ok,” he nodded, now moving his hand to toy with a loose strand of your hair. “What?”

“How do you say…”

You could feel yourself shiver, but it had nothing to do with the cold, which you had long forgotten. You worried about overstepping, about saying the wrong thing and making the situation awkward and uncomfortable.

“How do you ask someone to—to kiss you?” You asked anyway.

You saw a flash of something in his eyes.

He paused, tucking your hair behind your ear and letting his fingers trace down your jawline until he could hook a finger under your chin.

“Küss mich.” He scanned your features, watching for a response.

“Küss mich…” You stared back at him, your lips parted.

You felt dazed, but it wasn’t unwelcome; there was a heat in your lower stomach, and it grew with every twitch of his fingers against your skin and with every word he spoke.

“Braves Mädchen.” His words were muttered as he leaned into you, capturing your lips with his and kissing you.

You squeaked, clawing at his chest before slowly reaching around him to pull him closer by the nape of his neck. You could feel his pulse, the quick thrum of his heart pushing against his skin almost as intensely as your own.

The kiss was covetous. He wasted no time pushing his tongue into your mouth, eager to taste every part of you; and you were eager to let him. You cupped the back of his head, pulling him into you, and he perched his hands on your waist, manipulating your body slowly until you were on top of him.

The position was awkward, but you could hardly notice when you were so focused on him. His touch was so warm, and you felt yourself melting beneath his palms; your skin was on fire, but it was a happily received blaze.

The chill of the room that had crept into your bones was long gone, replaced by the heat of his grip on your body.

You trailed your hands over him, taking in the feel of his skin beneath your fingertips. He was so large, muscular in a comforting way, and you whimpered softly against his lips when he gave your hip a squeeze.

“So long,” König mumbled against your jaw, “Have waited so long.”

“For this?” You breathed, closing your eyes and losing yourself in the way his hands trailed over you.

“For you.” He growled, pressing kisses to your throat.

You giggled at the feeling, his lips tickling your pulse point, but he didn’t stop—if anything, it just spurred him on.

“Liebling,” he spoke against the sensitive skin of your neck, “Meine Kleine. Do you know how you tease?”

“I d—I don’t tease, Colonel.” You moaned when he sucked a bruise into your neck.

“You are doing it now,” he tsked, “Telling me no hands—if that is what you want, shall I stop, ja?”

“No...” You whined; the thought of him removing himself from you now was deeply upsetting.

König huffed a laugh against your throat, straightening back up to meet your gaze again.

“Always teasing,” he reiterated as he brought his hand to your face, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. “In these silly clothes when I invite you to bed with me.”

“Off—” Your plea came out rushed and unfinished, “Take them off, then.”

He laughed louder now, pleased by your zeal.

“Greedy maus,” he ran his thumb over your cheek, “Move, then—I will help.”

You scrambled to push yourself off of him, sitting up and waiting to see what he’d do—whether you’d be faced with further instructions, or if he’d simply take the opportunity to strip you as you’d asked him to.

He sat up with you, studying you as you clamored to kneel next to him on the mattress.

“Come.” He beckoned you, and you shuffled forward until your face was mere inches from his.

He caressed your sides, and despite the gentle, chaste nature of the touch, you whimpered softly. König curled his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head slowly—almost teasingly, as he exposed your top half.

It wasn’t out of any urge to taunt you, he was just so thrilled to be able to see you bare yourself to him; to scan every inch of your flesh.

He tossed the shirt to the side, and you made a mental note to grab it later so you didn’t leave without it.

“Back,” he instructed, pressing on your shoulder to encourage you to lie down, and you obliged happily. “Raise your hips, Kleine.”

You pushed yourself off the mattress awkwardly, trying to give him the space he needed to strip you of the final bits of fabric.

He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your thermals, huffing impatiently when he realized that you had underwear on beneath the thermal layer. But he chuckled as he peeled both articles of clothing down your legs, and you let out a quiet gasp as the cool air of the room hit your core.

“So eager,” he tutted, tossing your bottoms in the same direction he’d thrown your top. “Just a touch. You are so easy to please.”

“Shut up…” You muttered, turning your head to the side to hide your satisfaction.

He grunted, bringing his hand to your face and squeezing your cheeks as he moved your head to look up at him again.

“Cruel girl—this is no way to talk to your Colonel.” The cold blue of his eyes somehow seemed to turn red hot; demanding and predatory.

“König—” you stuttered, “Colonel. Please.”

“What would you like, Kleine?” He kept his hand on your face, enjoying the way his palm swallowed you. “Be honest.”

“Fuck me,” you breathed, “Want you to fuck me.”

Upon hearing your words, he laughed, removing his hand from your face and trailing it over your exposed breasts.

“Fuck you? Already?” He kneaded the plush flesh of your chest. “We will be here all night, meine Liebe—I want to enjoy you.”

“Now you’re teasing.” You whined, arching your body into his touch.

“No,” he shook his head with a smirk, his eyes never leaving your chest as he groped you. “I will make you feel nice.”

With that, he leaned over you. His tongue followed a messy trail over your tits; circling your nipples before pressing his lips against the pillowy skin to suck deep marks into you. He treated it like a game—a meal, even, as he nipped at you, learning and memorizing what would make you squirm beneath him.

When he grazed his teeth over your nipple, you let out a sharp moan, reaching down to press his face further into your chest.

“No hands.” He mumbled into your skin, and you sighed dreamily.

“Think we’re past that…” You let your other hand wander over his shoulder blade.

“We are not,” he pushed himself off of you, forcing your hands away as he rose. He found enough balance to grab both your wrists, pressing them into the pillow on either side of your head. “You must listen when I say these things, Kleine.”

You whimpered, nodding an affirmative.

“Do you understand?” He looked down at you, “You will tell me. Speak.”

“Yes,” you nodded again, swallowing. “I understand, Colonel.”

He let go of your wrists, and his chest heaved; with lust or pride, you couldn’t tell, but it was likely a combination of both.

As he pushed himself down the bed, he couldn’t seem to separate himself from your body; pressing his face, his lips, into your skin; murmuring against you as if he wanted your bones to hear the filth that fell from his mouth.

“Such a pretty girl,” he mouthed just beneath your navel, “Finally behaved.” 

You bucked your hips, trying to encourage him to bring his mouth down to where you needed it most. But he bypassed your cunt completely, situating himself between your legs and biting at your thighs, only eyeing your core.

“Maus…” He sighed the petname, pressing kisses to your inner thigh before finally releasing his grasp on your leg. “So wet from kisses?”

He leaned forward, as if to drown his senses in you; your scent and your image, he wanted to appreciate it fully.

“Pathetic, a bit, mm?” He swiped a finger through your folds, collecting your slick, and you whimpered. “So desperate, to drip like this…”

“König,” you were whispering, afraid to warp the charged atmosphere. “You can do anything; just do something.”

He laughed at that, basking in the pleas you directed towards him as he removed his hand from your cunt and pressed a kiss to your clit.

“Schlampe.”

He buried his face against you, pushing his tongue into your entrance and lapping up the slick that dripped from your core.

You moaned, raising your hips off the mattress in an effort to find even more friction. König pressed down on your hips, effectively pinning you to the bed; holding you captive with his grasp and the movement of his mouth.

“Sweet engel,” he moaned against your cunt, “You taste like heaven, Kleine.”

“Fuck—” His actions were one thing, but his words hit you hard; it felt like forever since you’d been with someone who showed so much enthusiasm.

His gruff moans as he lapped you up only served to push you further towards the precipice of total pleasure, and you could feel yourself teetering over the edge already.

“You are so excited, Liebling,” König groaned bringing a hand up to press two thick fingers against your entrance. “Wetting my face this way, but still too tight for my hand.”

He began to nudge your hole, letting his fingers circle your entrance before sinking into you. He went as far as the first knuckle before stopping.

“Scheiße,” he cursed as he watched your cunt struggle around his fingers, “How will you take my cock, Kleine?”

You whimpered at the way his fingers stretched you; penetrating you shallowly, but enough to make you feel so full.

“You can—I’ll—I can take it,” you stammered, “Please, Colonel, make me take it.”

“Bitte…” König’s moan neared a whimper, pushing his fingers deeper into you. He bucked his hips against the mattress in response to your words and the filthy squelch of your cunt around his hand. “Whatever it is you want, maus, I will do for you.”

“More,” you begged softly, “Want more.”

He smirked, more to himself than to you, and continued his ministrations.

He wrapped his lips around your clit, flicking his tongue over you as he fucked you with his fingers. Whenever he heard you let out a soft gasp, he increased his pace.

“Probably one more can fit,” he spoke against your pubic mound, his lips finding purchase on your body again and exploring more of you with his tongue as he threatened your entrance with another finger. “Ja, Kleine?”

“Yes—another one.” You were so hot, maybe even sweating as he worked you open, but the flush of your skin did nothing to discourage you from whimpering for his hand. 

He pushed a third finger into you, and the stretch made your body contort; your back arched and your legs tensed. The pads of his fingers danced over your most delicate spot as he thrust them in and out of you.

The pressure in your abdomen was immense, but damn, if it didn’t feel amazing.

And he was thrilled by you. Every sound you made and every clench of your walls around him made König feel lightheaded, grinding himself down against the bed just for a moment of relief; imagining the pure bliss that would be getting to bury himself inside of you.

He could feel his boxers growing damp, the tip of his cock crying for you, just as you cried out for him.

“Little thing, so tight,” he was moaning, his sounds almost as eager as your own as he lay his head on your thigh to watch his fingers work you open. “Verdammt, Schatz—bitte, bitte, cum on my hand like this.”

He dipped his head down to lick the slick that coated his fingers, gradually moving his tongue so that it dragged over his fingers and up to your clit. He sucked the bud between his lips, and you white-knuckled the pillow beneath your head with both hands, the pleasure overwhelming to the point that it was almost too much.

You came with a cry of his name, just as you always did; but this time he was there with you to hear it; this time he was the one manipulating you to feel the rush of ecstasy.

“Hübsche Hure…” König continued to push his fingers in and out of you, determined to push you to the brink and see just how much you could take as your legs trembled from the overstimulation. “So good for your Colonel. So good to let me prepare you.”

You keened under his praise, your eyelids heavy. When he removed his fingers from you, you regained your senses as the pleasure that had wound itself so tightly around your muscles began to dissipate, leaving you in a hazy state of fucked-out bliss and feeling empty.

You reached down to brush your knuckles over his cheek, and he closed his eyes when your hand made contact with him, still resting on your thigh.

“You will look so pretty wrapped around me, Liebling.” He murmured, turning his face and kissing your hand.

He’d seemed to have forgotten about his previous request that you keep your hands to yourself—that, or he was too drunk off of you to care, content with the domestic gesture of your fingers trailing over his skin.

“Show me,” you whispered, the dull ache his fingers had left in your core swelled at his words, and you found yourself squeezing your thighs together in anticipation. “I want more.”

“Eine Schlampe tut es immer,” he muttered. He moved to lick up your thigh, savoring the slick that had gathered there to make your skin shiny and syrupy. “You will stay like that.”

You nodded, watching him perch himself on the edge of the bed before he stood.

You almost felt like you should avert your gaze; he fiddled with the waistband of his boxers, and you noticed the slick spot on the fabric that highlighted his need for you. It flooded you with a new wave of arousal—to want and to be wanted was such a tremendous thing.

But it was when he removed his boxers that you felt your breath hitch, eyes widening slightly in an almost comic way before you turned your head to stare up at the ceiling.

You had figured his mentions of readying you were just rooted in König being typically boastful. But the image of his cock, hard and weeping and big, as it sprung free from the confines of his boxers made you recognize that his preparatory measures were warranted.

Your mouth watered, but you maintained your gaze on the ceiling.

“Look,” König approached the edge of the bed, “Look at me, Kleine.”

You didn’t really need to be told twice, shifting onto your side to admire him; big might’ve been an understatement, and your lips parted as you lay still, just staring.

“Touch.” The harshness in his voice as he delivered the command was undercut by the tender way he reached for your hand and guided it to his cock.

You wrapped your fingers around the base, and König let out a short sound of approval. It made you feel powerful, to have a man like him by the cock, to be forcing such sweet noises up from his chest.

But mostly it just made you want even more.

“Bitte,” he bucked his hips leisurely into your hand, your dry palm creating the friction he’d been chasing, “Your mouth, engel. Taste.”

You hummed at his request, leaning forward to lick circles over the head of his cock. The sound that came from his throat was choked, stifled as best he could manage when you took the tip beyond your lips and hollowed your cheeks.

“Oh—Gott,” he tilted his head back, eyes closing as he relished the way you wrapped your lips around him. “Perfekter kleiner mund.”

You couldn’t tell exactly what he was saying, but you knew enough to know that he liked what you were doing, and it spurred you on.

You leaned further into him, trying your best to take more of him into your mouth and down your throat. A bit less than halfway down his shaft, you found yourself gagging; spluttering around him as you jerked the rest of his length in your hand. He grunted out a curse, bringing a hand to your hair and tugging gently at your roots.

“Very nice, maus,” he groaned when you glanced up at him, lips still wrapped around his cock, choking on him. “Take it deeper.”

You lifted yourself off of him, drooling.

“Too much…” You croaked out, “Too—too big. I can’t.”

It felt so conformist to say; expected, like an actress in a porno, faking it for the camera. And despite the fact that the words that left your mouth seemed almost cringeworthy, what you said was true: there was no way you'd be able to manage taking all of him.

But you loved a challenge.

“I was not asking,” he tsked, tightening his grip on your hair and earning a moan that traveled from your mouth in a breathy puff. “Put your mouth back. I will help.”

You whimpered, rubbing your thighs together as you lowered yourself back onto his cock and wrapped your lips around him. His authoritative nature on the field was always more attractive than it should’ve been, but this took the cake.

König fucked into your mouth like it was a toy, guiding you up and down over his cock, using your hair like a handle as he pulled you over his length.

You choked, spit and tears mingling on your face and dripping down his length, and he seemed to enjoy the sight as much as you enjoyed the feeling; his moans grew louder, the image of you helpless under his grasp getting him off in equal measure as the feeling of your mouth on his stiff cock.

He pulled you off abruptly, removing his grip from your hair and trailing his hand from behind your head to perch on your cheek. He wiped stray tears from your face with his thumb.

