#The bars are low for when I try games

[yukitonz]

I hate my sibling. Aka they got me into Ultrakill and I'm ngl the game slaps, the the lore got me pretty intrigued. But like, my SIBLING got me into it. Gross. anyway.

I made art 2 days after playing. Could it possibly become a main interest of mine? we'll see. (Most likely)

Anyway, GAYbriel. I love him sm. 1st time drawing him too So if this interests stays long, he'll hopefully get better. (I suck at drawing armor- and well--)

version 1-

Version 2-

His death was so dramatic. He's kinda dramatic. But it's okay. I love him, and hope yall do too.

Bye, gon disspaear for longer than a month 😎

[telesodalite]

Woe, unfinished, mildly edited, fulfire fic tid-bits be upon you

-

Like a magnet, his optics kept drifting back to Misfire's face. His stupid, strangely charming face.

For a short while, after Clemency, it had been that face that haunted some of his nightmares. His recalls blurring the lines between the strange reality of Misfire's hands reaching into him to lock his fuel pump back into the very spot he'd pulled it from, and the fear that just as easily he could pull it out again. They had been bloody dreams. Dreams that had him startling awake, gripping his chest in the vain attempt to close what wasn't open, before spending the rest of the day avoiding Misfire's optics.

But now things were different. Not Misfire's face. No, that hadn't changed much. But Fulcrum's dreams had definitely changed. To say the least of what all rolled around in his processor as he slept nowadays.

Some of those newer dreams had crept to the forefront of his mind as he sat there on the couch, staring as the lights of the screen reflected dully across Misfire's plating in hazy blues and greys.

The lighting made his colors seem muddy and faded, but Fulcrum didn't really care, nor did he care to think what it made himself look like. He was too busy bringing an empty engex can to his lips while he watched the crinkle of Misfire's nose as he barked a laugh at something Fulcrum didn't catch onscreen.

He'd started noticing it months ago, all the ways the silvery mesh of Misfire's face would scrunch up with his emotions. Those little crinkles along his optics and nose when he laughed or glared. The creases indented along his cheeks when he grinned. Fulcrum found himself quietly logging away these little details. Idle notes and observations that had suddenly started piling up in the corners of his processer.

He… He'd never really done that before? He'd never really noticed those sorts of things in other mechs.

The faces and expressions of his past colleagues never seemed terribly important. All the details of every smile and frown were never worth filing away, outside of few notable moments where those expressions reflected his work performance. But besides the smile that meant promotion, and the frown that meant he'd screwed up, nothing else was noticeable. Nothing was worth remembering.

But now the memory of every genuine laugh that bubbled out of Misfire sat comfortably besides memories of warm joyful optics that Fulcrum found himself collecting every time Crankcase cracked a rare half-smile for him, or when Krok placed a reassuring hand against his back, or the times Spinister spontaneously pointed out something odd but ultimately nice about his stupid frame.

He didn't really know why he was doing it, memorizing all these mundane little things, just to have them flit through his processer randomly. Maybe it was because those expressions, those details, felt… comforting? Comforting in such a strange and unfamiliar way. But, a good way. A good sort of strange, much like the mechs themselves.

-

-

He had stared for a long moment, the credits and their rolling tune playing somewhere in the background as Fulcrum stared back. But Misfire was never one for personable silence, even as the sound of some likely long dead Iaconian orchestra filled the room.

"What is it?" He asked, a small chuckle escaping him as he brought a hand to his face, "Don't tell me I've poured it all over myself again."

It had taken Fulcrum longer than usual to unstick his glossa from the roof of his mouth as he watched Misfire run a thumb over his lips, but eventually he had coughed out a small, choked, "No."

That had earned him an odd look at first, but with their fields loose and open, Fulcrum could almost feel the exact moment something clicked in Misfire's mind, as the idle comfortable static he projected in pulsing waves evened out into something openly curious and almost subdued.

It wasn't often Fulcrum felt him that clearly.

Misfire tended to keep his field fairly close, though, maybe not as close as the others did, what with how Crankcase kept an iron grip on his, and how Krok's always held an air of strained control, even when it slipped from him. But still, Misfire's was always hard to read, no matter the reach or depth of his field.

Even then and there, with it loose and unfiltered and buzzing with the engex running through his system, there was an ever present undertone of something indescribably jumbled about him, like too many feelings at once, each too vast and hurried for Fulcrum to really feel or understand.

It always seemed to stir the passive anxiety Fulcrum must've been forged with when Misfire's field brushed against his own. As facing the indescribable vague mess of Misfire felt like trying to untangle a pile of live-wires he couldn't even see.

It was almost frustrating in a sense, the need to try and sort and understand what wasn't even his to begin with. But at the same time it was almost exciting as well. It was like a game, like a puzzle he had yet to solve.

-

-

Finally letting his own can go tumbling to the floor to join Misfire's, Fulcrum had brought a hand to cover his face as he drew his legs up and leaned back against the arm of the couch, trying to suppress the fit as the sly look slipped from Misfire's face at the sounds.

While Fulcrum had laughed, and… snorted, embarrassingly, he had felt Misfire's field change again, brushing something fizzy and almost warm against his plating as Misfire's features softened.

"I'm looking at you," Fulcrum had said then between gulps of air, letting his hand fall from his face as he reached out to poke at Misfire's chest, "Dumbaft."

His finger had lingered over the thick plating there for maybe a little longer than necessary, drawing Misfire's attention as it slid down a little before pulling away.

Looking back up again with his helm angled slightly, Misfire had followed the sight of his hand leaving his plating to where Fulcrum let it fall between them.

"Wow…" Misfire had chuckled a little dryly, "I was gonna make it real easy for you. I was going to say something like, ''Do you like what you see?'' or-… or something like that. But now you've ruined it. Good job."

Meeting Fulcrum's optics again as he pulled his own hand back from Fulcrum's shoulder, he brought it to rest between them as well.

"And you're laughing at me," He said next, faking a small pout as his hand drifted closer to Fulcrum's, "Which totally ruins the whole vibe I was going for really. I mean, it's sort of hard to be all nice and suave-like when you're being laughed at. Total vibe killer. Bit of an ego killer too if I'm being honest. So thanks for that loser, thanks for saying I have a funny face."

With Misfire's fingers brushing distractingly past his own, Fulcrum didn't think before the words stumbled out of him.

"I like your face."

It came out almost matter of fact sounding, Fulcrum's laughter having died down while Misfire complained about it. But at the same time the words felt so simple, they came out so easily, and in a weird way they felt nice to say. But Misfire's optics had widened in surprise, his frame frozen and his field suddenly struck quiet, and despite the engex numbing his usual nerves, Fulcrum felt a sudden pang of anxiety because of it.

The silence in Misfire's field was terribly alien. It felt wrong, and something in Fulcrum spiraled to think he had caused it. But slowly, almost as if it were creeping forward, an odd almost scrutinizing uncertainty fanned outward in a careful wave. Misfire moved with it, leaning closer as he searched Fulcrum's expression for something.

"Oh yeah?" He'd said lowly then, and that sly look returned. But that vague uncertainty didn't fade with it, if anything, Fulcrum felt it strengthen. Caught between what he saw, in Misfire's easy smile and dimmed optics, and what he felt, in the growing hollow distance within their fields, Fulcrum found himself frowning and pulling back.

-

-

Growing frustrated with himself, and wanting that feeling back, he had pushed forward, shifting onto his knees as he reached for Misfire's face before the other could pull away from him entirely.

"I like your face." He said firmly, maybe too firmly. His expression still drawn into a frown as he pressed his fingers into Misfire's helm, brushing his thumbs across the silver mesh he'd been staring so intently at before. "I like your optics, and your nose. I- I like the way you smile. When you really smile, and when you laugh. I do. I'm not lying."

And oh there it was again, that little curl of warmth in Misfire's field. Almost a tangible thing, like a brush of ventilation, but Misfire wasn't venting. His mouth hung open ever so slightly, but no breath left him as he stared at Fulcrum with widening optics.

Spurred on by that tiny bloom of warmth, Fulcrum chased after it with slightly slurred words and clumsy hands as he tried to fix whatever he'd done wrong, hoping with each word that Misfire might soften and smile again.