“I will cum if we keep playing this way, Kleine,” he panted, “And I would rather fill your cunt.”

You moaned wantonly at his words alone; he spoke so plainly, clear about his intentions, and you whimpered at the notion of having him spill inside of you.

“Fuck me, then,” you sighed, using the back of your hand to wipe your mouth. You took on a playful cadence, “Don’t keep me waiting, König.”

“Not waiting,” he shook his head, grabbing you by the chin and forcing your eyes on him. “Preparing.”

“Show me what you were preparing me for, Colonel.” You smirked, watching his face contort in arousal and a smug sense of assuredness.

He didn’t hesitate to climb onto the bed and hover over you, pressing a kiss to your chest just above your breasts before settling between your legs.

“You are impatient,” he muttered, “I only wanted to make you comfortable, Liebling.”

He held your hip in a vice grip, tugging you down the bed a bit to line himself up with you.

“No complaints when you are given what you have begged for.” He looked down at you, under obvious strain from his desire; his eyes had grown shadowy to the point of turning gray in the dim light of the room.

He ran his cockhead through your folds, grunting at the feeling of your slick mingling with the spit you had left coating his cock. He pushed his hips further, breaching your entrance with a groan.

Your hips moved on their own accord, rising to meet him, as you mewled.

“Ja, gut,” he moaned, “You need more—you need it all.” König kept his eyes glued on your cunt, watching his cock disappear into you.

He was growing impatient, sinking into you slowly had him gritting his teeth and breathing hard. You, too, felt restless at the pace; you could feel the stretch so viscerally, the pressure of his cock against your walls, the pain that faded into pleasure, and you craved more—you craved everything he had to give you. All of it.

“König,” you whined beneath him, squirming slightly, “Give it to me—I won’t break.”

“And if I want you to?” He queried, his voice low and wolfish.

You whimpered. It wasn’t often you felt vulnerable; guns strapped to your hip and a legion of other soldiers behind you. But now you felt exposed, prey waiting for the final act, and you relished in it.

“Do it.” You begged, waiting to see what he would do with the permission you gave him.

You didn’t have to wait long; König thrust his hips forward until they pressed against your own. He bottomed out with a whine, knocking the air from your lungs.

You cried out, full and stretched in such a foreign way. But you wrapped your legs around his hips as you writhed beneath him, locked in a battle with your pleasure.

“So tight,” he was panting, whimpering; six-foot-ten and easily 200 pounds heavier than you, and all it took for König to completely lose his edge was the feeling of your cunt wrapped so deliciously around him. “You—Scheiße, you are swollen with me.”

He traced a hand over your stomach, pressing against the bulge his cock produced, and you moaned at the sinful gesture.

He was just as overcome with lust, entranced by the image of your body squeezing around him, opening for him like a toy. He seemed so content to simply look and feel for a moment, but you grew impatient.

“König…” You pressed your heel against his back, trying to express your urgent need for him to move, to speak—to do anything that would let the pleasure spring free from the coil that had begun to tighten itself so harshly in your abdomen.

He swallowed, nodding in a manner that made it seem as though your words had brought him back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, hesitant to leave the warmth of your cunt, and you whimpered; you could feel every vein, and the round head of his cock dragged against your walls to further overstimulate your core. You bucked your hips, chasing the feeling.

“Oh, meine Liebling,” he shuddered, “Du willst es verdammt nochmal, eh?” He rumbled, drawing his hips back until the tip of his cock just barely penetrated you. “I will give it to you, Kleine.”

He pushed himself back into you just as harshly as he had the first time, and again you screamed for him, grabbing at his forearms and clawing at his skin in an attempt to ground yourself before the bliss became too much for you to handle.

“You want to break?” He muttered in your ear, his labored breaths fanning the side of your face, “Then you will break.”

“It—oh my god, König, please—” You pushed your head back against the pillows, angling your body closer to his to allow him free reign over you. “Fuck, it’s so much—so fucking—please.”

“Was willst du, Kleine?” He cooed, licking over of your collar bone, “You would like more?”

“M—more,” you managed, “Yes. More.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, groaning at your stammered pleas, and he was more than willing to deliver.

He straightened up, grabbing you by the hips and practically hauling your bottom half up like you were a ragdoll; you whined, loosening your legs around his waist as he was clearly able to support you on his own.

He fucked into you like a toy, like your body was for him and him alone to use in whatever manner pleased him, and you relished in the control he exhibited over you.

“Tiefer,” he grit his teeth as he forced himself into you roughly, “You are easy to use this way, schlampe—so beautiful. Take all of my cock, engel, be good for your Colonel.”

You couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone a verbal reply. You stared up at him with lust-blown eyes, expressing your feelings through heady moans as he pushed the air from you.

You couldn’t help the way your hand meandered from its spot beside your head, leaving its home in the fabric of the pillow to trail down your body so that you could brush your fingers over your clit while König ravished you. You just needed that little push, the outer stimulation to match what he offered you, so that you could free-fall into satisfaction.

And perhaps he’d changed his mind about disallowing you to touch—he hadn’t disputed the way you’d grabbed at his arms when he’d sunk into you. Besides, he seemed too focused on your cunt to worry about any previous demands. Either way, there was only one sure-fire method to find out.

But König wasn’t pleased by the initiative you took. He dropped you, pressing one hand roughly against your hip bone to keep you still as his other hand flew to your wrist.

You yelped at the suddenness, but you’d be lying if you said it hadn’t been the reaction you’d wanted.

He stared, almost in shock, at your hand, your fingers still grazing your clit, before practically throwing your arm back to your side and leaning over you, looming.

“No hands,” he pressed his body against yours, engulfing you, “You have not listened, Kleine.” He thrust shallowly into you, not able to stop himself from appreciating the way you felt on his cock despite his urgency in chastising you.

“I thought—” you searched for an excuse, “Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

He chuckled lowly, glaring in a manner that seemed to border on tender.

“I think you are lying,” he accused, “I think you enjoy being treated like this. You are testing me, schlampe.”

You let out a shaky, needy breath in response to his assertion.

“I’m sorry, Colonel.” You mewled, moving to clasp your hands behind your head in an attempt to show him you had seen the error of your ways.

“I do not want your apology,” he grunted, his thrusts increasing in pace suddenly as he planted his hands on either side of you. “I want your pleasure.” He smiled down at you, leering at the way your face contorted in tandem with the way your body contorted to allow the intrusion of his cock. “I would like to feel it.”

He moved to rest on one forearm above you, his free arm snaking between your bodies to replace your hand with his own on your clit.

His fingers were so much bigger than yours, and he was somewhat clumsy as he rubbed circles over you. But the pressure was exquisite all the same, and he pulled new sounds from you that rose from your chest in appreciation of the friction he was granting you.

“Bitte,” he had once again begun speaking through whines, “Bitte, meine Liebe, let me feel how your cunt squeezes. Wet me with your cum—bitte.”

His broken requests, intercut with guttural grunts and whimpered groans, flooded you with heat. He pressed down on your clit right as he pushed his cock deep into you, lifting his hips upward to create an angle that allowed him to press against your most delicate spot.

You tried to stifle the sound that flew from your throat, and found yourself screaming silently into the room as you came.

“O—oh, bitte,” König’s hips stuttered against you, his head falling back as he reeled from the impact your orgasm had on him. “Ja, I—oh, bitte, bitte—”

He let himself fall forward, crushing you under his frame—though the weight of his body was comforting as you trembled through the aftershocks of your high. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, moaning wantonly as he approached his own release.

“Engel, meine Kleine—perfektes Mädchen,” he was only partially coherent as he licked a stripe up your throat. “I—I will fill you, ja? Bitte, would you let me fill you this way?”

“Please, König,” you breathed, overjoyed by the promise of being able to feel his cum leak from your spent cunt. “Cum in me, I want it—I want it, Colonel, please.”

He growled, reaching his tipping point upon hearing your words, beautiful sounds of approval falling from your lips as you expressed your eagerness at the prospect of him finishing inside your perfect cunt.

He came with a loud moan, guttural and sourced from his chest; his hips stuttered erratically against you as he let your cunt milk him.

You whimpered beneath him, accepting the warmth of his spend as it painted your walls.

He stayed on top of you, both of you taking a moment to recalibrate and catch your breath. When your pulse settled, you took the chance and wrapped an arm around him, trailing your fingers in vague patterns over his shoulder blade.

“König,” you whispered, voice hoarse, “You’re a great Colonel, but you’re a fantastic lay.”

 He rested his chin on your chest, staring up at you. He seemed to translate your words at a much slower speed than he normally would.

He shot you a smug look when it finally clicked.

“I am glad I meet your standards,” he sighed, pressing his cheek into your skin and letting the sweat that beaded over you cool his face. “Are you tired, maus?”

“Yeah.” You couldn’t have lied even if you wanted to; your muscles felt loose, and your body sunk into the suddenly cozy mattress.

“Sleep.” He shuffled down your body, maneuvering one of your legs over his shoulders and slotting his face between your thighs.

“What are you doing?” You smiled down at him, and he looked back at you with bright, eager eyes.

“I would like to clean the mess I made.” He replied in a tone that made it seem as though his plan should have been obvious to you.

You hummed, squeezing his head lightly with your thighs.

“Mm...so the mask is really just a muzzle, hm?” You mused.

“We will be here all night,” König smiled, nipping at your thigh as he reiterated his earlier words. “I want to enjoy you.”

☆Like my work? Buy me a ko-fi :)☆

[kathaelipwse]

Mission: You || C. San

୨୧ Pairing: Choi San (ATEEZ) × Idol!Reader

𓂃🖊 Requested: Yes

𓂃🖊 Word Count: 7461 words | Reading Time: 27-ish mins

𓂃🖊 Trope: Variety Show Meet-Cute, Slow Burn to Lovers, Matchmade by Chaos

𓂃🖊 Warnings: Idolverse AU, Fluff overload, Minor angst, Secret dating, Mentions of illness (non-serious), NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

❄ Synopsis:

What started as a chaotic duo challenge on Running Man turns into something no script could ever write. With linked hands and stolen glances, Reader falls first… but San falls harder. From dessert deliveries to whispered confessions, their love grows behind the scenes—until it’s ready for the spotlight.

❄ Author’s Note:

This fic is my love letter to slow burn softness, variety show chaos, and San being the literal blueprint for green-flag energy. If you're into lowkey lovers turned “forever” soulmates, this one’s for you ♡♡♡

It started, as most memorable things do, with utter pandemonium. Bright studio lights assaulted your eyes, a cacophony of blaring horns threatened to burst your eardrums, and the iconic chant of “Running Man!” echoed through the cavernous set, sending a familiar thrill-cum-nervousness down your spine. You weren’t a stranger to the world of variety shows, your years as a solo idol having thrown you into the deep end of unexpected situations more times than you could count. Yet, this felt different. Larger in scale, undeniably rowdier, and carrying an undercurrent of delightful risk that made your palms slightly sweaty.

As your gaze swept across the line-up of fellow guests and the ever-energetic Running Man regulars, a particular figure caught your attention. Choi San. Even amidst the vibrant chaos, he stood out, dressed in a deceptively simple black tee that showcased the lean lines of his muscles and practical cargo pants. His smile, however, was anything but simple – wide, genuine, and radiating a mischievous energy that suggested he was not just ready for this madness, but actively anticipating it.

“Alright, everyone!” Yoo Jaesuk’s booming voice cut through the lingering cheers, his signature glasses glinting under the studio lights. “Welcome, welcome! Today’s episode theme is—Running Man Match-Made Mission!” A collective murmur rippled through the guests. Jaesuk’s grin widened. “Each guest will be randomly paired with one of our regulars or idols for a full-on couples-themed challenge. And yes,” he emphasized, drawing out the word for dramatic effect, “you’re stuck together. All. Day. Long.”

Your stomach executed a nervous flip. The prospect of being tethered to a complete stranger, especially in this unpredictable environment, was both exciting and slightly terrifying.

Behind Jaesuk, a massive screen flickered to life, displaying flashy spinning wheels adorned with cheesy pink hearts and cartoon cupids. One by one, the pairings were announced, each reveal met with a unique blend of screams, cheers, and bewildered laughter. You held your breath, a strange mix of anticipation and apprehension swirling within you.

And then, the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers once more: “Y/N and San!”

Your eyes widened. Before you could fully process the pairing, a figure was already moving towards you with that signature, captivating smirk playing on his lips. His dimples were deep parentheses framing his infectious grin, and the crinkles around his eyes hinted at a playful nature. You could practically see the word ‘trouble’ shimmering in the air around him.

“Guess you’re stuck with me,” he said, his voice a pleasant baritone as he extended a hand towards you. His fingers were long and slender.

You took it, your own hand feeling surprisingly small in his firm grip. “Let’s not lose.” The words came out with more conviction than you initially felt.

He tilted his head, his dark eyes studying you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. “Confident. I like that.”

☾ First Mission: Water Balloon Relay – Hands Linked

The producers were clearly not ones for subtlety. The moment the first mission was announced, you understood the true meaning of “stuck together.” Your hands were literally tied together with a surprisingly sturdy rope, San’s fingers interlaced snugly with yours. The starting whistle blew, and you were off, sprinting across a treacherously slippery field, a fragile water balloon balanced precariously between your backs. The combined awkwardness of being physically connected and the inherent instability of the task led to immediate chaos.

“Left, left—no, your other left!” San shouted, his laughter echoing across the field as your synchronized movements devolved into a series of stumbles and near-falls.

“You’re the one dragging me!” you retorted, your own laughter bubbling up despite the precarious situation.

“Because you’re slow!” he teased, his grip on your hand tightening slightly as he tried to steer you.

“You’re a menace!”

“And you’re cute when you’re panicking,” he shot back, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

You faltered for a split second, the unexpected compliment sending a wave of heat rushing to your cheeks. You quickly forced your focus back onto the wobbling water balloon, determined not to be the one to drop it. San’s grin widened. He had definitely noticed your reaction.

☾ Second Mission: Couple Obstacle Course

The obstacle course was a grueling test of teamwork and endurance. You crawled through muddy tunnels, balanced on wobbly beams, and navigated a series of increasingly ridiculous challenges. In between gasping for air, San surprised you with unexpected moments of consideration.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern as he noticed you panting heavily after scaling a particularly high wall.

“A little out of breath. I’ll live,” you managed to say, wiping a stray strand of hair from your sweaty forehead.

Without a word, he reached into the waistband of his cargo pants and pulled out a small, folded towel. Gently, he reached out and dabbed at the sweat on your forehead. “Can’t have my partner collapsing on me.”

You blinked at him, momentarily stunned by the unexpected gesture. “You’re… oddly gentle.” The playful image you had formed of him was slowly being chipped away by these surprising glimpses of a softer side.

He shrugged, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “I can be sweet. Don’t tell anyone. It ruins my image.”

☾ Final Mission: Name Tag Ripping – Lovers’ Edition

The final mission descended into pure, unadulterated chaos. The field became a whirlwind of flailing limbs, desperate grabs, and the distinct ripping sound of name tags being torn away. Betrayals were rampant, alliances were formed and broken in seconds, and shouts of frustration and triumph filled the air.

“Stick with me,” San said, his tone suddenly lower, the playful energy replaced by a focused intensity. He moved with a surprising agility, ducking and weaving through the throng of contestants. He instinctively pulled you behind him, your back pressed against his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist. It was a surprisingly intimate position amidst the mayhem.

He was fast. Incredibly fast. With a series of swift movements, he managed to rip two name tags in under a minute, his eyes sharp and alert as he scanned the surroundings for new targets.

You tried to contribute, reaching out to grab at passing name tags, but every time someone got remotely close to you, San was already there, effectively using his body as a shield.

“Let me at least do one!” you huffed, feeling a surge of competitive spirit.

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated against your back. “No way. You’re too pretty to get tackled.”

You rolled your eyes at the blatant flattery, but a warmth spread through your chest nonetheless. Your heart, you realized, was thudding at a rather alarming rate.

You and San didn’t emerge victorious, but as the exhausted contestants gathered backstage, the staff announced a special award: “Best Chemistry Award.” A collective cheer went up, and you couldn’t help but exchange a tired but genuine smile with San.

Backstage, sweaty and utterly drained, you found yourselves sitting side-by-side on a flimsy plastic bench. San nudged your shoulder with his, a comfortable silence settling between you.

“Today was fun,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse.

“Surprisingly,” you agreed, a genuine smile gracing your lips. “You’re not so bad.”

He leaned a little closer, his eyes sparkling with that familiar mischievous glint. “Give me your number. I might need a partner for a rematch.”

You raised a playful eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me, Choi San?”

“Only if it’s working, Y/N.” His gaze held yours, and for a fleeting moment, the boisterous energy of the studio faded away, leaving only the two of you.

You pulled out your phone and handed it to him. He meticulously typed in his number, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips as he handed it back.

That night, as you lay in bed, your muscles protesting with every movement and your cheeks still slightly sore from all the smiling, your phone buzzed with a new notification.

San: Can’t wait for Round 2.

A soft smile bloomed on your face. It seemed, just as you had suspected, that the initial chaos was only the beginning.

-

It started, predictably, with a healthy dose of self-deprecation disguised as humor.

The morning after the Running Man episode aired, your phone vibrated with a text from San. Attached was a photographic masterpiece – a gloriously blurred shot of him mid-air during the water balloon relay, his limbs resembling a startled octopus. The caption was pure Choi San gold:

“Pretty sure this is the textbook definition of ‘grace under pressure.’ Thoughts?”

A snort escaped you, quickly escalating into full-blown laughter that echoed in your quiet apartment. You immediately saved the image under the contact name you’d just re-created by changing from 'San(ateez)' to : “San (Chaos Coordinator).”

From then on, your phone became a conduit for playful banter. Texts arrived at irregular intervals, snippets of his day, random observations about the world, and, of course, plenty of teasing directed your way (and vice versa).

San [1:03 PM]: “Just saw a replay of me almost taking out Kwangsoo during the name tag ripping. My ninja skills are truly underrated. Also, still accepting bubble tea as a reward for my heroic efforts.”

You [1:04 PM]: “Heroic? You mostly used me as a human shield. And if anyone deserves bubble tea, it’s me, for surviving your… enthusiastic protection.”

San [1:05 PM]: “Enthusiastic is one word for it. Another is ‘strategically brilliant.’ And you were a very effective, albeit occasionally vocal, shield. Still cute though.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile playing on your lips despite yourself. He had a knack for delivering compliments wrapped in playful insults that somehow didn't feel offensive. It was infuriatingly charming.

The texting soon evolved into calls, initially under the guise of post-show analysis. You’d dissect the chaotic missions, reliving the funniest blunders and the most shocking betrayals. But as the days turned into nights, the calls stretched longer, the topics broadened, and the laughter softened into comfortable silences. You found yourselves sharing vulnerabilities you hadn’t intended to reveal, whispered secrets under the cloak of anonymity that the late hour provided.

“You know,” he said one night, his voice a low hum that sent a strange flutter through your stomach, “for someone who throws such sharp shade in texts, you’re surprisingly… easy to talk to.”

You mumbled into your pillow, a blush creeping up your neck. “Don’t say things like that. You’ll inflate your already massive ego.”

“My ego is perfectly calibrated, thank you very much. And besides,” he countered, a playful lilt in his voice, “is it really so surprising? Maybe you just secretly enjoy my captivating presence, even through the cold barrier of technology.”

“Captivatingly annoying, maybe,” you retorted, but the warmth in your tone betrayed your words.

“…Maybe,” he conceded, a chuckle rumbling through the phone. Then, a beat of silence before he added, softer now, “But maybe… more than that too.”

One particularly draining Tuesday left you feeling like a deflated balloon. The relentless pressure of your solo comeback had reached a fever pitch. Practice had stretched into the early hours, your usually patient choreographer had sighed audibly at your repeated mistakes, and the internet was buzzing with malicious rumors. You retreated into yourself, offering clipped responses to concerned messages from your team.

That evening, the insistent ring of your doorbell broke the silence of your apartment. Confused, you opened the door to find a familiar delivery bag sitting on the mat. Inside, nestled amongst ice packs, was a container of your emergency comfort food – the triple chocolate fudge brownie from your favorite cafe. Tucked beneath it was a small, handwritten note.

“Consider this a strategic energy boost. Don’t let the noise get to you. -S ☀️”

Your carefully constructed composure crumbled. The unexpected kindness, the quiet understanding, it was almost too much.

Your phone buzzed.

San: Heard it was a rough day. Remember that even soloists have a support system. And mine includes the right to send emergency brownies. You good?

You typed a quick, shaky “Yeah, thank you,” before a second message popped up.

San: Good. Now eat. And maybe watch that ridiculous cat video we were laughing about yesterday. Distraction is key.

You didn’t mean for this connection to burrow so deeply. You were fiercely independent, wary of letting anyone get too close, especially another idol who understood the chaotic demands of your life all too well. Yet, San’s open sincerity, his ability to seamlessly blend playful teasing with genuine care, was disarming. He could turn a simple check-in into a lifeline, a shared laugh into a moment of unexpected intimacy.

And you were falling.

Not in a dramatic, head-over-heels rush, but in a slow, steady descent, each shared joke and thoughtful gesture acting like another step down a slippery slope.

That night, a voice note arrived, his tone low and laced with a comforting weariness that mirrored your own.

“Just wanted to say… you’re doing amazing, Y/N. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Get some rest. Proud of your resilience.”

You replayed it, the warmth of his words a soothing balm on your frayed nerves.

Taking a leap of faith, you recorded a reply, your voice barely a whisper. “Thanks, San. You always know what to say. Sleep well.”

Before you could second-guess yourself, you hit send.

Five seconds later, a text popped up.

San: Just ‘San’ now? No more ‘Chaos Coordinator’? Am I losing my edge? 😉

You smiled into the darkness.

You: Only if you stop sending me blurry selfies and emergency brownies.

Another text arrived almost instantly.

San: Deal. But only if you promise to laugh at my questionable dance moves next time we meet.

You: Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Sannie.

The nickname slipped out effortlessly, a comfortable familiarity settling between you.

San: Sannie, huh? I like the sound of that.

And just like that, the playful jabs and late-night confessions had woven a thread between you, something far more intricate and potentially significant than a fleeting variety show partnership. The teasing hadn’t just been fun; it had been a subtle dance, a way of testing the waters, of building a connection that now felt undeniably real. The chaos of Running Man had faded, but the delightful, unpredictable chaos of your burgeoning relationship with Choi San was just beginning to unfold.

-

It began with the ephemeral intimacy of voice notes. Short, breathy messages sent and received in the dead of night, carrying the weight of unspoken feelings. Then came the hushed phone calls, a fragile thread connecting your separate worlds after the relentless demands of your schedules.

Soft, late-night whispers became your sanctuary. Stripped of the usual idol facade, there were no filters, no carefully constructed personas. Just sleepy confessions murmured under the covers, punctuated by shy laughter that felt stolen from the quiet hours when the rest of the world slept.

“Are you still awake?” he’d ask, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your phone and settled in your chest.

“Only because I’m talking to you,” you’d whisper back, the truth of your words surprising even yourself.

Somewhere between the clock striking 1 AM and the first hint of dawn painting the sky, the two of you carved out your own secret universe. It existed within the fragile signals of your phones, in the comfortable silences that spoke volumes, and in the unspoken space that hung heavy with a feeling neither of you dared to fully acknowledge.

Soon, the digital connection wasn't enough. The yearning for something tangible grew, a quiet ache that mirrored the exhaustion of your demanding lives. You started sneaking out.

Under the cloak of darkness, after grueling schedules and the watchful eyes of your teams, you’d orchestrate brief, clandestine meetings. Sometimes it was in the anonymity of his parked car, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. Other times, it was on a quiet rooftop, the city lights twinkling below like a silent audience to your unspoken connection. There were no cameras flashing, no stylists fussing, no managers hovering. Just him, often in comfortable sweatpants and a worn hoodie, his arms opening for you like he’d been waiting all day for that single embrace.

You didn’t talk much during those precious stolen moments. Sometimes, he’d simply pull you close, the solid warmth of his chest a grounding force against the constant whirlwind of your life. He’d rest his chin on your shoulder, swaying you gently in a silent rhythm as the city hummed its endless lullaby below.

“This,” he said once, his voice a low murmur against your ear, “this is my favorite part of the day.”

You didn't need to reply. His embrace said everything, and the quiet contentment that settled over you in his arms was an answer in itself.

-

Seven months passed in this delicate dance of stolen moments and whispered affections. Then, the calls stopped. A day of silence stretched into two, an unnerving void in your routine. A knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach with each unanswered text.

Finally, desperation overriding your usual caution, you called his manager, your voice tight with forced casualness. That’s when you found out.

San was sick. Really sick. He’d been pushing himself relentlessly, fueled by the demands of his own packed schedule, skipping meals, ignoring persistent coughs and fatigue, and working through sheer exhaustion – a tragically familiar pattern in the idol world. But hearing it, knowing he was suffering alone, ignited a fierce protectiveness within you, bordering on anger.

You stormed into his dorm the next morning, a container of steaming soup clutched in your hand, your carefully constructed composure barely containing the storm of worry and frustration brewing inside you.

“I’m fine,” he croaked, his voice hoarse but a familiar teasing glint flickering in his tired eyes. He was pale, shadows under his eyes stark against his skin.

“You’re not fine. You look like a ghost who hasn’t slept in a week.” You placed the soup on his bedside table, your concern overriding your annoyance.

“You nag more than my manager,” he joked weakly, attempting a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

But the moment your hand instinctively reached out to touch his forehead, your brow furrowing in concern at the heat radiating from his skin, his playful facade crumbled. His eyes softened, a vulnerability you rarely saw in their depths surfacing.

“I like it though,” he whispered, his gaze fixed on your hand. “Your nagging, I mean.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to maintain your stern demeanor, but the corners of your lips twitched. You found a spoon in his cluttered kitchenette and began to gently feed him the soup you’d painstakingly made yourself – the same simple chicken and vegetable recipe your mother used to make when you were little and under the weather.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

“Yes, I did.” The words were firm, leaving no room for argument.

He paused, watching you intently as you carefully brought another spoonful to his lips. “Why?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Your heart pounded against your ribs. The answer was right there, clawing at your throat, desperate to be voiced.

Because I love you, you ridiculous, hardworking idiot.

Because being near you feels like finally coming home after a long journey.

Because the thought of you being sick and alone terrifies me more than any headline or scandal ever could.

But instead, your gaze flickered away, settling on the messy stack of books beside his bed. “No reason.” The lie felt heavy on your tongue.

He didn’t press, his gaze lingering on your averted face for a moment before his hand found yours on the blanket, his fingers wrapping around yours, warm and surprisingly steady despite his illness.

That night, you stayed. You sat beside his bed, watching his shallow breaths as he finally succumbed to sleep, his hair damp with sweat and stuck to his forehead. His grip on your hand remained unbroken, a silent anchor in the quiet room. It was in that stillness, watching his vulnerable form, that the undeniable truth solidified within you.

You didn’t just like Choi San. This went far beyond the playful banter and stolen kisses. You needed him, in a way that both terrified and exhilarated you. His well-being felt intrinsically linked to your own happiness.

And maybe, just maybe, the fragile vulnerability he’d shown you hinted that he needed you too.

But the weight of your intertwined careers, the potential fallout of a public relationship, pressed down on you, a suffocating reality. You couldn’t confess these burgeoning feelings, not yet, not when the stakes felt impossibly high. A love like this could shatter the carefully constructed worlds you had both fought so hard to build.

So instead, you leaned closer, your lips brushing against his forehead in a silent, chaste promise. “Sleep well, Sannie.”

And in the quiet darkness of his room, you hoped, with every fiber of your being, that he could somehow hear the unspoken “I love you” tucked between the silence and the gentle rhythm of his breathing.

The aftermath of San’s illness lingered like a comfortable silence. He had recovered physically, bouncing back with his usual boundless energy on stage and screen. But something had shifted beneath the surface. He was undeniably, irrevocably smitten. It was evident in the way his eyes lingered on you during your rare joint appearances, in the extra beat of hesitation before he spoke your name, even in the ridiculously lovesick emojis he’d occasionally slip into your late-night texts.

Of course, being Choi San, this newfound infatuation didn’t magically erase his inherent need to tease. If anything, it fueled it.