"I like your expressions, and- and I like your voice," He said, glancing down at Misfire's parted lips, and laughing softly, nervously, as he continued, "Even when you say something so stupid. I like- I like the way it sounds. I like your accent, I like the way it makes your words sound. I- I like your- your mouth?"

Once more that weird but nice feeling settled in Fulcrum's chest. Those simple words felt good to say. It felt like a weight off his shoulders, like an admission he'd been waiting to say. About what and why? He wasn't really sure. But the warmth grew, and Misfire took a sharp vent inwards, and that felt right, so Fulcrum kept on.

"I like your helm," He said with a smile, reaching up to brush his fingers over the jutting finials there, before dropping his hands to settle lightly over Misfire's chest. "I like your frame, the colors of it. I like your-"

Before he could finish, Misfire was surging forward, knocking their helms together and nearly bruising the mesh of their noses as he tried for, and just barely missed, Fulcrum's lips.

-

👁👁👍

[collegeoflore]

woman covered in blood…………….

[pa-pa-plasma]

i hate how a majority of animal sims aren't even animal simulators, they're shenanigans simulators. they aren't actually about the animal, they're just about wreaking havoc, getting points, getting trophies. you could replace it with any other animal & it'd be the same. i don't want "haha look how funny this scenario is" i want to simulate living as a wolf in Yellowstone National Park. where are all those games

[ladsonlads]

Impartial Hearts | Sylus - Part One

Pairing -> Boss Sylus x Non MC Reader

Parts -> Part One | Part Two

Synopsis -> You’ve been working as Onychinus’s accountant for two years, and you’ve been carrying two heavy secrets for a third of it. You were in love with your boss, and your mother was dying.

A/N -> Guys this shit is just sad icl I need to lay off the sad songs... anyways, reader is not MC but MC is mentioned I called her 'Miss Hunter' or 'MC' bc I couldn't come up with a name, sorry.

EDIT: Thanks for all the love <33333 I honestly didn’t expect so many people to want a part two, I promise it’s in the works and I’ll try to get it out ASAP.

Trigger Warnings -> Death mentioned, heart issues mentioned.

Word Count -> 7.3K

“I’m sorry, what?” The question slipped out of your lips without much of an attempt from your brain to restrain it. You regretted that instantly.

“Watch your tone, Y/N.” The scarily low timbre in Sylus’s voice threatened retribution if you didn’t.

“Sorry… It’s just that— are you sure? I feel like this is a decision that requires a little bit more contemplation. Like getting a dog!” You tried to backpedal, but from the look of Sylus’s narrowing eyes, he wasn’t happy with your response. 

“Are you comparing her to a dog?” There was a threat thinly encased in Sylus’s question and under the thick layers of fear, you felt the slightest pang of jealousy that the he felt so strongly about defending her honour. 

What a dramatic and far-fetched conclusion. You wanted to say, but instead you bit your tongue. 

“N-No! Of course not. Not at all. I’m just wondering if wiring her such a significant sum from your equity account is a good idea when you met her—” You make a show of glancing at your shabby watch “— 13 hours ago is a sound decision.”

“So you’re questioning my judgement? Is that it?” 

You couldn’t blame him for being difficult, you walked right into that one. 

“No! Well… yes?” One would think that after two years of working for Sylus, you’d have the ability to stand your ground against him. But there was only so far someone could push a man like Sylus before he deemed you irredeemable. The consequence of which involved a hollow point in your skull. 

“Wrong answer. Wire it. Now. I’ll deal with your insubordination later.” He quickly left the room that doubled as your ‘office’; you shared it with the twins who liked to use it as their reprieve from crime. You wouldn’t have minded had they chosen less rambunctious ways of cooling-down, like reading or watching a show. Instead they’d play-fight, actually fight, play video games on the loudest volume or — the worst option of all — karaoke. 

The sarcastic yes sir died on your tongue as quickly as it crossed your mind. You pissed him off far more than usual today, and he was already way more tense since her arrival. 

Miss Hunter. Sylus kept her first name under lock-and-key, said it was safer that way. You barely caught a glimpse of her as Sylus dragged her out of his office, which was across from yours. From the glimpse you did catch, she was beautiful. Fair skin, jet black hair, a fit body. Her outfit, which was the Hunter’s Association standard issue uniform, had never looked so good. 

From what you knew from shameless eavesdropping, she was extremely important to Sylus. She was part of some critical master plan you weren’t privy to. 

You hated her.

Albeit, completely unfounded, your hatred for her stemmed from an ugly feeling you could not shake. In the two years you worked as an accountant for Onychinus, Sylus touched you once. Correction, you touched him once accidentally when you had too much to drink with the twins after work. You were taking careful steps to the bar to pour yourself another glass of a gross vodka raspberry mixture when you tripped on the edge of one of Sylus’s extremely expensive rugs. Your feet pedalled forward in an attempt to keep you upright, and you clashed right into Sylus who was innocently scrolling through his phone on the wall next to the bar. 

You could recall the fear you felt vividly. You almost felt the same wedge lodged in your throat. Sylus quickly removed you from him, steadying you with his cold palms on your shoulders (an action that made you blush like a schoolgirl) before verbally deeming you cut-off from all liquor from the night.

That was the full extent of all physical contact you’d had with Sylus in two whole years, meanwhile it took Miss Hunter less than 24-hours before he was holding her hand. God, you hated her.

“Oi, Y/N, we’re using the company card for lunch today.” Luke quickly yelled out to you from the hallway, too engrossed in your self-loathing and plain old regular loathing, you forgot to remind Luke that they only had $40 left on their weekly lunch budget. 

Knowing the twins, they wouldn’t have cared anyway, creating yet another problem you had to fix.

Looking at the excel sheet that contained this month’s trial balance, you shivered at the thought of having to deal with Sylus’s wrath at yet another monthly increase in expenses. So, you shifted the remaining balance on your lunch budget, a generous $255, into the twin’s joint account. It was only Thursday morning, and they’d managed to max-out their $1000 budget. 

You hated them too.

You looked through your drawer in hopes you had a leftover snack that could sadly double as your lunch and felt a wave of relief at the sight of a protein bar. 

It wasn’t like Sylus didn’t pay you enough to afford your own lunch, in fact he was the most generous employer you’d ever had. But the only thing bigger than his bank account was corporate greed, and the blood-sucking heathens at Akso hospital were milking you dry.

Life in the N109 Zone wasn’t easy for most people, especially your mother who raised you all on her own after your father left. She worked 3 jobs to put you through university in Linkon, so the least you could do was use every last cent you made on ensuring she had the best medical treatment money could buy. 

Your mother had a bad heart ever since she was born, it was a hereditary condition that would sometimes skip a generation only to show up in the next. She had an atrial septal defect, or in another words, a hole in her heart. You were born with one too, although yours was much smaller. She’d undergone several surgeries to repair the hole, but it reopened, and now the scar tissue surrounding the surgical site was obstructing her arteries. She was now on bypass patiently awaiting a heart transplant you couldn’t quite afford, but you’d make it happen. You were sure of it. 

With half the protein bar in your mouth, you began to call Dr Zayne, the cardiovascular surgeon who was overseeing your mother’s care. You called him for updates on your mother and the transplant list every day, since a train ticket to Linkon was too big an expense to justify, you’d settle for Dr Zayne’s cold recollections of your mother’s heart function. 

“Ah, Miss L/N, I was beginning to think you weren’t going to call today.” The dead-pan sarcasm dripped from his tone. 

“Your bedside manner needs serious work.” You bit back. You weren’t sure when or how your relationship with your mother’s doctor turned so hostile, but you figured the busy chief of surgery was annoyed by your constant calls. 

“Need I remind you, Y/N, you’re not the patient.” 

“There isn’t a waking second I’m not thinking about the patient, Dr Zayne.” 

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air at your confession. You didn’t mean to make him feel guilty, in all honesty, you looked forward to the banter before the updates on your mom, it helped ease the nerves. 

“Do you want to see her?”

“Of course, but I’m working a lot.”

“No, I mean right now.”

“Are you finally letting me borrow the hospital helicopter?”

“No, but I will let you borrow my phone so you can FaceTime her.”

His kind offer caught you off guard. “Really?!”

“Sure, you caught me in a rare moment where I don’t have someplace to be.”

“It must be Christmas.”

“Rarer than Christmas. Think solar eclipse.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Now give me my mother.”

Zayne kept his promise, and you spoke to your mother for your entire lunch break, and then some. You would’ve continued talking to her until the sunset if not for Sylus’s interruption. 

“I don’t pay you to FaceTime your friends, Y/N.”

“Sorry, I have to go. Talk to you later. I love you!” Your mother rasped out that she loved you too before you quickly hung up the phone. 

“Sorry.” Your apology fell on deaf ears as Sylus took slow, deliberate steps toward your desk. 

“Do you hate this job?” Sylus’s asked this deceivingly innocuous question while sliding a finger across the mahogany tabletop. 

“Um… no?” You placed your hands in your lap as you answered to hide the slight tremor. 

“You sound unsure.” 

“I like this job very much.” You made the declaration with as much confidence as you could muster. Your mood was already depleted from seeing your mother’s sick face for the first time in months. She wasn’t looking any healthier, and Zayne told you she’d barely moved up the list. 

107. There were 107 people who’s lives were more important than the woman who raised you. You were well aware that wasn’t the way they calculated the metric, but it didn’t make the number hurt any less. 

Sylus let out an sigh that suggested whatever he’d say next was a much tamer version of what he truly wanted to say. “Then I’d suggest you start acting like it. Remember, sweetheart, everyone’s replaceable. Especially you.” 

His comment stung like antiseptic on an open wound, though you were sure that was his intention. 

“Right. Of course. I won’t let you down.” 

“For your sake, I hope not. The twins told me they went to that seafood buffet for lunch, you haven’t let them go over the budget again, have you?” 

You quickly pulled up the online banking account connected to the company card. You saw the $189.95 charge for the seafood buffet and swallowed the lump in your throat. 

“Nope, it’s all dandy.” You gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. He noticed. 

“Good. You wire that money like I asked?” The venom in his tone alleviated, and you were glad at least one thing seemed to have worked out for you that day. 

But alas, your joy was short-lived.

“Yes, an hour ago, but it’s still processing until you put in your access code.” You moved away from the computer to give him room to step around and put in the code like he usually did. However, his feet never moved from their position in front of your desk.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Just like that, his voice was all venom again. 

You were beginning to grow agitated with his misplaced anger constantly being taken out on you. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, he’d tear into you like a bear would a boxing bag and then act like everything was fine the next day. You never got an apology, you knew not to expect one. 

But lately these fits of unbridled rage came about more often than not, and Sylus took a shovel to your mole hill of resolve every time. 

“I always need your access code on transfers over $500,000. I’ve never told you before, I just assumed—” 

“Are you stupid?” You didn’t bother answering the mean rhetorical question. “What about this transaction seemed usual to you? Did I not convey my urgency effectively earlier? Or are there rocks where your brain should be?” His voice never went up in volume, but you could tell he was angry. Livid even. Seething with fury at your supposed incompetence. 

Your eyes welled up with tears at his outburst. Normally you could take whatever insults he’d throw at you with little outward reaction, but you were particularly sensitive from the sandwich-shaped hole in your stomach, and the maternal hole in your heart which ached every second, reminding you of the much bigger one your mother bore.

Before you could stop it, a tear rolled down your cheek, and the second you registered the sensation you quickly went to wipe it. 

“Stop crying.” Sylus ordered.

“I’m not—crying.” Your voice betrayed you, a hitch in your throat interrupting the sentence. The tears began to stream down faster, so fast your hands couldn’t keep up. 

You prepared yourself for a speech about how weak you were, how he wouldn’t tolerate such inane shows of infirmity. But all Sylus did was watch as you embarrassingly tried to pull yourself together. 

You weren’t sure how much time passed before Sylus moved next to you, hunching down to input his code into the transaction. His eyes glanced at the second monitor, displaying the company card’s account, and he zeroed in at the twin’s charge, and your lack thereof.

“Did you have lunch?” Sylus’s voice was softer, you attributed that to the fact that he was inches away from you. The question was so out of left-field it actually caused your tears to cease. 

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t use the card.” Your eyes followed his to the bank statement and you let out a sigh of relief. 

“Oh, I had some extra cash on me I wanted to get rid of.”

“You’re supposed to use the card, Y/N. That’s what it’s for.”

“It’s fine, I’ll have an extra big lunch tomorrow. Granted you’re not firing me?” You were only half-joking, but you could’ve sworn you saw the corners of his lips perk up in an almost-smile before he shut it straight down. 

“I won’t fire you if you tell me what’s got you this upset? I’m not so proud as to assume it was me.” It was that moment you realised Sylus was capable of feeling empathy. He was aware of how hurtful he was being all those times he’d berate you over the smallest inconveniences for virtually no reason, and he simply didn’t care. 

It was far worse to know that he did possess empathy, but chose not to extend it to you. 

“It’s just that time of the month.” You lied, convincingly. You’d mull over your blatant betrayal to feminism later, but for now you needed a means of shutting this inquiry down and quickly. You didn’t want anyone knowing about your mom, you were sure the pity would destroy you. She wasn’t going to die, and you didn’t want people to treat you like she might. 

Sylus waited for the transfer to clear before he left. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when the door closed behind him.

“Are you sure we only have $105 on our lunch budget.” Luke’s question grated on your frayed nerves.

“$105 and five cents.” Your distinction didn’t do much help. 

“Come on, can’t you do your weird accounty magic and make more appear? We want steak.” Kiernan’s plea wasn’t helping either. You’d exhausted every last option, anything else would definitely cause alarms when Sylus eventually reviewed the accounts. 

“I already did all I could, I gave you an extra $255!” And a fat good that did you, now you were hungry and annoyed.

“Well, we both know there’s plenty more where that came from.”

There really wasn’t, but you didn’t tell them that. 

“I’m sorry, $105 is all you’ve got.” 

“Fine. But we’re very unhappy with you, Y/N. Very unhappy.” Luke chastised you, but you couldn’t even pretend to care. 

“Better you than Sylus, now please leave.” The twins opened their mouths with a retort, but a domineering voice interrupted them. 

“You heard her. Beat it and stop bothering my accountant.” 

The twins scurried at the sound of Sylus’s voice, and you wondered how much of that conversation he overheard.

“So, where did that extra $255 come from, Y/N?”

Too much of the conversation. Way too much. 

“My budget.” You cut your losses and told him the truth. Any other answer would have surely pissed him off. 

“I give you $300 for the whole week. Your sandwich costs $15. Either you haven’t been eating, or you've been paying out of your own pocket against my orders. Which is it?” 

Well, that was a lose-lose situation if there ever was one. You didn’t want to deal with the questions about why you were skipping meals, so you lied again. You always were an exceptional liar, your mother taught you that the less people knew about you, the less they had to hurt you with.

“I made too much food for dinner so I had leftovers. It’s no biggie.” You didn’t even look up from your screen as the lie left your lips. 

“What leftovers?” He asked. 

“Pasta.” You answered. 

“What kind?”

“Alfredo.”

“With mushrooms?”

“Yeah.”

“You hate mushrooms.” 

Shit. Why did he know that?

“I had a change of heart.”

“You’re lying.”

You bit your lip in worry, wondering how you were going to get yourself out of this one.

You stalled as much as you could, pretending to be engrossed in something on your screen, until the sound of Sylus’s phone ringing broke the tension. 

You internally thanked every deity that could possibly be watching over you as he took the call, and prayed to all of them that it would be something urgent. 

You heard the faint sounds of a feminine voice through his phone.

“Kitten, where are you?”

Wait, who’s kitten? 

“Just calm down, tell me where you are.” Sylus didn’t even give you a second glance as he quickly stormed out of your office. Leaving you to mull over the intimate pet name, knowing exactly who it was intended for.

As Sylus left the room you reflected on the cacophony your feelings created in your mind. You weren’t sure when you developed such strong feelings for Sylus — or why. His personality was the antithesis of yours. Where he would free fall off of the proverbial cliff of his life without a second thought, every risk you took was meticulously calculated. Where he was rough and respected, you were sort of a pushover. Where his deadpan sense of humour tended to elicit more fear than laughter, you had an awkward habit of cracking jokes in situations they were not appropriate.

You were polar opposites, two parallel lines that were destined never to intertwine. You figured that was why everything hurt so much around him. He wasn’t right for you, but he would be right for someone else. 

The envy you’d carried for so long began to subside for the first time in years. Sylus had an array of estranged lovers that he’d bring around his mansion every once in a while, and now Miss Hunter. But for the first time the reminder of that fact didn’t hurt as much as it usually did. 