“Still haven’t replaced that lock screen of the puppy that looks suspiciously like Hongjoong with a picture of your infinitely more handsome variety show partner?” he’d smirk over a crackly FaceTime connection, his brow arched in playful challenge.

“For the tenth time, it’s a husky, and I never said it looked like—”

“The resemblance is uncanny. And your silence speaks volumes, Y/N-ssi. Volumes of unspoken admiration.”

“You’re incorrigible.” You rolled your eyes, a well-practiced maneuver by now.

“Incorrigibly charming, you mean.” His grin widened, showcasing those dimples that still had the power to make your stomach do a little flip.

But the teasing was a two-way street now, a comfortable dance of playful jabs and knowing glances. You found yourself emboldened, the walls you’d carefully constructed slowly crumbling under the weight of your growing feelings.

“You sure you’re not catching feelings, Choi San?” you’d ask casually during a brief backstage encounter, feigning nonchalance as you adjusted your microphone.

He’d lean in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “Honey, I already caught them. You’re the one who’s been clearly infected with ‘San-itis’ for months.”

“‘San-itis’? Seriously?” You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of your lips.

“It’s a highly contagious condition characterized by excessive smiling at my photos and an undeniable urge to hear my voice at all hours. Sound familiar, babe?”

The casual endearment made your heart skip a beat. “Babe? That’s new.”

He’d feign innocence, his eyes wide. “Slip of the tongue. My bad.”

“Say it again.” You challenged, meeting his gaze directly.

He’d chuckle, shaking his head. “Nope. Gotta keep you on your toes.”

“Coward,” you’d whisper, a playful smirk of your own.

-

Then came the unexpected gift of a free Sunday. A rare oasis in the desert of your schedules. No early morning shoots, no grueling dance practices, no blinding spotlight. Just the quiet promise of a day to yourself. You hadn’t seen San in what felt like an eternity (weeks just weeks), the demands of your respective comebacks keeping you frustratingly apart.

A sudden knock on your door startled you from your lazy morning routine. You peeked through the peephole and your breath hitched. There he was. Choi San. In faded black sweats and a familiar grey hoodie, his usually meticulously styled hair adorably messy, and that lazy, heart-stopping smile gracing his lips.

You couldn’t even pretend to be unaffected. The sight of him, so unexpectedly casual and real on your doorstep, sent a wave of longing crashing over you. Your heart ached with a tenderness you could no longer ignore.

“Movie?” he offered, holding up a small, hopeful smile.

“Only if you bring popcorn,” you managed to say, your voice betraying the tremor of your emotions.

“Already in my trusty backpack, right next to my extensive knowledge of cinematic masterpieces. A true romantic, wouldn’t you agree?” He winked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

He flopped onto your couch with his usual unceremonious grace, kicking his feet up onto your coffee table and casually throwing an arm over the backrest behind you, his fingers dangerously close to your hair. You tried, with every fiber of your being, to focus on the movie you’d selected. You really, truly did.

But the subtle brush of his thigh against yours sent jolts of electricity through you. The way his fingers occasionally toyed with the soft fabric of your sleeve was a tantalizing distraction. And the simple, undeniable fact of his presence beside you, a calming anchor in the often-turbulent sea of your thoughts, was almost unbearable in its intensity.

The carefully constructed dam of your unspoken feelings finally broke. The words tumbled out, a rush of vulnerability you couldn’t contain any longer.

“I love you. A lot. Maybe… maybe too much.”

The movie paused mid-explosion. San blinked, his playful expression instantly wiped clean, replaced by a look of intense focus. He stared at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching yours.

Then, impossibly, his lips curved into that infuriatingly smug smirk again, but this time, it was softer, edged with something akin to relief.

“Wow,” he said, a low chuckle escaping his lips. “Beat me to it.”

You stared at him in a mixture of disbelief and horror. “Are you serious right now? You’ve been teasing me for weeks!”

He laughed, a full, warm sound that resonated deep within you, chasing away the last vestiges of your anxiety. And then, he reached for you, pulling you straight into his chest, his arms wrapping around you with a fierce tenderness, as if he’d been waiting an eternity to hold you this close.

“Y/N,” he murmured into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. “I’ve been yours since day one. That chaotic mess on Running Man? Yeah, that’s when you got me.”

You melted into him, your hands clutching at the soft fabric of his hoodie, your heart racing in sync with his against your ear. You tilted your head back, your gaze meeting his, and then, acting on an impulse you no longer felt the need to resist, you pressed a soft, reverent kiss to his jawline.

He turned his head just slightly, his eyes never leaving yours, and then his lips found yours. The kiss was slow, hesitant at first, a gentle exploration. It was careful, like you both understood that this moment was a precipice, a point of no return after which your worlds would be irrevocably intertwined. And you didn’t want it any other way.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and your foreheads touching, you whispered against his cheek, the vulnerability raw and exposed.

“Don’t let go.”

San didn’t even hesitate. His arms tightened around you, his voice a low, unwavering promise against your ear.

“Never.”

The weeks that followed that whispered confession on your couch unfolded in a soft, almost dreamlike haze. Promises exchanged in hushed tones hung in the air, more binding than any contract. His kiss, tentative yet sure, had indeed turned your world inside out, leaving you breathless and wanting more. And in the quiet aftermath, you had both admitted the truth that had been simmering beneath the surface for months, the one thing that held the power to both elevate and shatter your carefully constructed lives:

You were undeniably, irrevocably in love.

But a love like yours, two prominent figures in the relentless world of K-pop, didn’t neatly fit into meticulously planned press schedules or precisely choreographed dance formations. It was a fragile bloom that needed to be shielded, tucked away from the harsh glare of public scrutiny, hidden behind hurried corners and the anonymity of zipped-up hoodies pulled low over your faces.

So, you dated quietly, your love story unfolding in stolen moments and hushed whispers. Only a select few were privy to your secret.

His members, surprisingly, had caught on with an almost unnerving speed. They’d exchanged knowing glances during your joint appearances, nudging each other when San’s gaze lingered on you for too long, and offering thinly veiled teasing about his sudden “variety show glow.”

“Hyung’s been staring at his phone like it’s the eighth wonder of the world,” Jongho had Stage whispered to Yunho during a music show rehearsal, earning a playful shove from San, who was indeed re-reading your latest text with a goofy grin plastered across his face.

Your closest friends, on the other hand, reacted with unrestrained glee the moment you finally confessed. There were squeals of delight, emphatic “I knew it!” declarations, and an abundance of celebratory emojis flooding your group chat.

“About damn time,” Wooyoung had muttered dramatically during one of ATEEZ’s rehearsals, rolling his eyes with mock exasperation as he watched San practically melt into a puddle of adoration every time your name was mentioned. “Seriously, the tension was thicker than Hongjoong-hyung’s eyeliner.” (sorry- I had to)

Your moments together were precious, stolen fragments of time carved out from your demanding schedules. Stolen glances exchanged from across crowded rooms during music show shoots, a silent language passing between you amidst the noise and flashing lights. His hand brushing deliberately against yours under the table during joint interviews, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of warmth through you. Late-night voice notes, his voice thick with sleep and laced with a soft “I miss you” that made your heart ache in the best possible way. Kisses snatched in the relative anonymity of deserted car parks – short, sweet, and breathless promises of more to come.

You even got matching phone charms, a small, tangible symbol of your secret connection. His was a tiny, cheerful sun. Yours, a delicate silver cloud with a tiny, mischievous lightning bolt.

“Weather opposites,” he’d teased, looping your charms together with a playful wink. “But always stuck side by side, weathering the storm together.”

San was fiercely devoted. No matter where his relentless schedule took him – across the country for a festival, overseas for a concert tour – he always answered your calls, his voice a familiar comfort across the miles. He curated playlists filled with songs that reminded him of you, sending them with heartfelt messages about lyrics that echoed your shared moments. He’d even orchestrate surprise drop-bys, sometimes just for a fleeting five minutes, just to hold your hand, look you in the eyes, and whisper, “You’re doing amazing. Just wanted you to know.”

And when the weight of his demanding life pressed down on him, when the relentless spotlight burned too bright and the pressure threatened to suffocate him, you knew how to break through the carefully constructed idol facade. You made him laugh. Really laugh. Loud, full, head-thrown-back laughter that crinkled the corners of his eyes and chased away the shadows.

“You’re magic,” he told you once, his voice husky with emotion after a particularly stressful day you’d managed to alleviate with a ridiculous string of animal memes and silly impressions.

Eventually, the constant need for secrecy began to wear on both of you. It wasn’t about craving the validation of a public announcement, although that thought lingered in the back of your minds. It was about the quiet exhaustion of constantly hiding a fundamental part of yourselves, of pretending that the most significant person in your life was just a friend, a colleague. It was about wanting to simply be yourselves, together, without the constant fear of discovery. It was about owning your truth, choosing each other openly, even if it meant facing the inevitable scrutiny.

So, one quiet afternoon, curled up on his comfortable couch, the sunlight streaming through the window casting a soft glow on his relaxed features, you made a decision. You reached for your phone, snapped a soft selfie – you nestled in his familiar black hoodie, his cheek pressed gently against your temple, both of you wearing the unguarded smiles that bloomed only when you were together.

The caption was simple, a quiet nod to the beginning of your story:

“My lucky mission partner 💫”

Within minutes, the internet exploded. Notifications flooded your phone, a tidal wave of comments, shares, and frantic messages. Fans flooded the comments section with a mix of shock, speculation, and surprisingly, a significant amount of heartfelt support. The Running Man cast group chat lit up with a flurry of congratulatory (and teasing) texts. His members started yelling excitedly in their own chaotic group chat, a string of celebratory emojis accompanying their bewildered questions.

But you? You simply looked up at him, your heart overflowing with a quiet joy. He met your gaze, a soft understanding passing between you, and then he leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

“Now,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver of happiness through you, “the whole world knows I’m yours.”

Months had spun by in a blissful blur since that public declaration of your relationship. The initial storm of media attention had gradually subsided, replaced by a wave of overwhelming support from fans who had witnessed your connection blossom from that first chaotic episode of Running Man. And now, in a delightful twist of fate, you found yourselves back where it all began.

Stepping onto the familiar Running Man set, this time hand-in-hand and undeniably, officially a couple, felt surreal. The moment you two walked through the entrance, the cast erupted into a cacophony of disbelief and celebratory shouts.

“WAIT—NO WAY!” Kwangsoo’s jaw practically hit the floor, his eyes wide with comical shock.

“WE DID THIS!!” HaHa jumped up and down, pointing between the two of you with triumphant glee.

“THE POWER OF RUNNING MAN LOVE IS REAL!!” Song Jihyo exclaimed, a rare and genuine smile gracing her usually stoic face.

“SOMEONE ROLL THE FOOTAGE! WE NEED A MONTAGE!” Yoo Jaesuk bellowed, his arms flailing dramatically.

And cue the dramatic flashback. The giant screen behind you flickered to life, showcasing a hilarious and heartwarming montage of your first episode together – the awkwardness of the handcuffs, the playful bickering during the water balloon relay, San’s surprisingly protective stance during the name-tag ripping, the stolen glances, the undeniable spark that had flickered between you amidst the chaos.

Suddenly, everyone wanted to take credit for your relationship.

Ji Sukjin, with his characteristic bluster, insisted he was the one who “saw it first,” recalling some vague comment he’d made about your “potential” during a break.

HaHa swore up and down that he’d subtly advised San to text you after the show, embellishing the story with dramatic hand gestures and exaggerated winks.

And Yoo Jaesuk, ever the master of ceremonies, simply pointed at the two of you with a smug grin and yelled, “You’re welcome, Korea! Running Man: Bringing hearts together, one ridiculous mission at a time!”

The games commenced, a nostalgic echo of your first encounter. The producers, clearly capitalizing on the full-circle moment, resurrected familiar couple-style missions: a slippery obstacle course that had you clinging to each other for dear life, a trivia battle where your combined knowledge (and strategic whispering) proved surprisingly effective, and of course, the iconic name-tag ripping war – now imbued with a whole new level of playful tension.

San still pretended to be your fierce rival, playing up the competitiveness for the cameras with exaggerated growls and mock threats. But this time, he didn’t even bother to convincingly hide the way he deliberately slowed down, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he let you snatch his name tag (again).

You playfully smacked his shoulder, a wide grin on your own face. “You let me rip it off again! You’re supposed to be trying!”

He just grinned back, that infuriatingly charming dimple on full display. “You looked way too happy to ruin the moment. Besides…” he leaned in close, whispering into your ear, just loud enough for the mic to pick up, “I’m whipped. What do you want me to do?”

The rest of the cast groaned and playfully jeered at your blatant affection.

“Is this Running Man or Running Romance?!” Kwangsoo wailed, clutching his chest dramatically.

“Can we get a spinoff show just for them? ‘Running in Love’?” Somin suggested, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Y’all are making us single people suffer!” Jongkook grumbled, though even he couldn’t suppress a small smile.

During the interview segments, you found yourself instinctively leaning into his side, a comfortable habit formed over months of quiet intimacy. He’d gently adjust your microphone, his touch lingering for a fleeting moment, a silent reassurance under the watchful eyes of the cameras. You both wore matching smiles, a radiant glow of happiness that seemed to emanate from within, creating your own little world amidst the usual Running Man chaos.

The viewer comments online exploded once again, this time with an overwhelming wave of adoration and heart emojis.

Fan 1: “THE CHEMISTRY IS INSANE. They’re even more in love now, it’s beautiful!”

Fan 2: “They look so effortlessly happy together, it actually makes my heart ache with secondhand joy.”

Fan 3: “I’M CRYING OVER THIS REUNION OMG. My original Running Man ship has sailed and reached the cutest destination!”

Then, as the episode drew to a close, Yoo Jaesuk, ever the master of the unexpected, cleared his throat with a dramatic flourish, his eyebrow raised in that signature mischievous way.

“So…” he began, his gaze sweeping between the two of you, a pregnant pause hanging in the air. “Now that we’ve witnessed the full circle of your Running Man romance… should we be expecting a wedding special anytime soon?”

The entire room fell silent, all eyes fixed on you and San. The usual boisterous energy of the set seemed to hold its breath.

San blinked, a slow, thoughtful smile spreading across his face. He turned slightly, looking directly into the camera, his gaze steady and sincere.

“Ask me again in a few years,” he said, his voice a low, confident murmur.