It was Mid-September and you warned yourself that if you couldn’t eliminate all the romantic feelings you had for Sylus by the end of Autumn, you’d cut your losses and quit. 

Of course, you’d have to find another job that paid just as well, but you were willing to cross that bridge when it came to it. There was only so much turmoil your fragile heart could take, and if you were dead, your mother would be as good as dead too. 

Happy with your iron-clad plan, you opened up your notes app and began to draft ‘Operation Sylus: No More’. You could change the name later.

Operation Sylus: No More

The foolproof guide of getting rid of all feelings Sylus related by the end of November. 

Step 1: avoid Sylus and all thoughts of him at all costs.

Step 2: no more funny jokes, his laugh is seriously deadly. 

Step 3: force yourself to remember Miss Hunter in moments of weakness. She’s the one he really wants. 

Step 4: try to find love elsewhere, like the corner shop owner, he may be in his 50s and happily married but he’s kind of a silver-fox!

Step 5: do not, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be alone with Sylus for too long.

You looked back at your list, proud of the relatively easy steps to follow. This should be a cakewalk. Whoever said you couldn’t be the master of your own feelings clearly never met you. 

“Boss needs you in his office. He says bring your laptop.” Kiernan’s voice broke your focus. You were almost finished with the end of year report for this financial year, a task Sylus forced you to complete annually. It was meaningless, considering Onychinus wasn’t necessarily a legitimate business listed on the stock exchange, but you took it seriously nonetheless. 

“Okay, I’ll be right there.” You felt Kiernan’s eyes bore into you as you continued to make minor edits to the report. You’d sleep so much better once this 180 page document was out of your life. 

“He needs you now, Y/N. We’re both toast if you make him wait.” You sighed and couldn’t help but roll your eyes at Sylus’s lack of empathy for your large workload. 

You berated your past self for being so eager for this role, completing far too many tasks far too quickly, and setting the precedent that you were some sort of accounting machine. You really should learn to stick to the bare minimum. 

You walked over to the door leading to his office, and gave it a soft rap with your knuckles. The door opened by itself, or rather with the help of Sylus’s evol, to the sight of him leaning back in his chair, with Miss Hunter sitting directly in front of him on his desk.

Step 3 of your guide felt less like a friendly reminder and more like a stab in the gut. Think of corner-shop man. Think of corner-shop man. Think of corner-shop man.

“We don’t have all day, sit down, Y/N.” Sylus’s command woke you from your trance, and you hoped your envy wasn’t as obvious as you thought it was. 

This was the first time you’d seen Miss Hunter up close, and when your eyes travelled to meet hers, she gave you a warm smile. You felt like the shittiest person to exist for ever hating her.

Your eyes scanned the room for somewhere to sit. The chairs opposite his seemed like they would intrude on the intimate moment he was clearly having with Miss Hunter, so you settled on an armchair in the corner that had a coffee table in front of it. 

Sylus sighed and didn’t even bother to ask you to move before he used his evol to whisk you up and deposit your body onto the chair at his table like a rag doll. You hated when he used his evol on you, it felt like the arms of a prickly cactus. 

“In a few minutes, I’ll be getting a phone call from a possible investor. He’s extremely exclusive and known for running tests on his potential partners before agreeing to invest with them. My intel suggests he’s going to propose a joint project, but the numbers he’ll give me will be far off. I need to counter-propose numbers that would generate a high return and quickly, or he’ll hang up and I’ll never hear from him again. So, open up your laptop and prepare, because if you tank this for me, there will no longer be a place for you here. Understood?”

When Sylus did things like that, it made it easier to love him a little less. He could be a complete and utter dick sometimes, and while you’d learned to accept it as a human flaw, recently it seemed more like a permanent predisposition. 

Perhaps Sylus was nice to you because you were entertaining, now that he had someone better to occupy his time, you were nothing more than a forgotten bygone. 

“Yeah, I got it.” You opened up an excel sheet with a project analysis template. These were the types of questions you’d get in your first year accounting courses but you let Sylus think it was much harder than it actually was — just to make him sweat. 

When the phone rang, Sylus’s muscles grew tense and Miss Hunter gave him a comforting squeeze on his shoulder. You bit your lip to hide the sudden scowl on your face. Think of corner-shop man. Think of corner-shop man. Think of corner-shop man.

Your eyes bore into your excel sheet with an intensity that would’ve produced laser beams in an alternate reality. You focused entirely on the calculations, listening intently to the brassy voice of the investor on the phone. 

It didn’t take you long to generate the minimum initial investment they’d need to generate some form of return, as well as the payback period. You wrote the numbers down on a notepad, and you let him do the rest. 

When you heard the investor let out a humorous ‘I’m impressed’ you packed up your laptop and left the room without so much as a wave. You felt Sylus and Miss Hunter’s eyes follow you out of the room, but you didn’t bother looking back.

You felt the thin line between love and hate begin to grow blurry. Where Sylus was concerned, your feelings were as clear as the muddy water in a swamp. Maybe two and a half months was too much time. You needed these feelings gone expeditiously. 

You decided to take your lunch early, and you left the extravagant mansion that doubled as HQ to find your bike. You couldn’t really afford a car, or a license, but your bright yellow bike could do everything a car could for a fraction of the price. You were in the process of strapping up your helmet when Luke walked up. 

“What’s up with you lately?” His question was inevitable. You wondered how long it would take for someone to notice that you were fighting internal battles on every front. Your mother’s health, Sylus’s sudden chronic asshole syndrome flareup, your dwindling bank account. 

“Nothing, I’ve just been tired.”

“Well, we’re having a few friends over tonight. Just a small group, if you’re not too tired, you should come.” Luke was the more sociable twin, and he was most likely extending this invitation to you out of pity, but you’d take anything over being trapped in your own mind. 

“Will there be alcohol?” You quipped.

“Duh.” Luke’s response brought the first genuine smile to your face in weeks. 

“I’ll be there.” After your agreement, you cycled away toward the corner shop for lunch.

It was a quaint bakery/deli run by a Turkish man who you knew on a first name basis. He was aged-like-fine-wine handsome. Features weathered tastefully by age, with a full head of hair that quelled your fears of your future children inheriting the early onset male pattern baldness gene. 

But when you entered the store and saw Mr Demir, there were no butterflies. Your heart didn’t skip a beat. Your hands didn’t even quiver as you paid for the sandwich. In fact, they were so steady you figured you could give Dr Zayne a run for his money. 

Speaking of Dr Zayne, his daily updates were growing scarcer in detail, and you were worried that something was wrong. He insisted he was just busy and since your mother had moved up to 93 on the transplant list, you let it slide. 

“You know you’re allowed to try the other sandwiches, right?” Mr Demir’s handsome face contorted into a teasing smile, and if he didn’t own this shop with his beautiful wife, you might’ve asked him to marry you then and there. 

“I like this one. Your family is very talented.” You smiled at him, but it seemed even he could tell that it wasn’t genuine.

“You’re getting skinnier you know, and you haven’t been coming as often. Is something wrong or are you cheating on me with a salad store?” His joke brought a giggle out of you. 

You never thought that people noticed you in a way that was significant. You felt as if you were akin to a missing bird poster on a telephone pole in the middle of a busy street. People would glance at it, remember how common and undistinguishable birds are, and forget it ever existed.

Mr Demir’s concern warmed your heart, and you promised that if you ever won the lottery, you would give him half. 

“I’ve just been cooking more, that’s all. Thank you Mr Demir, say hello to your wife for me!” You gave him a small wave as you exited the shop and the weight suffocating your chest was a little lighter.

Mr Demir’s family had boundless love to share, and while their shop was small, they were happy. Maybe things would work out for you and your mother after all. 

The rest of the workday passed by like a fever dream. You finally managed to complete the annual report, a copy of it sitting in Sylus’s email, surely unopened. He left soon after that phone call with Miss Hunter, you didn’t bother to ask where.

The mansion was empty when you turned off the last monitor, and you thought you’d start pre-gaming early. Sylus always warned all of you that his bar was off-limits unless he stated otherwise, but the man had so much alcohol, you doubted he’d ever notice. 