Cue:

The cast erupting into another round of excited screams and playful teasing.

You grinning, a blush creeping up your neck as you playfully nudged his side.

San throwing a protective arm around your shoulders, his laughter echoing through the studio as you simply leaned into his embrace, content in the warmth of his smile and the irresistible charm of his dimples.

And the screen faded to black, leaving viewers with a tantalizing question mark hanging in the air:

“TO BE CONTINUED?”

--

Three years had painted a rich tapestry onto the foundation laid in that chaotic studio. Three years of stolen kisses squeezed between the relentless demands of your schedules. Three years of sleepy morning voice notes that chased away the lingering darkness and midnight giggles shared like precious secrets. Three years of stolen glances across crowded award show venues, of shared playlists that spoke a language only you understood, of secret codes whispered into the phone, and quiet promises murmured under starry skies.

It wasn’t a fleeting infatuation anymore. It was real. Solid as the intertwined fingers resting on the console between you. Soft as the comfortable silences that settled between you. Steady as the unwavering beat of your hearts when you were near.

And today, as the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, it felt as though the universe itself had decided to pause, to hold its breath just for the two of you.

You and San were parked in his car near the coast, the sky a breathtaking canvas dipped in sherbet hues of orange, pink, and lavender, the sun melting gently into the vast expanse of the sea. There were no flashing cameras, no bustling idol chaos, no ever-present entourage. Just two souls in a car, fingers interlaced, the soft melody of a shared favorite song drifting from the speakers, and hearts brimming with a love that had weathered every storm.

You leaned against the cool leather of the passenger seat, your voice quiet as you gazed at the mesmerizing sunset. “Isn’t it wild?”

He chuckled softly beside you, his thumb brushing gentle circles on the back of your hand. “One silly mission… and here we are.”

“You mean the mission where you tried to drown me with strategically aimed water balloons and shrieked every time I got within a five-foot radius?” you teased, a fond smile gracing your lips.

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. “Hey, I was in character. Besides, you wiped my sweat like a pro and… I distinctly remember letting you win that last name tag battle.”

You laughed, the sound light and airy in the quiet car. “You let me? You were practically running in slow motion!”

He shrugged again, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “You looked cute when you were determined.”

You turned to face him fully, your eyes shining with a depth that went far beyond nostalgic reminiscing. “Thank you, San. For always showing up for me, even when it felt impossible. For always… choosing me, amidst all the noise.”

San’s gaze held yours, a warmth radiating from his dark eyes that made you feel like you held the entire universe within your embrace. He reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his hand then cupping your cheek with a tenderness that still made your heart flutter after all this time.

“You were the best thing I never planned for, Y/N-ah,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek softly.

“The best plot twist in my entire story,” you echoed, leaning into his touch.

The gentle sea breeze carried his next words like a precious secret, whispered into the fading light. “I’ve been thinking…”

He paused, his gaze dropping to your intertwined hands before meeting your eyes again, a newfound seriousness in their depths. “Long-term. You and me. Forever kind of things.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, a wave of emotion washing over you. He leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours, his warm breath feathering against your lips.

“You sure?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “You know all my embarrassing habits now. The way I steal the covers, my questionable singing in the shower…”

He grinned, that familiar, heart-melting dimple appearing. “And I snore, remember? Loudly. Enough to rival a small engine.”

You chuckled, a genuine, happy sound. “I’ll take your snoring over silence any day, Choi San.”

As the last sliver of the sun kissed the horizon, painting the sky in the deep, velvety hues of dusk, his hands moved from your face, gently framing it as he leaned in to kiss you. The kiss was soft and tender, a silent promise of forever. Then, with a careful and loving motion, he shifted you from the passenger seat, drawing you onto his lap, your legs straddling his as the kiss deepened, a sweet and intimate moment shared in the quiet sanctuary of the car.

Pulling back slightly, his voice, low and steady, he said:

“Running Man was the mission.”

His eyes, filled with a love that transcended the chaos and the fame, held yours captive across the close confines of the car.

“You were always the prize.”

THE END.

[takes1]

Hi. Could you do a Kuroo x reader? She’s Nekoma’s manager and she collapsed during practice and has to have emergency surgery? Kuroo has had a crush on her for a while and Kenma is tired of him dancing around it?

prayyyying you like this one. because this felt incredibly niche, but i know u a real one so that's why it got done. also: i've got some experience with dehydration, and found it an easier plot device, so i just went with that. i feel like i hit all the beats regardless?

warnings. injury/blood/hospitals, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / very angsty, then fluff / hurt-comfort fic / manager!reader / pining!kuroo / kuroo crushing on you / reader gets hurt trope / kuroo has to deal with big feelings / kenma is a great friend and wingman / nervous!kuroo / confession fic / flirty!kuroo but it's not the focus / 2.8k words

links. my masterlist. my ao3. more haikyuu. my imagines. requests open.

The heat was getting to you.

You were slower, quieter, and had to pause often to catch your breath after standing up.

After carrying a case of water across the gym, your vision was getting splotchy again, and you placed a heavy hand on the wall. It was a nice, quiet, empty corner of the crowded gymnasium.

Kuroo had been watching your heavy-footed shuffle to the door ever since you dropped it off to Nekoma's distracted, tired players.

You had been less vocal, less silly, the way he liked to talk to you.

He called to you, thanking you, but you didn't hear him.

Your breathing was horribly loud in your own ears. Real ragged and difficult to just inhale. Your heartbeat was pounding against the sides of your head, adding to your near-permanent headache. The grip on the wall slipped, thanks to your sweaty palm, and you doubled forward.

The room started to spin as you did so.

"(Y/n)!"

"Woah-woahwoah!!"

Kuroo didn't wait to just standby, to watch you collapse. He was already moving when you didn't answer him. He just had too much distance to cover before your limp body smacked the hardwood floor.

He was first to get you by a mile-- he rolled you over and flinched at the sight of blood from where your head hit the floor.

"Coach!! Hospital!!"

It started an echo, and a lot of quieter questions. Coach Naoi was sprinting over as Kuroo, scared but steady with adrenaline, pulled off his jersey to put pressure on the gash.

"Ice!" He swallowed the wobble in his throat, "I need some fucking ice- somebody get ice!"

The matches on the far side of the gym were not effected, but one closest had to be paused because of so much confusion.

About five guys, some from Nekoma, some from Karasuno, were ready with ice in 20 seconds. Your eyes were a little bit open, you were breathing, but were otherwise unresponsive. Not even a gasp at the cold.

There was only so much room in the car. The whole team wanted to come with, but only Coach Naoi, Kuroo, and Kenma were able to.

"Back up- Back up!" Kuroo barked at the growing crowd around you as he took you in his arms to carry you outside.

Coach Naoi had the car as close as he could get it; Kenma sat in the front seat, giving him directions, while Kuroo kept your head supported in the backseat, careful to keep pressure on you. Kenma passed him the extra ice bags he managed to stuff in his bag last-minute.

Having to sit in the waiting room was much worse than holding you.

At least, back at the training camp, or in the backseat of the car, he knew he could have an active role in getting you better, if he could see you, touch you.

Their trio sat in limbo, waiting for any news.

Naoi glanced down at the incessant tapping sound. His sigh was short and bothered.

"She'll be okay."

Kuroo made no indication that he heard him, nor that he cared. His heel kept thudding and his knuckles stayed white, gripped to the sides of his arms.

"Kuroo- I'm sure she'll be okay. I've seen worse. They'll get her up, they'll get her hydrated."

It was quiet, except for the sound. Kenma scrolled through the digital schedule they had all received of the training camp, trying to answer his own questions: How had it spiraled to this level? They didn't see you as often as each other, and somewhere along the line, they lost accountability of your health.

"'S'been 40 minutes," Kuroo immediately regretted saying anything, because now he felt nauseous.

Naoi cleared his throat.

"She's probably got rhabdo. When you get that dehydrated for that long, your veins are harder to stick an IV in. It's got something to do with that, I'm sure."

Their assistant coach seemed like he understood what was going on. Kuroo looked down at his own forearms, and for a moment, his foot stopped tapping. Naoi's face lightened with a longer, softer sigh.

His veins looked as plump as ever. He squeezed his cold, shaky fingers and watched how it changed the muscle under the skin.

The door opened and his head shot right up.

He was first to stand, first to go through the doors, trailing a little too close behind the aggravatingly slow nurse.

As they navigated the winding, twisting hallways, he was living in the past, wishing, he had said something about his feelings sooner.

He saw you every day. Multiple times a day. He could name 300 instances where he could have told you he liked you, and still didn't. He thought he would have all the time in the world to. But you were on the ground in seconds, and it was suddenly ripped away, an option he might never have again.

Why would he ever assume it was just something he'd always be able to? That you'd always be around?

They pulled up two chairs next to the hospital bed, sitting as close as possible without getting in the mess of wires on the floor. Some were connected to you, some not. Kuroo paid close mind to the IV in your arm, the clear bag hanging- he glanced to your vitals on the monitor many times.

You looked not great, but way, way better. He took what felt like his first breath in two hours. He prayed Kenma and Coach Naoi would never mention -better yet, forget- his intense, and ugly panic attack in the car.

You were looking at the needle in your arm, too. Sleepy, and slow.

"How are you feeling?" Kenma asked, just before he could.

There was no rush to his words. It was for the best. If Kuroo had asked, it would have sounded interrogative.

You smiled, a precious sight for him, "Uh... really gross."

They laughed, but it was more at the opportunity, in relief, that you were speaking and aware, again.

Coach Naoi's voice could be heard just outside. You turned your head to see him carrying a clipboard with some paperwork to fill out. He thanked the nurse at the doorway and entered, wagging his finger at you.

"You're a lot of trouble, you know that?"

Your frown wasn't the reaction he was after. He patted your ankle, good-natured, with his signature smile that made everyone feel a little better.

"I'm jokin', kid," He chuckled, taking the pen to scribble some information down.

"They'll have you out of here after you get through two of those. If you look good to go, that is."

'Those' must've been referring to the bags of fluid getting pumped into you.

"No stitches, either," He drawled, halfway distracted by his writing, with just a small glance to the tape and bandaging on your forehead, "That's good, that's goood,"

He furrowed his brows, squinting at the third, then fifth page. A silly moment of quiet.

"Alright, uhh, I'm gonna go finish this b.s. out there. Keep her awake, fellas."

"Will do."

"Thanks, Coach."

Your headache kept you feeling fuzzy. You assumed you hit your head at some point, thanks to the bandages and how Naoi alluded to it, but you still weren't sure how, or when.

Kenma filled the momentary quiet.

"So, what happened?"

Again, it felt like you were guessing, trying to piece odd fractions of an incomplete puzzle together. The last three days of the training camp were beyond busy on the admin side. You had your own training to keep up with. Things had gotten away from you.

It was a struggle to get your words out. You looked mostly at Kenma, because he looked like he actually wanted to know- Kuroo looked like he was waiting to interject.

"I guess-... um, I haven't eaten, in a while--"

Kuroo looked completely beside himself. His anger was out of place over his usually calm, collected features.

"Why-wh-what-?! Why not? Why would you not eat when you--?"

"Kuro," Kenma pushed on his forearm.

One look told him to back off- he was being way too loud, way too much, way too emotional. Your passive, ghostly voice was only scaring him more.

His nostrils flared. A big, shaky sigh- he had to stand up, pace around in a circle, and rub his neck.

The fear screwing up his brow, tightening his jaw, glossing over in his eyes, was brand new. You didn't know that he was capable of a volume, like that. It made you feel horribly guilty for what was an honest, albeit stupid, mistake.

Kenma watched him walk out, angrily wiping his eyes.

It was quiet again for a few minutes.

"He cares," Kenma lightened your dark spiral with just a couple of words.

All you felt was frustration. It hurt to speak, and more-so to think hard enough to explain yourself. His demands were out of your range of abilities at the moment, and he was somehow dissatisfied? After all the work you had been putting in for the team, you halfway felt like you didn't owe them anything at all.

"I wish he wouldn't sound so angry about it," You muttered.

A light shiver at the cool sensation pooling in your forearm, and you were meeting Kenma's downcast eyes again, with a feeling that you, somehow, said something wrong.

"He carried you out."

Shock hit you in big wave of nausea. You swallowed, dry. You didn't remember that at all, and could only speculate how scared everyone must've been.

What could you even say to that? This was all a big, stupid, accident that too many people were concerning themselves with. The guilt was so thick that you were wishing he would walk back in, so you could apologize.

A lighter, shakier tone this time, "I'll- make sure to tell him thanks."

Kenma looked like he had more to say, something on his mind, but only gave you a hesitant sigh to work with. His company was enough. Thanks to the IV and the medication, you were feeling better, so you tried to lay back, close your eyes, and enjoy it in silence.

He let you rest for 10 minutes, squeezing your shoulder every once in a while for a reaction, to make sure you were awake.

Kuroo was generally very sweet to you, and you thought you had a good rapport, but nothing tangible enough to get him this upset. You chalked it up to whatever happened while you were out of it.

When he returned, you were on your last bag of fluids. Kenma had his Switch with him, so you were watching him play, giggly, and in better spirits.

It must've been a cosmic-like trade, because he looked like a wreck duct-taped back together. You tried not to stare.

"Kuro, take my seat--,"

He threw him a look. Kenma explained as he stood up, "Dude I gotta pee, I'll be right back."

They linked arms. You couldn't hear what was said, but you did watch, as Kuroo leaned down to listen to Kenma, telling him something quietly, in his ear. You desperately hoped it wasn't about you, but knew deep down that it was wishful thinking.

In his friend's absence, he sat, unsure, of what to say, or what to do. His eyes were dry from his second, thankfully less intense, episode in the bathroom down the hall.

Part of him didn't realize the extent of how much he cared about you, until there was a reason to.

Kuroo tried to hand you the Switch. It was halfway an attempt at conversation, halfway an apology. It begged something to be done, or said, at least.

You shook your head and made your best effort to be kind about it, "No, thanks."

It was impossible to look him in the face, "I'm not as good as Kenma. Wouldn't be very fun."

He chuckled, but it sounded sad, and only existed on the basis of filling empty space.

Odd, unnatural, mutual silence. You glanced at each other. Neither able to address it or ignore it enough to talk about anything else.

He was biting the inside of his cheek, looking around the room, every exhale sounding like a soft sigh.

"Kenma told me that-," You cleared your throat, "Uh- you, carried me."

When he looked at you, it was filled with an attachment you had not been conscious for. You faltered under the sudden pressure, tired heart picking back up again.

"Thank you. I'm sure it was hard."

His brow furrowed as he, first, took you literally- after he realized you meant it as a concept, or maybe emotionally, he smirked. He tilted his head a little, like he always did before he teased you.

"Well, you know I work out, right?"

A genuine laugh left your lips. His goofy, disarming humor so ill-timed, but so desperately needed.

He smiled at you, soft, and comfortable again.

"You know what I mean," Was a familiar groan that he loved generating.

"Yeah- yeah, I know," He moved to place the Switch in the empty chair next to him, and was reminded that he only had a short time alone with you. His hand lingered in the space above it, just for a second, enough for him to make up his mind.

You jumped a little at the warmth and weight of his palm in yours.

"It was."

Kuroo didn't look you all-over like you did to him; you were trying to find the joke, or the punchline, in his body language, but he kept his sincerity incredibly clear and unwavering.

His thumb rubbed, light, against your skin.

You looked down at your joined hands, panicked, chills all over your body, "Kuroo-?"

"I know this isn't a great time, but I realized-- I-I shouldn't keep waiting around, for nothing, like I was. We could die tomorrow, so like- what's the point? You know?"

You adjusted to sit up straight, getting warmer, a little dizzy, at his words.

"I-h," He looked at you one last time, taking in the shock on your brow, the slack in your jaw, and knew he shouldn't stop talking, because he'd never be able to start it up again if he did.

"I really like you. I tried to wait for it to go away. Then, I just... didn't want it to."

This smooth-talking, silly, composed guy was falling apart, piece by piece. You didn't realize his super-nice demeanor had anything to do with a crush, but hindsight as it is, found your obliviousness a little embarrassing, now.

Your voice failed you, "You've had a cr-ush on me?"

He snorted at your voice crack, but looked no less infatuated. His other hand was pushing back some hair from your face.

"For a long time."

DING DING, DING DING, DING DING--

You yelped at how loud the alarm was, right next to your head, and how serious it sounded.

A very high, constant ring came from something electronic that you were hooked up to. The source was ambiguous and reason to be very concerned.

Kuroo had a better view of the screen. As you craned, shaky and weak, to see, he squeezed your hand.

His laugh helped to calm you down, "It's just your heart rate."

"One-fifty," He trailed, his pretty, proud grin audible, "Nice."

A nurse rushed in, followed immediately by your coach, then Kenma- you were quick to try and demonstrate that you were fine, but there were not many methods at your disposal, other than waving your free hand.

"I'm okay! I'm- I'm just nervous."

You shared a glance with Kuroo.

It was impossible to keep either of your laughs down once he started giggling.

The nurse could tell what was up immediately-- she muted the machine with a half-concealed smile, then left when she saw you still had some more to go with the IV.

Naoi was a little more clueless, but saw your hands, and made it his business to not know what was going on by taking his own leave. One tiny look told Kuroo everything as he turned- the good, old, 'keep it professional' look.

Kenma stayed, waiting with arms crossed, until it was just you three again, and spoke over your nonstop giggling.

"I told you so."

☆VIP☆

@integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

my masterlist. more haikyuu. (new) my imagines. requests open.

[iwillmissourtalks]

SEARCHING AO3: A (SLIGHTLY) MORE ADVANCED GUIDE

Disclaimer: This is very very geared towards finding fics about a particular character rather than a pairing. My favourite guys tend to be popular-ish women that appear in a lot of fics but only as supporting characters so I’ve had to become v good at combing for things that actually centre them <3

For this guide we’re gonna use my current hyperfixation: Mel Medarda & see what we can find lol

1. Use the tag filter system as your default! It’s superior in every way to the normal search except for the “any field” section which can be pretty useful but unless you’re using it for SPECIFICALLY THAT, don’t bother.

You can access the tag filter by clicking on any common tag (we’re gonna use “Mel Medarda”) and then hitting filters.

This thing is SO useful! Poke about in the dropdown menus; each of them will have the top 10 associated tags for that category. For example the top additional tags for Mel are Angst; Slow Burn and Fluff because,,, well. yk

+ it shows the number of fics with those tags under the “main” tag of Mel Medarda!

2. Keep an eye out for character specific tags! Now that we’re definitely using the tag filtering system we can start actually filtering through those tags <3

Most characters will have common but specific tags that both name them and imply something about their arc in the fic. A frequent example is something like “X character needs a hug”, or more obviously: “X character centric”.

These are my go-to tags for Mel! Most characters will have a variation of this set + some others (“BAMF character name” is also a pretty common one in older fandoms) and any one of these (INDIVIDUALLY, at most filtered in sets of 2) will lead to a few hundred results. It’s not 100% flawless because a lot of authors over-tag, but a solid 80% of the fics under these tags will at least heavily feature the character you’re looking for.

3. Filter by summary!!

At the bottom of the tag filters there’s a section called search within results. This is your Best Friend.

summary: “_”

^ for easy copy/paste

What this script will do is search for whatever you put in the quotation marks and then only give you fics with that thing in the description. I like to use it for character names but it also does a pretty good job filtering for tropes — try using it for vampires lol

Doing this with Mel narrows down her character tag from 7000+ to just under one and a half thousand fics, all of which at the very least include her name in the description.

4. RAREPAIRS ARE YOUR FRIEND! Canon but only semi-popular ships are infinitely more likely to get tagged in the background than say, for example — melvik (nobody is writing background melvik). This tip only works if you’re willing to multiship for more content of your guy but it is very effective.

5. Related to tip 4: Search by otp! If you’re locked in on a particular pairing that’s more popular, you can search for fics that ONLY include that ship.

otp:true

^ for easy copy/paste (again)

This is super useful and also the main reason I don’t tag side pairings in my own fics! Also remember to use this script with ship tag rather than just a character one — otherwise it won’t work.

6. Parent tags exist! This is less of a strategy and requires more trail & error, but lots of tags filter into each other. For another Mel-related example, filtering by the Only Meljay tag would also being up fics tagged with Jayce/Mel Medarda-centric — despite (potentially) not having the original tag you filtered by. This is because Jayce/Mel Medarda-centric is the Parent of the original tag, meaning ao3 has deemed the two tags related enough to appear in each other’s search results.

This is something done manually by ao3 staff so the consistency of parent tags are a little weird sometimes.

More practically, this is an interaction to keep in mind when blocking tags. If for example you were to exclude “Torture” from your search, ao3 would also automatically exclude —

Implied/Referenced Torture

Physiological Torture

Aftermath of Torture

And probably many more.

Even if the broad category of torture isn’t tagged in a fic, the specific referenced type of torture counts — to ao3 — as a tag of torture by itself.

Interestingly, the “sub-categories” of tag don’t feed into each other this way. You can block Physiological Torture and still see fics tagged with Implied/Referenced Torture or Aftermath of Torture.

Knowing this is useful in the sense that the more specific you get with a blocked tag, the less likely you are to accidentally filter out something you would actually be fine with (or inversely blocking a general category you HATE means you don’t have to obsessively filter out every possible iteration of that thing you don’t like).

You can tell tag is a Parent Category by searching for a Sub Category and blocking what you think is the Parent. This will result in 0 results.

Implied/Referenced Torture tag after blocking the Torture tag.

Each of these strategies are things to be done in waves or in combination with one another. Casting a wide net and then narrowing it down is really important, too many tags and you end up with no results.

Ao3 has an INCREDIBLY robust set of archival tools. It’s an amazing site and if a fic exists and you know what you’re doing, you should always be able to find it.

Happy reading <3

[anim-ttrpgs]

Question about deathbed: i havent seen much about it yet but what ive seen doesnt make it sound very...fun to be alive in that world and that its like influenced by practices of the christian church during the middle ages and stuff like that, so im wondering how that would affect being able to even really play a woman being badass in that game?

Is it basically hardmode difficulty if you wanna play a woman?

I have two answers to this.

First is that in Death Bed, a woman can be badass. I’ll demonstrate by making Herr Rike, an old literary and AD&D character of mine, in Death Bed. @thepleasuregoblin @ashweather and @umbraldame can attest that she is just about the most believably badass person there is. (Despite the title of “Herr,” she is a woman and always has been. Well she’s female, technically she isn’t human and in her setting “woman” is a human-specific term while other sapient species have their own terms for genders but you get the point.)

(art by @chaospyromancy)

I’m not gonna go through this very granularly because in Death Bed most stats are rolled, start out very low, and then are upgraded one at a time by level-ups. But over the course of building her stats up to where they should be to represent her I would focus on Agility, Scripture, Dexterity, Vigor, Strength, Endurance, Arcane, and Attunement from highest to lowest in that order.

For Traits, I would get her

(this is a men-only Trait, and also one I will probably nerf before final release, but a female character can still take it, at a price.)

(she isn't actually humble, but the effect of this Trait fits her personality.)

(note the sidebars in this one)

(in no particular order)

I might also consider giving her Gentleman (Men only.) but at the moment in the game’s unfinished state that Trait has an unclear interaction with Lady.

Yes, she does have both men-only and women-only Traits, that’s allowed, it just reduces her Social Status. I rolled it and at the end of all those Traits she still has a Social Status of 27, which is fairly high.

Social Status is a stat representing how respectable the character is by the standards of 1400s society. It determines who gets to talk down to and degrade who. What the higher Social Status character says goes, and if this pecking order is challenged, that tends to distress people.

Characters who have Traits which fall outside their perceived gender suffer a debuff to Social Status, because that’s just how it was back then. Hell, that’s how it is today.

So she could kill monsters and shit with a sword just fine, the worst she would get is maybe the occasional weird look, especially since, in the Middle Ages, it was irregular but not strictly forbidden for women to practice martial arts. The super strict sex-segregation of martial arts was way more of a Renaissance and onward thing.

Now for the second answer.

A lot of what our cultural idea of what is “cool” and “badass” is extremely masculine-favoring. And while yes, swords and armor and violence are cool and badass, (I’m not immune to thinking that the things knights do is cooler than the things their wives do.) a lot of “feminist” or “egalitarian” or otherwise “pro-women” media that is historically set ends up having the message “This woman is badass and cool because she’s.. like a man, unlike those other lameass women who are like women.”

It ends up being the medieval version of that action movie trope that goes like

Male Lead: (pleasantly surprised) “You know how to fight and be badass?”

Female Lead: *racks shotgun* “I grew up with 7 brothers and so I had to learn how to play rough and played army instead of Barbie dolls and I didn’t have a mother and my ex-special-forces dad taught me how to fight starting at a young age. All that masculinity helped me grow up to be cool and tough woman instead of a boring helpless stupid woman.”

instead of, like, celebrating the other 99% of women in that time period who just did woman stuff.

Death Bed allows you to make a character that is a woman but effectively fills the social roles of a man such as killing stuff with a sword*(which is something just about every other TTRPG on the planet also allows), and it allows you to make a character that is a woman and fills all the more normal social roles of a woman while still being a very valuable asset to the party both in and out of combat (and Death Bed has a lot of “out of combat” stuff going on. It’s a classic dungeon crawler, which involves a good amount of combat, but is not purely combat and a party needs plenty of characters who are focused on other things if they want to survive.)

*and again, this wasn’t even something women were strictly barred from doing at the time.

Fencing Master: (Men only. +1 Social Status.) This struggler has +1 Scripture, +1 Strength, +1 Dexterity, and +1 Agility. Additionally, upon gaining this Trait, give him any three Weapon Special Attribute Masteries, selected at random from those he does not already have. Additionally, reduce his Hollowness by 1 each time he gains a new Special Weapon Attribute Mastery. However, this struggler must make a Despair roll any time his martial technique is called into question or disrespected, unless he proves himself. If he attempts to prove himself and fails, he must take an added instance of disadvantage to this Despair roll. He must also make a Despair roll each time his weapon is reduced in Maintenance Rating as a result of a failed attack roll. 

Additionally, this struggler gains 2x the EXP from engagements in which he fights alone without allies. 

Frightening Demeanor: (+1 Social Status.) So long as this struggler is not a non-combatant, apply a -1 to this struggler’s Attention each time their Attention is increased. However, apply an added instance of disadvantage to their reaction rolls. 

Humble: (+0 Social Status.) This struggler’s good nature is a bulwark to disrespect. They gain an added instance of Advantage to any despair rolls related to disrespect. They gain an additional added instance of advantage to any despair roll related to disrespect from characters of lower Social Status. 

Lady: (Women only. +3 Social Status.) This struggler has an added +3 to Scripture,[1] and an instance of advantage on reaction rolls. However, she must take an added instance of disadvantage to any Despair roll resulting from being disrespected by a man or woman of lower social standing, and must make a Despair roll up to once per Scene in which she is not wearing fine women’s clothing.[2][3]

[1. Sidebar] Literacy was considered the domain of noblewomen, clergy, and scribes.

[2. Sidebar] This Trait does not require the struggler to be a non-combatant. Though it was unorthodox for them to participate directly in battle, women of noble standing were not barred from martial training. In fact, a nobleman’s wife was expected to command his levies in battle should their home be attacked while he is away.

[3. Sidebar] Wearing fine women’s clothing does not preclude the wearing of most armor, so long as the visibly feminine elements are preserved.

Additionally, up to once per Scene, this struggler gains 100 EXP if she goes the entire Scene without getting her shoes or dress muddy, wet, or otherwise dirty. [gains EXP from reading literature or eating fine food and drinking fine wine? Figure this out.]

Paranoid: (-1 Social Status.) This struggler has an added instance of advantage to Agility rolls to avoid triggered traps, and, once per Hourglass, the player of this struggler can ask that the Narrator reveal to their struggler any and all traps in a room or general surrounding area and the Narrator will do so. However, they must make a Despair roll if they ever accidentally trigger a trap, or if anyone ever startles them such as by walking up behind them or waking them from their sleep.

Also, when the Narrator makes a wandering monster roll, the player of this struggler may ask that the result be revealed to them, but if they do so, this struggler makes a Despair roll.

Up to once per Scene, this struggler gains 10 EXP for being right about the dangers that lurk nearby.