He only drank red wine and whiskey, and you hated wine, so you settled for an almost full bottle of whiskey. You took one sip and realised you couldn’t stand the taste either, but it was still better than the wine, so you chugged glass after glass like they were shots. 

The heavy alcohol burned your throat on the way down and continued to burn in your stomach, but the feeling kept you warm so you didn’t really mind. You’d consumed half the bottle by the time the twins returned with two other men and one girl following in suit.  

“Y/N! Good, you’re here. Help me set up the drinks on the table.” You nodded your head at Luke’s request, knowing your speech would likely be slurred. 

You helped him line up the bottles of cheap tequila, vodka, fireball and a fear-inducing amount of absinthe. These cheap spirits were much more your speed.

“Alright, we’re starting with truth or dare. Pick your poison and sit around the coffee table.” Kiernan’s announcement had everyone scattering around the coffee table with cups in hand. You opted for the fireball, too scared to mix alcohol this early in the night. 

You recognised everyone from another one of the twin’s impromptu parties. They only ever threw them when they were sure Sylus would be gone overnight. You didn’t let yourself dwell on where he was or who he was with. 

The game was more entertaining than you expected, everyone had interesting questions, and when it came to dares, the twins always had something sadistic in mind. 

It was your turn when they decided to up the stakes. You were already wasted, so you committed to answering whatever question they pummelled at you. 

“Truth.”

“You’re so boring, you always pick truth.” Luke whined, his arm shaking yours in protest.

“That’s because I’m scared of your dares.”

Luke rolled his eyes but conceded.

“Fine. How many people have you slept with?”

All conversations came to a stifling halt as everyone’s eyes landed on you. Far too embarrassed to tell 5 people you barely knew that you were still a virgin, you changed your answer. There was nothing to be ashamed of, but you knew the twins would mercilessly make fun of you, and you didn't have the energy to explain that between the constant pressure to succeed for your mother, and her eventual illness, your love life had been placed on the back-burner.

“Dare.”

“You know the rules, if you switch options and refuse to do it, you have to finish everyone’s drinks.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hit me.” You glared at Luke with determination. You should’ve known that when everyone was this drunk, the dares could only get progressively more outrageous.

“I dare you to call Sylus and tell him you crashed his McLaren.” Luke looked proud of his dare, and the smile dropped from your face instantly. 

Even Kiernan’s eyes flashed with concern before he broke out into an obnoxious laugh.

“Oh- Holy shit! That’s gold.” The words left Kieran’s mouth in-between his laughter. Everyone around the table looked at you eagerly.

You knew if you finished off everyone’s cups you’d definitely die, or worse, throw up. 

“Fine.” Too drunk to realise the implications of what you were doing, you dialled Sylus. There was also the chance he just didn’t pick up, but four and a half rings later his annoyed voice resounded through the speaker of your phone. 

“What is it?” From the sound of Sylus’s tone, you’d interrupted something important. You bit down the bitter feelings that threatened to spill out, and stuck to the objective.

“I have something to tell you, but you have to promise you won’t get mad.” There was no universe in which Sylus couldn’t tell you were drunk.

In all honesty, your phone call was a welcome reprieve from his mind-numbingly boring conversation with Linkon’s politicians. He’d offered to attend this event with MC with little thought as to what it would pertain. His eyes raked over her baby pink dress, and since he couldn’t get her out of it just yet, he entertained your drunk rambling.

“I don’t have to do anything.” Sylus expected you to apologise, but all he heard was a sound foreign to him. Were you laughing? Sylus heard indecipherable voices in the background, and he found himself wondering who was making you laugh. 

“True. Okay well, you know that dark grey sports car you love soooooooooooo much?” Nice going, Y/N, remind him just how much he loves this car. You thought. The phone was on speaker, per the requests of the fellow attendees. 

Everyone bit back laughs at the situation which was extremely unfunny to anyone with a blood alcohol level under 0.05. 

“What did you do?” Sylus’s question had a deadly underpinning, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“I crashed it!” At your exclamation, the room exploded in laughter, and you muted the microphone quickly before Sylus could hear it.

“You crashed it?”

You quickly unmuted to add. “Yup! Absolutely totalled.”

“Are you okay? Where are you? I’m coming.” 

The laughter immediately died down. That was not how he was supposed to react, not at all. 

Luke and Kiernan gestured for you to shut it down and you quickly began to backtrack.

“No! No you don’t have to come home. I’m fine. It was just a prank.”

“Oh, so you’re at my place?” ShitShitShitShitShit.

“Yes… The twins and I had too much to drink and we thought it would be funny to prank you. I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t have interrupted your night.”

You braced yourself for the angry lecture on how Sylus’s time was more valuable the rarest ruby, but it never came.

“Just you and the twins, right?”

Luke and Kiernan gestured for you to agree.

“Yes.”

“You should probably call an exorcist.” Were you drunk or did he actually just tell you to call an exorcist?

“Huh?” Everyone in the room looked just as perplexed.

“You know, since those three other people in my living room must be apparitions.” 

“You didn’t rig the camera?” Kiernan’s shrill scream was definitely registered by the phone’s mic. 

“Fuck! I forgot.” Luke exclaimed in response as they scrambled to pack everything up. 

“Um…” With everyone frantically running around the room, you were left to deal with Sylus’s wrath alone.

“How come you never laugh when you’re with me?” And with that question you were convinced the alcohol had induced auditory hallucinations.

“You’re not very funny.” You decided to play along, after all, imaginary Sylus was much more fun than the real one.

“Hmm, I thought I was.”

“Nope. All your jokes end in someone dying, and usually that someone is me.”

“Oh, sweetheart, those aren’t jokes.” That was something real Sylus would say. Damn, these auditory hallucinations were realistic.

“I know, I really thought you were going to kill me last week.” You let out an involuntary snort at the hilarious image of your head on a pike. 

“Why’s that?”

“Because I screwed up that wire transfer to Miss Hunter. You were soooo mad. You must reaaaalllyyyy like her.”

“I guess I do.” The line went quiet on both ends after that. 

This auditory hallucination was no fun following his confession, so you hung up. Sylus called a few times after, but you never noticed. The room began spinning and your eyes began watering, so you curled up on the floor until your head stopped pounding, but by then you were fast asleep.

Sylus returned to his mansion the next morning to find your office empty. It was still an hour before you were due to start, but you were always early. 

With an internal promise to check again in an hour, he walked toward the living room. It didn’t take long before he noticed a mop of light brown hair on his rug.

He walked toward your sleeping form with indignation, only to find every ounce of anger sucked out of him when he knelt down to find your sleeping face. 

He hadn’t been that close to you in what felt like forever. Was your face always that pale? His eyes caressed your under eye bags, and your hollow cheeks. He could’ve sworn they were fuller when he hired you. What happened to you? 

Before Sylus could give in to the urge to wake you up and ask, your phone made a sound from the coffee table. He picked it up and saw you were getting a call from Zayne.

Who the fuck was Zayne?

He answered the phone before he could think it through.

“Oh, Y/N, good. I’ve been trying to reach you since last night.”

“You should’ve taken the hint.” Sylus couldn’t help the bite in his tone. He wasn’t sure why he was so angry at this Zayne, but his emotions were beginning to confuse him more often than he cared to admit.

“Who’s this?”

Sylus could’ve said that he was your boss. He should’ve said that he was your boss. But what he said instead…

“Y/N’s mine.” His employee, but that distinction didn’t seem necessary in the moment.

“Well, could you tell her to call me back as soon as possible. I have urgent news about her mother.”

The comment about her mother perplexed Sylus even more. 

“Who are you?”

“I’m her mother’s heart surgeon. I have to go, have her call me soon.” Sylus felt stupid for the unnecessary show of hostility, but he only had more questions following Zayne’s answer.

It seemed the conversation was enough to wake you up from your slumber, and the moment you registered your surroundings, the headache you had was amplified tenfold. Your muscles hurt from sleeping on the hard floor, and you were sure your legs had morphed into jelly. 

You were never drinking again.

“Well hello, sleeping beauty.” Sylus watched as you groggily rubbed your eyes. The right side of your face had an indent matching the pattern of his rug, and your hair was dishevelled. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“Sylus. I’m so sorry.” You spoke through a yawn before cradling your head in your hands. The world needed to stop spinning.

Sylus shoved an open bottle of water in your face, and you greedily snatched the peace offering before he had time to change his mind.

“Zayne called, said he had some news about your mother.”

You shot straight up, spilling some water in the process.

“What did he say? Where’s my phone?” You glanced at large Sylus’s hand which was wrapped around said phone. If you weren’t so worried about your mother, you might’ve found the sight of Sylus holding something covered in a floral case amusing. Powering through the piercing pain in your temple, you held your hand out.

“Please give it back.” 

“What’s wrong with your mother?”

“Please Sylus, I can’t do this right now.” You tried to lunge for the phone, but he was faster. Raising his hand above his head and well out of your reach. 

“You’ll have this back once you answer my question.”

“She has the flu. Now give it back.” You jumped up in a feeble attempt to retrieve the phone, but he was just so goddamn tall. 

“I didn’t know flu treatment protocol involved heart surgery now. Guess I need to brush up on the latest medical news.” His sardonic tone made you scoff. Only Sylus could be such a dick while your mother's life was in limbo.

Curse Dr Zayne and his blabbermouth. 

If it wasn’t for the severe hangover, you might’ve been able to think of an explanation. But you were so nervous you felt sick and you needed to know the news Dr Zayne had.

“Fine. She needs a heart transplant, she’s on coronary bypass and if she doesn’t get a heart soon she’ll die. Is that good enough for you?” You continued to try to reach the phone, not bothering to check Sylus’s reaction to your confession. 

He dropped the phone in your hand and you all but sprinted out of the living room to make the phone call.

The line rang once, twice, three times before Zayne picked up.

“Y/N?”

“Yes! What’s wrong? Is my mom okay? Tell me she’s okay.”

“Slow down, she’s alive, but she had a cardiac event. Not a heart attack, but it still did some damage. Her condition is worse, much worse, Y/N. I’m sorry.” 

Your back slumped against the wall of the hallway and you felt your knees give in as you slid to the floor. 

“How long does she have?” The tears streaming down your face fell onto your shirt, leaving uncomfortable wet spots in their wake.

“A few weeks, a month’s top. But this did move her to the top of the list. She might get a transplant in time.” Zayne must have heard the sadness in your voice if he’d offered words of encouragement. He never did that. 

“Thank you. I’m going to come see her.”

“I’ll get the nurses to bring in an extra bed. I’ll see you soon, Y/N.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to respond so you hung up instead. The pain in your head was now but a mere memory as your heart began to splinter into a million little pieces. 

There was so much you still had to do. You needed to buy your mom her first ever house, and help her plant the prettiest flowers in the garden. You had to get her the dog she always dreamed about and the outdoor swing she missed from her childhood home. She still had to walk you down the aisle and sing your future children the lullabies she sang to you. She couldn’t go. Not yet. 

You didn’t even notice Sylus enter the hallway until you felt him sitting down next to you. He wove an arm behind your head, bringing your face into his chest. The intimacy of the act only made you cry harder. The last person to hold you that close was your mom, a few days before she’d collapsed. 

“It hurts.” You choked on your words and they came out muffled against Sylus’s chest.

“What hurts?” He asked. 

“My heart. It really hurts, Sylus.” You sobbed harder. It felt good to finally admit that you weren’t okay. To have someone hold you as your life fell apart around you. 

“Tell me what to do, Y/N. Anything.”

“Can I have some time off?” You took deep breaths as you tried to slow your crying down. You could break down once you reached the other side of this tumultuous predicament. 

The humble request drove Sylus insane. He’d offer you his own heart to save your mother if he wasn’t sure it was severely damaged, and all you could think to ask for was time off. 

“Of course.”

“Can you give me a ride to Linkon?” 

That request was a little better, but still not enough. 

“I’ll take you now, come on.”

“No wait, I need to go home and pack some things. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“You know you can still get a DUI on a pedal bike, right?”

“I’m not drunk.”

“But there’s still alcohol in your system, and you’re very upset. It won’t be safe, I’ll take you home on the way. Let’s go.” He stood up, his hand outstretched toward you. 

And with a heavy heart, you took Sylus’s hand.

[missdynamighttt]

feining for frat boy katsuki…

it was hot. loud. half the girls were already screaming over shirtless frat boys grinding against windshields. your friend dragged you out with a “come on, it’s for charity!” and now you’re standing in the corner with a lukewarm lemonade and zero expectations.

you didn’t even want to come to this stupid fraternity fundraiser.

your roommate dragged you out with the promise of half-naked frat boys, but all you’ve seen so far are drenched freshmen trying to flex their way into a hernia.

but then you see him.

he’s got his back turned at first—lean muscle, golden skin, red swim trunks slung way too low on his hips. sunlight catches the water dripping down his back like it’s staged. and when he turns around?

game over. he’s gorgeous.

sharp jaw, wild blonde hair flattened from water, a cocky little smirk on his face as he wrings a sponge out over his head, totally aware of the stares.

and he sees you. right away. ruby eyes locked with yours and gives the most arrogant little up-nod like, yeah. you’re next.

you try to act unaffected. fail immediately.

he saunters over, sudsy bucket in one hand, water dripping down his abs like it’s a fucking calvin klein ad. stops right in front of you, eyeing your car, then you, then your car again. “you the one drivin’ this piece of shit?”

you blink. “excuse me?!”

he shrugs but you can see a little grin tugging on the corner of his mouth, smug and unbothered. “relax. i’ll make it look brand new.”

he puts the bucket down, saunters over, and damn—he’s even hotter up close. tall. muscles for days. and that little scar on his cheek? unfair.

then, leaning closer, voice low: “the name's katsuki bakugo. what’s yours, sweet girl?”

you tell him. maybe a little breathless.

he repeats it once—slow, like he’s trying it out on his tongue. “hm. yeah. i like that.”

and then he goes to work. but not just on the car.

katsuki bakugo washes that car like he’s auditioning for the dirtiest boy band you’ve ever seen. dropping the sponge just to bend over in front of you, ass on full display. making eye contact when he slides his hand over the hood like he’s caressing it. watering himself down with a hose and shaking his hair out like he’s in a shampoo commercial from hell.

by the time he’s done, your car is sparkling. and so are you—flushed, flustered.

he tosses the sponge into the bucket, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and smirks. “lemme know if you need a private wash sometime.”

and then he walks away, with you watching the water dripping down the curve of his spine, no better than a teenage boy ogling the back of a girl's bikini. you swear you black out for a second too.

it’s only a few hours after the car wash before he slides in your dms, smooth but dirty. you’re in your room, still reeling from whatever the hell that was, when your phone buzzes.

king.explosionmurder has sent you a message.

(yeah. that’s his actual handle. because of course it is.) then, you open it.

king.explosionmurder:

can't stop thinking about the girl with the shittiest car and the cutest fuckin’ face.

you stare. then another message pops up.

king.explosionmurder:

u free tonight?

or maybe you're too busy being adorable somewhere else?

your heart does a thing. you type out a reply—something just barely cocky enough to match him:

you:

depends

you always this forward?

king.explosionmurder:

only for girls with shitty taste in cars

so, only you

let me buy you a drink, sweet girl?

you:

fine

you can buy me a drink, frat boy

but for the record?

my taste in cars is not that shitty

king.explosionmurder:

whatever you say beautiful

8 pm, sunset bar down 5th ave

don't be late

katsuki shows up five minutes early, in a black tee that clings to his chest and jeans that should be illegal. hair still messy from his post-car-wash shower. when you walk in, his eyes track you like you’re the only person in the room.

“tch. thought you were gonna flake.”

you roll your eyes. “you’d cry if i did.”

his mouth twitches. “like a damn baby.”

then the date just... hits different. it wasn't what you expected. sure, it’s packed with college students and frat bros, but in the back corner booth? with him?

it’s quiet. comfortable. almost… intimate.

he’s not much of a talker, but with you? he tries. you ask about his major—he’s an aspiring pro-hero, of course—and he asks about yours, grumbling when you light up talking about it, because “fuck, that smile’s gonna kill me.”

and even though he’d die before saying it out loud, the minute you take a sip of your drink and laugh at something dumb he says? he’s gone. head over heels.

he walks you back to your dorm with his hand on the small of your back, even though it’s barely a ten-minute walk. says “text me when you’re in” even though he literally watched you unlock your door. stands there, gruff and gorgeous, waiting.