Sharp Tongue: (+0 Social Status.) This struggler’s quick tongue and quicker wit allow them to wind around any social slight with the agility of a skilled fencer. At this struggler’s choice, they can cause the object of their ridicule either an added instance of advantage or an added instance of disadvantage to any Despair rolls related to disrespect from this struggler. Either advantage or disadvantage is doubled if their words are actually said in dialogue or at least summarized and the Narrator deems their remark sufficiently clever.

Tactician: (+1 Social Status.) Once per engagement, this struggler can bark out a specific order to an ally with a Social Status up to 3 degrees higher than their own, or any degree lower.[1] If the ally they are ordering complies, that ally gains an instance of Advantage to the next 3 rolls that carrying out that order may entail. However, if the ally refuses or fails to carry out this order, then this struggler must make a Despair roll. If the ally dies as a result of attempting to carry out this order, then this struggler must make a Despair roll with an instance of Disadvantage.

[1. Sidebar] This can be done even if this struggler is a non-combatant.

Additionally, this struggler gains 5 EXP for each successful roll on the aforementioned next 3 rolls made by their ally complying with their orders. 

[wombywoo]

do you have any ghostsoap favorite fics, perhaps?

boy do I....

I should preface this by saying that I'm pretty...particular with what types of fics I enjoy reading (I only like certain character interpretations/tropes/writing styles, etc) so bear with me...

These are all mostly canon-compliant, non-AUs, ones that I regard highly~

Seasons--by StinglessWasp: This is pretty much my go-to fic rec for anyone into CoD and ghostsoap in general. It showcases everything I love about these characters, in a setting that feels as authentic to the games as possible, while also exploring the depth and sincerity hidden under the surface. So well-written and paced--the dialogue and military references all contribute to that 'feels like a mission out of the game' experience. Plus, I just love this interpretation of our boys--the humor, the inner struggles, the intimacy--Wasp 100% *gets* these characters and it's a joy to read <3

Except You, You Can Stay--by Iravaid: While this one isn't *technically* ghostsoap until the last chapter, in my opinion, it's required reading for anyone who gives a shit about Simon Riley. This is *the* character study--an intimate dissection of Ghost's past that seems so realistic and grounded, you forget how ludicrous those comics really are. Ira takes such care in treating these heavy topics with delicacy and effectiveness. Each chapter has you going 'oh wow, this is even better than the last', but as a whole--it's a stunning, fleshed-out glimpse into Simon as the character he was always meant to be. And the final chapter which eases you into his relationship with Johnny is so authentic and sweet, it just makes perfect sense that they should be together, and that this poor poor man deserves some goddamn love <3

bleeding in the house of god--by revolvermonkcelot: This is a really great 'missing scene' fic, a perfect opportunity to explore the in-between moments that the game so carelessly chooses to gloss over. I can't praise Monk's writing enough--it's slick and crisp and very tasty; the imagery just jumps off the page and you can practically feel the sweat. Plus, the dialogue exchanges between our two boys are so well-timed and in-character--love all the slang and British references~ This whole fic reads like an addition to their mission flirting, and I'm all for it! You can truly tell this author has such deep understanding and experience with this franchise (winkwinkwink, this is a joke) Read it--it's good!

The Dead are all Living--by Kabbal: This fic blew me away when I first read it. It's such a unique take on the retirement trope, I just adore this interpretation of Simon as an aging recluse while he builds his home. I tend to lean towards more subtle, grounded characterizations of Mr Riley, and this really fits the bill. All of these glimpses and fragments into his post-military life contribute to an overarching love story; the scenes with Johnny are so poignant, it's like you're pining alongside them both. I love how not-perfect they are; flawed and difficult and real. There are some moments and lines that just....struck something in me so deeply. I'm sure I'll still be thinking about it for a long long time <3

Portrait of Taction--by a_platypus: Another Simon-centric fic that I absolutely love. The character voice in this is off the charts, I can hear him so vividly in all of his inner dialogue and stunted attempts at conversation. Simon is so endearingly dense in this fic, you're just waiting for him to finally get his act together, but the clumsy, oblivious steps he takes in his relationship with Soap are truly a treat to read. I love this version of Johnny too--confident and considerate, but still hopelessly crushing on his superior. It's comedic, well-written, and the paragraphs describing Soap's journal give some of the best insights into his character I've seen <3

come on, haunt me--by flyby2: This was a really good long fic that I took my time savoring. What could have been a typical 'on leave' fic instead took time to develop a unique spin on the backstories as well as throwing our boys into some wholesome encounters. Both Soap and Ghost felt very true to character, and I appreciate the exploration of PTSD and the subsequent struggles that come along with...all that. There was a really nice balance in having their romance spread across the chapters, and I can promise a very sweet, happy conclusion <3

in the mess of it all--by flowersferns: A lovely one-shot that exhibits some of my favorite aspects of these two characters. I'm a sucker for 'one of them is hurt, the other is freaking out, they are both idiots in love, etc'. There are some really great dialogue and character moments in this, plus the overall prose hits hard. Love this take on their romance--the mutual trust, the familiarity of their bond. And just the general theme of impermanence--the inevitability of what this relationship means for them--two soldiers, willing and ready to sacrifice their lives at a moment's notice, still clinging to each other because...god...that's all they have---big fan of this :'D <3

Lapsus--by Lisbetadair: Another really great one-shot and 'missing scene' fic. The authenticity in the writing is spot-on--it's like you can feel Soap's pain right off the bat. I love how smoothly the banter flows between the two, and the attention to detail and references all help lend to that 'hardened military man' exterior. Ghost smelling like flowers because of a face wipe is such a delightful addition, plus the scene where Soap is, ah, donald-ducking it in just a t-shirt with his jewels out is such a funny mental image, I still think of it fondly from time to time. It's funny, it's surprisingly cute, it's very in-character. Stick around for some awkward but adorable cuddles <3

I'm sure I have more to recommend, but these are the ones I can personally endorse for now~

[starfilmz]

close to you | rafe cameron

summary: you and rafe are together and no matter how long you two have been together, he still gets jealous. even if you’re admirers are 80% girls.

a/n: basically the jealousy trope but girls. bc i love girls :D

navigation

rafe cameron wasn’t the type to get jealous. at least, that’s what he told himself, day in and day out. but when it came to you—his girlfriend, the one person who had him wrapped around her finger—he couldn’t help but feel a pang of something every time a group of girls swarmed around you.

it was always the same. the way they’d giggle, whisper behind their hands, and act like they had some secret world he wasn’t a part of. he didn’t mind the guys; they were easy enough to brush off. a few sharp words and they’d back off, retreating into the background where they belonged. but the girls? it was different. they didn’t look at him like they were trying to size him up or steal him away. no, they acted like he wasn’t even there.

and that, to rafe, was a problem.

“you look good today, yn,” a girl would say as she sidled up beside you, eyes lingering just a little too long.

"thanks," you'd smile, not noticing the way rafe’s jaw clenched. you were always polite, always kind to everyone, but it did little to ease the tension in his chest.

he’d stand there, arms crossed, waiting for the moment to pass. but it never did.

“i can’t wait to see you at the next surf competition, yn! i’m sure you’ll crush it like always.” one of the girls would chirp, grinning like she had just made the most profound statement in the world.

rafe’s fingers dug into his palms as he glanced over at you, a possessive, yet proud look flashing across his face. he had to remind himself that it was because of you that all these girls were so…obsessed. you had that effect on people, on both guys and girls alike. it didn’t matter how many times he told himself he should be happy for you, that you deserved all this attention—there was still that sharp edge of irritation whenever you were in the spotlight.

“yeah, can’t wait to see you in action again,” another girl added, leaning in a little too close to you.

rafe resisted the urge to step in, though the thought of it brought an all-too-familiar feeling of frustration. you weren’t just his girlfriend—everyone knew that by now. yet somehow, you seemed to be this magnet for attention. people loved you. especially the girls.

but it wasn’t just the compliments or the giddy talk of your next competition that bothered him. it was the fact that these girls seemed to have no problem showing up at boneyard parties just to catch a glimpse of you.

“i heard yn's gonna be at the party tonight. i’m so excited!” one of them said to her friend, eyes practically sparkling. “i’ll be there early so i can get a good spot by the bonfire.”

rafe rolled his eyes, his hands curling into fists. you didn’t even notice them, didn’t care about any of this. you were just trying to enjoy yourself, trying to live your life, but it was like everyone wanted a piece of it. and most of all, they wanted a piece of you.

finally, rafe couldn’t hold it in any longer. as the girls continued to talk and laugh around you, he walked up, his presence undeniably commanding. he slid his arm around your waist, pulling you close, his face a study in controlled frustration.

“let’s go,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. the girls hesitated, looking from him to you with a mix of confusion and intrigue.

“rafe, don’t,” you whispered softly, reaching up to touch his arm, trying to calm him down.

he gave you a tight smile, but there was something unspoken in his eyes. his possessiveness wasn’t something he liked, but when it came to you, it was almost uncontrollable.

“i’ll catch you guys later,” he said, his tone colder than usual, and with that, he guided you away from the crowd.

as soon as you were out of earshot, you let out a soft laugh. “you’re a little dramatic, you know that?”

“i don’t like them around you,” he admitted, his voice low but serious. “it’s not like i think you’ll do anything, yn. but you’re mine. and i hate how they act like you’re some prize to be won.”

you raised an eyebrow at him, a teasing smile on your lips. “and i’m supposed to be okay with you making a scene every time some girl talks to me?”

“you’re my girl,” rafe repeated, his eyes narrowing with that familiar intensity. “why would i want anyone else thinking they can just get close?”

you shook your head, a playful smile curving your lips. “you know i don’t belong to anyone, rafe. but i’m with you. only with you.”

he snorted, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. “that’s not the point. the point is—i’m not sharing, not now, not ever.”

“we’ll see about that,” you teased, pushing his shoulder lightly as you continued to walk away from the crowds.

rafe couldn’t help but laugh, even though he was still a little irritated. at least, for now, you were his—walking beside him, oblivious to the crowd and the chaos you left in your wake. he could live with that, for now.

“just don’t let them get too close next time,” he grumbled, eyes scanning the horizon as if daring anyone to make another move.

you rolled your eyes, but there was something in your expression that softened. “okay, rafe. i’ll try. but i can’t promise anything.”

“yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but the smile tugging at his lips said it all. for now, at least, he had you all to himself. and that, for him, was more than enough.

[wisecura]

Closer

College AU: somewhat enemies to lovers/fwb

Katsuki Bakugo x f!reader 3.3k

Summary: as long as you’ve known him, Bakugo has been your least favorite person. He’s loud, arrogant, and you’re his favorite target to mess with. And how you ended up at the same frat party, on the same night, in the same closet—you’ll never know.

Warnings: enemies to lovers trope, ex boyfriend, you aren’t completely aware how he feels, you hate him, semi-public sex, fingering, kissing, choking, degradation, belittling, pet names, not so nice names, your horny, aren’t we all?, breeding, claiming, jealousy, did I miss anything?

AN: Am I putting off my Sheets series to write another short fan fic? yes. Is that a bad thing? maybe. Should I stop?...*huffs indignantly* no.

Needed a change of pace for a minute so thank you for reading! This is entirely educational for me. I’m still new to writing and need a better grasp on writing out these scenarios and scenes. Thank you for giving this a shot and let me know how it is! Sorry if the proofread is a bit off!

The look in his eye was downright nasty.

Nothing short of plain cruel as he glared down at you.

How on earth you found yourself stuck in a damn near locker-sized closet was a mystery. And how you managed to find yourself squished against your absolute least favorite person, Katsuki Bakugo, was a goddamn anomaly.

“Can you get the hell off my foot-“ You shush him quickly, your ear peeled to the door.

“Don’t shush me. You’re the one who dragged me in here like a damn lunatic. You wanna play seven minutes that badly?”

You glare up at him in the dim closet, his stupid cocky smirk barely visible in the sliver of light from the cracks in the door. He was so smug it was almost unbearable standing this close to him. You’re already kicking yourself for acting so impulsively. Your voice hushes out in a whisper-“Oh, please. I’d rather be stuck in here with a rabid raccoon than you.”

“Tch, you’re practically clinging to me right now. You sure about that, princess?”

Your cheeks flush as you realize just how close you actually are to him, your chest brushing against his every time you breathe. The cramped space offers no room to move away, and his broad shoulders make it feel even smaller. “I’m not clinging to you, you idiot! There’s no fucking room in here to not be touching you.”

He chuckles lowly. The sound reverberating in his chest. You don’t know if it’s the stale beer running through your system or the fact that you hadn’t gotten laid in two months. It’s annoyingly attractive, and you hate the flush that settles across you face. Sure he was handsome as hell—6’2, chiseled body, handsomely sharp features. Deep red eyes that drew you in and that windswept blonde hair. And of course—what ruined everything for you—that mouth.

“Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.” Words dripping with a condescension that he reserved solely for you.

And those fucking pet names—You’re about to snap back when you hear the muffled sound of voices outside the closet. Your heart jumps into your throat as one of them catches your attention—it’s your ex. Just the one person you were trying to avoid. He was chatting with someone but it was muffled—“Yeah, I swear I saw her come upstairs. Someone said she'd be here tonight.”

Your blood runs cold, and your fingers instinctively clench at his chest. You lean in closer to hear him through the door. Bakugo stiffens at first, at your somehow closer proximity, then leans down slightly so his lips are near your ear.

“What? you scared—“ your hand covers his mouth in milliseconds. Effectively shutting up the loud mouthed blonde.

He manages to understand your wordless request…but his breath is so warm against your skin, and you curse yourself for the way it sends shivers down your spine. He notices, of course—because of course he does—and his grin turns downright wicked. In hushed tones—

“Relax, princess. He’s not gonna find you. Though if he does, this’ll be one hell of a misunderstanding, yeah?”

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah? And you’re a real pain in the ass, but here I am, letting you feel me up like your life depends on it.”

You want to shove him, tell him off, something—but the voices outside the closet are coming closer and closer. You press yourself back against the opposite wall, but only at expense of your stability. Those fucking heels that you insisted on wearing tonight almost took you out. Fortunately, Bakugo managed to steady you. And unfortunately, you now have to feel every inch of his chest pressed that much more against you. His hands now grip your waist tightly, and your almost flush with him. “Careful now. You’re starting to look a little flustered there.”

“I’m not flustered. I’m annoyed.”