“gonna invite me?” he asks, tone teasing.

you shake your head, grinning. “not on the first date, i'm not.”

he groans dramatically. “damn. fuckin’ killin’ me here.”

you grin. “goodnight, frat boy.”

but he doesn’t move right away.

just stands there under the warm porch light, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to work off the ache of not touching you again. his shirt clings to him in the summer heat, his jaw sharp in the glow, but it’s his eyes that freeze you in place.

not hard. not sharp. not the glare he usually levels at the world.

but soft. heavy. like you’ve stolen the breath from his lungs and he doesn’t even want it back.

he looks at you like you hung the damn moon.

he takes one small step closer, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off his chest, close enough that if either of you moved just an inch, you’d be kissing.

“goodnight, sweet girl,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel laced with honey.

it hits you somewhere deep. like he’s branding the words into you.

and then—he actually smiles. a real one. lopsided, shy, the kind of smile you’d never expect from someone who threatens to body slam people over couch cushions.

then he turns and walks away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head down, like if he looks back even once, he’ll do something stupid like run back and kiss you senseless.

you close the door behind you, heart thudding so hard you swear your roommate can hear it.

you’re screwed. so screwed.

because things after that? they move fast.

to everyone else, he was the guy who'd scream if you left dishes in the sink, throw a beer can at you if you sat on his side of the couch, and threaten to body slam you if you so much as breathe near him.

but the entire frat house knew that their loud, grumpy, terrifyingly efficient frat dad—had a soft spot the size of a planet. and that soft spot? was for you.

you’re the only person allowed in his room during his grumpy post-practice naps. the only one who can touch his hair without him flinching. he’d grumble when you flick his forehead when he was being dramatic but he'd let you.

he might curse under his breath, but when you’d slide onto his lap during movie night, he'd wrap an arm around you like it was instinct. like protecting you came as naturally as breathing.

he had snacks stocked in the mini fridge (not for him, you liked them). he hands you your favorite snack and grumbles, “was on sale. don’t get used to it,” even though it’s never on sale but he bought six of them anyway.

and when finals week hits? he’s a damn soldier for you.

caffeine runs. your favorite takeout. quiet growls at anyone who tries to talk to you in the library. he reads your flashcards like they’re enemy coordinates and quizzing you becomes his personal mission.

but the best part? the tiny, quiet moments in between.

like when he’s losing at mario kart and you’d sit in his lap while he played, steal his fries, kiss his cheek mid-rant just to shut him up.

or when you were too tired to walk back to your place, you just curl up in his bed. not only does he let you, he tucks the blanket around you and kisses your forehead so soft it makes your chest ache.

and somehow, all of that was like magic.

sure, he might’ve acted like the world’s most chaotic, aggressive frat president, but when it came to you? he was all bark, all bite… and all heart.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

[teaboot]

I've started playing this new game when I'm bored where I look up shitty T-shirts with pictures and slogans on them intended to be worn to very specific occasions and I try to think of a different place where it would be way funnier to wear it

Some Examples:

ONE

EASTER SHIRT

Slogan or image: Easter bunny, "I have the best eggs"

Intended wear: Family event, community event

Funnier place to wear it: Fertility clinic

TWO

ST. PATRICK'S DAY SHIRT

Slogan or image: Man with two beers on green. "Dublin fistin"

Intended wear: At a bar with the boys

Funier place to wear it: BDSM club. With the boys

THREE

HALLOWEEN MATERNITY

Slogan or image: Skeletal ribcage aligned with the wearer's ribcage, and a cartoonish skeleton baby just below it.

Intended wear: Low-effort Halloween event

Funner place to wear it: Abortion procedure

[bitters-n-sweets]

she's a menace — jack abbot x fem!reader While celebrating a coworker's birthday at a bar, Jack Abbot gets distracted watching his girlfriend dancing and turning heads.

warnings: suggestive content (minors go away), spicy, we love a supportive king (jack) masterlist

It's girls' night.

Meaning your dress is too short, and your heels are too high—but you feel amazing. You and your girls had pre-gamed at a bar earlier, and now on your way to the 2nd bar.

You needed this. A night to let go. A night to dance and drink overpriced cocktails and scream-laugh in a bathroom stall with your friends over absolutely nothing.

The bar is crowded, pulsing with music and low light, and when you spot the familiar silhouette at the other end, your heart does a small, surprised flip.

Jack.

He’s here. At this bar. Of all nights.

He hasn't spotted you yet, but you can see he's having a great time with his co-workers. Langdon is there, Collins too, and for once Robby is laughing without a care in the world. You want to say hi, but your friends are already dragging you to the dance floor. Besides, you're curious what he’ll do when he finally notices you.

But Jack’s already noticed.

He’s been stealing glances since you walked in, pretending not to look too long as you twirl and laugh under the flashing lights. Your dress clings in all the right places, dipping perfectly to show your cleavage, hugging every line of your body like it was stitched for sin.

Jack’s heart stutters.

The way you move isn’t for anyone in particular, but it damn well feels like a siren call—slow, confident, sensual. The dress rides up slightly as you spin, and your thigh peeks out just enough to make his breath catch.

If it weren't for Langdon calling for his attention, he would've jumped you by now.

"Yo Abbot— Damn," he whistles, "Someone’s out to kill tonight."

"You're tellin' me." Jack mutters, a proud yet hungry smile etched across his lips, "My girl knows how to put on a show, alright."

"Wait, that's your girl??" Langdon follows his gaze.

Jack nods once.

"I don't believe it." Javadi says.

"And you let her dress like that when you’re not around?"

Jack’s expression doesn’t change. "I don’t let her do anything. She can dress however she wants."

Langdon raises a brow. "Alright, modern man."

Jack sets down his glass and says calmly with a smirk, "Besides, she knows who she belongs to."

The table goes in waves of "oooh"s and whistles for half a second before someone murmurs, "Damn, okay," and they all take another shot.

Back on your side of the bar, you’re oblivious to the murmurs about you, caught up in the music and the high of the night. You wander to the bar for another drink, separated from your group for just a moment, when an uninvited man decides to make his move on you.

A guy—tall, clearly drunk, and way too confident. "Hey, beautiful," he slurs. "You look like you could use some company."

"No thanks." You say curtly.

He laughs and leans in closer anyway, eyes dropping to your dress. "You whores always try to play hard to get..."

Then his hand reaches out—fingers grazing your lower back.

He doesn’t get far.

A hand closes around his wrist, firm and alert.

"Hey, buddy—" the guy starts to protest, turning slightly, only to find himself face-to-face with your lover.

"You should walk away." Jack says with the kind of presence that makes everything in the room feel suddenly still.

The guy scoffs. "And who the fuck are you, old man?"

"I'm her man." Jack says proudly.

The guy lets out a sharp laugh. "You??"

Jack tilts his head, smile slow and cool. "Yeah. Me."

He steps in like he’s trying to size Jack up. "Why don't you go play hero somewhere else?"

"Last chance." Jack exhales once. "Back away."

Instead of listening, the guy sneers and reaches to you again—like he’s about to brush against your hip.

That’s when Jack moves.

He grabs the guy’s wrist mid-motion and twists. Not enough to do damage. Just enough to send pain shooting through the idiot’s arm.

The guy chokes out a curse, dropping back, eyes wide now.

Jack leans in slightly, stares at him like looks could kill. "You don’t want to find out what I’d do next. Now walk away."

And this time, he does. Muttering while rubbing his wrist, vanishing into the crowd.

"Hi, hero."

"Hey, trouble." He smirks, hands draping around your waist, making sure he covers the area that asshole tried to touch you. "You okay?"

"Mm-hmm," you hum. "That was kinda hot."

Jack chuckles, "Oh, honey, you're drunk."

"Yes I am," You confirm. "So what are you doing here, handsome?"

"Donnie's birthday," Jack explains, "we're celebrating. Wanna come say hi?"

"Of course." You smile.

As you approach the table, conversation dips for a beat before Santos lets out a low whistle. "No way. This is your girl, Abbot?"

Jack doesn't answer, just gently pulls you closer and kisses you to make a point. His hand settles just above the curve of your ass, thumb brushing slow circles while you lean into him.

Langdon raises his brows. "My mind is blown right now. How'd you convince her to put up with you?"

"He didn't," you say sweetly, crossing one leg over the other. "I just like a man who can handle power tools, bruised ribs… and knows exactly what he’s doing in bed."