“Sure, that’s what that is.” You hear your ex speak again, his voice laced with thinly veiled frustration. Now sounding right outside the door. “Where the hell is she? Did she sneak out or something?”

You hold your breath, your heart hammering in your chest as his footsteps pause. Bakugo notices, his teasing demeanor shifting slightly as his gaze flicks to a sliver in the door. For a moment, he looks almost serious. Before long, the footsteps retreat, and your ex’s voice fades as he heads back downstairs. You can hear his laugh echoing the hall.

The silence in the closet was deafening. You realize you’re still leaning against him as you attempt to move back. You don’t get far though, your legs are basically tangled at this point. Trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

“Don’t. Say. A word.”

Bakugo leans back against the wall, and you know he’s about to push every button you have. This was an awkward situation to be in. And all by your own doing.

“What, about how you were clinging to me like I’m your knight in shining armor? Or how red your face is right now?”

“I swear to god, I hate you.”

He pauses for a second. “Seriously, what’s his deal, though? Why the hell is he looking for you so damn bad? Thought you two were done.”

You glance up at him, your head spinning. The buzz you had was still going—not enough to consider yourself drunk, but enough to make the cramped closet feel warmer than it should be. His sharp crimson eyes are locked on you, his expression a little too serious. Once again he just looked pissed off. You have the mind to feel embarrassed about the situation. The two of you were never close, arguing more than anything.

“I don’t know. He’s…weird like that. He doesn’t like losing, even when he doesn’t actually want me.”

“Tch. Sounds about right. He’s always been a piece of shit.”

Your eyes narrow at him, even though deep down you know he’s right. His abrasive and blunt nature always grated on your nerves. Though there’s something about hearing it now, in this moment, that makes it hit differently. You'd never been one to back down from one of the many fights you shared with him.

“Oh, and you’re so much better? You’ve never been nice to me once, Bakugo.”

He snorts. “Yeah, maybe I’m not nice. But at least I’m not out there screwing around behind your back. You sure know how to pick 'em.”

His words sting and you feel your brows furrowing. You open your mouth to spew the nastiest insult on your tongue, yet before you can get it out, he leans in just enough to make the cramped closet feel all the more smaller. Now sporting some heavy bedroom eyes, his smug looking face come within inches of yours.

“Do you ever close that damn mouth of yours? That’s probably the real reason you and that asshole aren’t together anymore.”

Irritation bubbling over—half from indignation, half from the way his voice drops lower, rougher, like he’s daring you to argue. Why this turns you on so much, you aren’t sure. You felt your thighs clench slightly. Tying to steady your breathing.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to talk so much if you weren’t always such a jackass!”

You expect him to snap back, to argue, to yell—but instead, he tilts his head, his smirk widening. Knowing. He shifts against you, spreading out all the more, making you hyper-aware of just how close he is. Your heart pounds, the buzz of alcohol mixing with you shit sense of judgement.

Then it happens—you feel his leg between yours, grazing high up on your inner thigh, and a small, involuntary whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it.

Your hand shoots up to your mouth in horror. Embarrassment washing through your very being. The sound hangs in the air, and you instantly wish you could take it back. His eyes widen slightly, obviously a little surprised, before narrowing again. Of course, he leans into it, the teasing his smirk turning downright predatory.

“What the hell was that, princess?”

Your face burns, and you try to turn away, but there’s nowhere to go in the tiny closet. He pulls you closer, the balance on your heels easily teetering you towards him. You try and scramble off his chest—out of the closet, embarrassed and unnervingly needy. But he pulls you towards him again, your hands planted on his chest. You sure as hell couldn't stand the thought of him being the one to throw you a bone tonight. His voice dropping to a taunting whisper.

“Now—hey, hey, where you goin? You just whimper for me? Never thought I’d hear you make a sound like that.”

“I—I didn’t—shut up! and let go!” You hate how breathless you sound. The warmth of his body between your legs was overwhelming, and every inch of space between you feels like too much. You really fucking hated him. Yet the way he looked tonight was so tempting. But that was just the alcohol talkin.

“Nah, I don’t think I will. Not when you’re lookin' at me like that.”

You try to look anywhere but at him, but there’s not much to see in a dim closet, is there? He leans in just enough that his lips are inches from your ear, his voice a low rumble that makes your knees weak. Thank god he was holding you up, right?

“Guess you’re not as tough as you like to act, huh? Or maybe…you just like being put you in your place.”

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words die in your throat as his hand brushes up your side, slow and deliberate, groping you above your dress. He’s toying with you, and the bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s infuriating how your body betrays you, leaning into his touch. Your fingers grip at his shirt. Your pussy clenching around nothing. His head is firmly planted in the crevice of your neck now, in a far too intimate gesture.

“What’s it gonna be, princess? You gonna tell me to stop? Or are you gonna admit you don’t hate me as much as you think you do?”

You don’t have a second to answer as he nips at you, trailing small kisses in his wake. You feel your hands tremble as you wrap your arms around his neck. You pull him closer.

Bakugo's grip tightens on your waist as you lean into him involuntarily. His cock twitches at the feeling of you pressed against him, as he grinds himself into your sopping core. Your hitched dress making it all the easier. “At least she seems to like me.”

You gasp at the sudden intrusion of his fingers rubbing you through your panties, your eyes rolling back as he expertly plays with your clit. His lips continue their bruising pace, sucking, marking, biting until he finally captures your lips in a brutal all consuming kiss. You whimper against his lips, the punishing pace on your clit has your head spinning. He pulls back, a wet string connecting your lips.

"Fuck you're so wet for me already. Practically drippin'."

He pulls his fingers back, dragging them across his lips, sucking you down till he was clean. His eyes remain on your dazed expression. Yours trail the movement, absolutely feral, practically begging for more. It’s been to long.

"'N you taste so fuckin' good too." His gaze darkened as he watched your hips move against him, seeking some kind of friction. You could feel the heat through his clothes, his dick pressed right up against you. You so badly wanted it inside you—your mouth, your tight hole, hell—anywhere.You couldn’t help but be angry at the loss of his fingers.

"Such a needy little thing. Mmm princess, you're killing me.” You all but whimper at his words, and his restraint snaps. With a damn near animalistic growl, he pins you back against the wall, effectively caging you in place. His head dips, capturing your lips again in another hungry kiss while his free hand hikes your dress up further. He all but rips your panties off, the loud ripping of fabric echoes in the confined space.

You barely notice him slotting them into his pocket, as his fingers finally delve into your slickened folds. His cocked throbbed almost painfully in his pants as you completely melt against him.

You moan against his lips as his fingers slide into your slick heat, a filthy sound escaping you as he starts pumping them in and out roughly. He curls his fingers inside of you, hitting that sweet spot that makes you tremble and whimper even more. He feels your walls tighten around his digits, your body begging for release. He pulls away, looking down at your flushed face, heavy breaths fogging the air between you.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" Instead of any coherent response, you let out a needy whimper, trying to avoid giving him the satisfaction of you begging. As if his fingers weren't knuckle deep in your cunt, making you light headed. As if he weren't inches from giving you the best orgasm you've had all year.

"Not good enough, princess. Tell me how much you want my cock inside you." He nibbles your earlobe, his fingers increasing their pace, pushing you closer to the edge. He was being mean. You know he's just taunting you. But you hated the way his words made you gush.

He could obviously feel your body tensing up, he knew you were close. But you know he won't let you come until you said what he wanted. He bites down harder on your earlobe, eliciting a yelp from you. His other hand grips your hip tightly, steadying you as he thrusts his fingers in deeper. Your slick coating his hand, dripping down your thigh. "Say it," he growls, his voice low and demanding. Your body writhes against his touch, your whimpers and whines picking up. "Come on. You know you want to. Beg me to fill you up." You getting wetter and wetter, gushing around his fingers as they slid in and out effortlessly.

"Please Katsuki…fuck me…please…" Finally, rewarded with your broken plea, he smirks triumphantly before pulling his fingers out of you, leaving you damn near foaming at the mouth.

"About time," He growls, savoring the sweet sound of your desperate panting before he roughly pushes your legs further apart, hiking one leg up. His fingers bruising your thigh, spreading you open for him. His fingers are replaced by something far better—his hard cock. His head falls back with a strangled moan leaving his lips when he finally buries himself in your sloppy cunt. Bakugo doesn't take his time, no, he fucks you like he owns you.

Hard and fast, like a man starved. His movements are rough and animalistic, his hips slamming into yours with groans and grunts of his own. You're sure people outside can hear you, even over the loud music. But you're so cock-drunk, mind hazy that you don't really fucking care who hears you—you just want him.

"You're so goddamn tight, princess." He mutters, his voice husky, and sounding almost impressed. You let out a choked moan, nails digging into his shoulders. He grasps your hip roughly, his pace picking up. Thrusting deeper, faster, harder, until all you can hear are your wet squelches filling the closet. Your tight little pussy clenching around him like a vice. He groans against your neck, teeth digging into the tender flesh.

"Such a greedy little slut, aren't you?" You aren't able to respond—his cock bullying your cervix at every thrust, oh so deliciously. Each word bringing you closer and closer, as you practically drool at the thought of his cum buried into you. You meet his thrust with your own small grinds as he gives you another throaty moan. "Oh fuck yes—" His grip on you tightens, sure to bruise indents forming under his fingertips, as he drives his fat cock into you g-spot repeatedly. "Is this what you wanted? Wanted my big cock to full you up?" thrusting harder with each word. "Fucking needy little thing, you wanna cum for me?" His hand winds up to wrap around your neck, as you clench harder around him. He hisses at the feeling, "Or should I just leave you unsatisfied like that worthless ex of yours?" He smirks down at you and you cant help the gasps coming from your wet lips. "He ever make you this wet, sweetheart? You ever had such a good cock?" You shake your head, quickly, always eager to please.

"No, I fucking thought so." His tone drips with satisfaction. He thrust into you with a brutal ferocity, clearly enjoying the way you whimper and squirm under his touch. "You always did have shit taste in men." His grip tightens on your neck, not enough to suffocate you, but enough to make you gasp and dip your nails in deeper. "But that ends now, princess." He growls against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "I'm gonna be the only one fucking you like this from now on. You hear me? Should I tell you what I'm going to do to you? How I'm going to fill you up—make you mine?" His words are hot against your ear, his breath fanning over your flushed skin. That dick hitting every sweet spot that makes you see stars. "Or maybe I’ll just show you."

His fell grip on your neck tightens just a fraction, making it more difficult to breathe as he slams into you even harder. You hear people in the hallway, but he doesn't seem to care. "I'm gonna fuck you so good you won’t even remember your own name, let alone his." His words boarded on venomous, and if you didn’t know any better—you’d say he was jealous. His hips grind against yours in a punishing rhythm. "Then I'm gonna cum inside you, fill you up with my seed." His voice drops to a low growl as he whispers his intentions into your ear. "I'm gonna breed you. Make you mine." He can feel you tensing around him, your orgasm building fast. "Say it, princess. Say you want me to breed you." He thrusts his fingers into your mouth, coated in your own juices. "Say you want my cum inside you."

"Please, Katsuki…fuck, please, please cum inside me…breed me—" he lets out a low groan at that. "Such a good girl, so fucking good for me." That's all the encouragement he needs. With a growl, he slams into you one last time, his cock pulsing as he fills you up, long streams of curses filling the small space, telling you to take it, take it, sucha good girl. Your walls contracting around him, milking him dry as your orgasm crashes over you, spasming around his cock. His grip on your neck loosens slightly as he pulls back, watching as you ride out your climax. Your eyes are glazed over, mouth open as you try to catch your breath.

"Fuck, princess. That was…goddamn." He pants, resting his forehead against yours. For a brief moment, his expression softens, but it's gone as fast as it appeared. He withdraws from you slowly, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. You can feel his cum pooling between your legs, dripping down. He reaches down, pushing it back up into you, plugging you up.

"Mmm, look at you. Such a mess for me." He says, voice low and husky, before leaning in and licking a long, possessive stripe on your neck. His body pressing in against yours. Your cheeks ignite at the intimate gesture. It’s felt too—too intimate now. Too much. You finally have some clarity at the situation, "Hey, uhm—" and suddenly there was a knock. Both of your eyes shoot wide open in panic. Bakugo straightens up, pulling himself back leaving you cold, before tucking himself back into his pants. You watch in mortification, tugging your dress back over you legs. You panties missing—somewhere.

Fuck

come home

[sbcdh]

In order to foster adoption of commercial analogue phone technology in the 1960s, telecommunications companies were engaged in a PR race to be the first into every American home. Bell Systems found a novel approach in publishing their internal schematics as a monthly technology newsletter.

The practice did well, attracting the attention of both home technology hobbyists and government officials alike. Bell Systems phone technology was marketed with a no-nonsense, wave-of-the-future attitude. Tomorrow was here, and it could be purchased at a convenient retail outlet.

An unintended side effect of the practice was the subculture now known as Phone Phreaking, some of histories first hackers.

The accessibility of blueprints and technical specifications, along with detailed descriptions of the analogue communication network allowed phreaks to do everything from eavesdrop on conversations, to evading charges for calls, to the creation of false identities.

Phreaking was, naturally, a rewarding pastime for those with sensitive hearing. Additionally, Phreaking something that could be done without the need of eyes. It is rarely stated in many historical accounts of Phreaking, but many phreaks were blind.

Phreaks have assumed a nigh-mythical place in niche cultural spaces, especially among hacking communities. Phreaks were the blueprint. The OG. Legendary exploits of phreaks were told by many an early computer scientist while hunched over pegboard in darkened university basements.

70s counterculture did little to downplay these legends. Experimental psychedelics we're added to the mix. Tales of blind anarchists speaking to machines was a popular trope in folk stories. The cocktail of psychoactives would always change depending on who told the story. Sometimes it was LSD, sometimes it was Psilocybin, sometimes a sinister or mysterious research chemical. Sometimes they didn't need drugs at all. Regardless, the archetype of the "bakelite oracle" has maintained a strange persistence.

Recently declassified court testimony has revealed these rumors to even have penetrated the echelons of the legal world. Perhaps emboldened by a red scare in full swing, prosecutors we're known to occasionally attribute the ability of wanted activists to vanish into thin air to Phreak collaboration. Preternatural elements are often implied, if rarely outright stated. It is unclear how seriously authorities at the time took such claims.

Study is ongoing.