Jack nearly chokes on his drink, and the group erupts with laughter and a few scandalized woo-hoos. He clears his throat, glancing at you with a half-smirk. “Remind me to keep you away from tequila.”

You say goodbye to Jack's coworkers and your friends—they all had their jaws on the floor when they finally saw Jack in the flesh. With screams of "you go get it girl" and "someone's gettin' some tonight" following you out, you finally leave the bar, ears flushed, heart hammering in your chest.

You take a deep breath, finally breathing cool, fresh air. Jack's given you his jacket, like the gentleman he is, and now you're walking home, hand in hand.

"You okay walking? Want me to carry you?" Jack asks, glancing sideways.

You shake your head. "Need to walk off the alcohol anyway."

He hums, "So how was your night?"

"Fun!" you say brightly, then wrinkle your nose, "Until that asshole tried touching me. Ugh."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Jack says, kissing your hand.

"It's okay, you were there to save me. And you made it all okay." You smile, draping his arm around your shoulders. "Though maybe it’s the dress. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn this."

"No, no, we're not gonna do that." Jack stops walking. "You said no, and he didn't listen, he's an ass, and karma will get him one day."

You hum, though Jack can tell you're still not convinced.

Jack turns to you and gently cups your cheek, his thumb grazing along your jaw. "Sweetheart. You can dress any way you like. You look stunning tonight. You always do."

You smile softly. "Okay."

His mouth curls into that slow, grinch-like smirk you know too well. "Besides... I love being the one to take off those clothes once you're done showing off."

Your gasp, then narrow your eyes playfully. "Is that a threat, Dr. Abbot?"

"Oh, baby," he says, sliding his hand from your cheek to the back of your neck, "That’s a promise."

----

a/n: kill me now || side note I have like 5 drafts all wip about this man, so help me god

[fear-is-truth]

BEING IN A POLY RELATIONSHIP WITH THANOS & NAM-GYU l headcanons

pairing — thanos x reader x nam-gyu warnings — (mild) s2 spoilers. smut author’s note — i wrote some corny lyrics for this lol

──⟢  fear-is-truth — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

thanos recruited you into his “team” because of his attraction to you. the rapper didn’t try to hide that he found you hot, and he made sure you knew it, throwing compliments your way. his flirting was over-the-top and shameless. he’d call you “senorita” or “babe” in a sing-song voice, leaning in close to make sure you couldn’t ignore him. his favourite move was to serenade you with cheesy raps that made everyone cringe.

one day, thanos sidles up to you, a wide, cocky-ass smirk plastered on his face. he’s got his hands on his hips, like he’s about to drop the hottest bars in the universe. “yo, senorita,” he starts, “you’re the queen of my world, can’t you see? ain’t no one gonna take my throne, you and me, together, baby, we’re destiny!” while nam-gyu, in the background, is rolling his eyes so hard he could probably see the back of his skull. but thanos keeps going, totally into it, “baby, we can rule the game, you and i, got them all thinking i’m the reason they’ll die. you’ll be my queen, i’ll be your king, together we’ll make this whole thing sing!” it’s a miracle you don’t combust from secondhand embarrassment.

nam-gyu, as thanos’s second-in-command, was pissed from the start. in the beginning, it seemed like he was just territorial—angry that you were disrupting the group dynamic. he’d throw side comments like, “oh, great, now we’ve got a distraction,” and give you cold, assessing looks. his irritation was obvious, especially when thanos started giving you preferential treatment, like sitting beside you during meals or casually throwing an arm over your shoulder during group talks.

he tried to act more “mature” than thanos (spoiler: he wasn’t). his idea of flirting was to act tough, which mostly involved bullying weaker players to look impressive. it was like watching a middle schooler try to flex for their crush. in reality, he just looks like an asshole, and you feel annoyed by his attempts to bully someone into submission to show off. he catches your disapproving glare and immediately tries to backtrack, but it just makes it worse.

thanos wasn’t subtle about his future plans for you. “after we win this thing, you’re coming with me,” he promised you confidently. “i’ll make you my official girl. the fans will eat it up—thanos and his queen.” he didn’t ask if you wanted that, just assumed you’d go along with it lol. nam-gyu, on the other hand, played dirtier. when thanos wasn’t around, he tried to plant seeds of doubt in your mind, leaning in to whisper confidentially. “he’s a scumbag, you know. all talk, no loyalty. don’t let him fool you,”

during meals, both of them insisted on sitting next to you, even if it meant practically wrestling each other to the ground. there were no tables, just groups eating near the bunk beds or stairs leading up to them, and you always ended up sandwiched between the two guys. thanos would slouch with his arm around your shoulders, smirking at anyone who looked your way. nam-gyu would mutter snide comments under his breath, low enough for you to hear, but not enough for thanos to notice.

then came the game “mingle,” where the players had to group up based on a random number announced over the PA system. when the voice said “two,” both thanos and nam-gyu grabbed your arm at the same time. “she’s going with me,” thanos barked, pulling you toward him. “what the fuck about me?” nam-gyu shot back, tugging you in the opposite direction. if it hadn’t been for se-mi, who quickly pulled you into a room with her (the two boys found a room next to you), the four of you would’ve fucking died.

the tension escalated at night. at first, both of them insisted on sleeping next to your bunk bed. but as time went on, they started fighting over who got to sleep in your bed. it started as bickering—“move, she doesn’t want you here,” nam-gyu would snap, trying to shove thanos aside. “speak for yourself, bro,” thanos would shoot back, climbing up anyway. it’s like a power struggle between two self-proclaimed alpha males, but it’s over you, which just feels awkward. each one tries to subtly imply their superiority by making the argument about who has the better “qualifications” to be your bunkmate. eventually, the rivalry reached its peak when they both tried to squeeze into your bed at the same time. you ended up stuck between them, neither willing to back down, and neither particularly caring how uncomfortable it made you.

despite the rivalry, the situation eventually settles into some sort of… equilibrium. neither thanos nor nam-gyu backed down completely, but they seemed to reach an unspoken agreement. the two of them started “sharing” you, like some fucked up custody arrangement.

you start to realise that maybe—just maybe—this unholy triangle might not be such a bad thing after all. meal time turned into a prelude for something else entirely. when everyone was distracted, one of them would catch your eye, silently signaling for you to follow. you’d find yourself slipping away to meet them in the bathroom stall.

thanos is all energy, and unable to shut up—being balls deep inside you, his dirty talk came easily, an endless stream of words that tumbled out in rapid succession, that had you equal parts flustered and irritated. especially with how careless he was. you’d have to kiss him just to silence him, pressing your lips to his until his words were replaced by muffled groans. whenever you grabbed his hair, his reaction was instant—a breathy whimper that only seemed to spur him on more. but almost as quickly as the sound left his lips, he was smirking, leaning in to tease you. “don’t mess it up, baby,” he’d warn, his voice playful yet smug. “this shit cost a lot to style.”

nam-gyu, in contrast, was rougher and far less interested in theatrics. he wasn’t one for words—far too focused to waste time on anything unnecessary. he had you pinned firmly against the partition wall, the cool surface digging into your back as beads of perspiration formed along his brow. the thin structure trembled violently under the sheer force of his movements, creaking with every thrust as though it might give way at any second. the silence between you was broken only by a few curses and grunts that escaped him.

[hairmetal666]

Steve wins the bat plush at a fair when he's seven. He doesn't care about bats, but it's the prize for making all five baskets in the basketball game, so he gets the little bat. Its eyes are a little crooked and one wing is slightly smaller than the other, but it being lopsided sort of makes it cuter.

He and his dad, they're supposed to be going on rides now, but his dad's pager keeps going off. He puts Steve next to a funnel cake stand, tells him not to move, and goes in search of a pay phone. Fifteen minutes pass, and Steve is bored under the flashing lights and tinkling music. He wants to play not sit and wait.

Eventually, he drifts back towards the midway, watches the people rushing by, searches for a sign of his dad's return. His attention is caught by another boy at the basketball booth. He has to be about Steve's age, with a mop of dark curls on top of his head and a jean jacket that's slightly too big, sleeves flopping over his hands as he lines up his shots.

This boy, he's terrible at basketball. Every shot is too high or too short or goes wide, but he's trying. Even from this distance, Steve can see how hard he's trying. He uses up his five balls, fishes into his jacket pocket for more money, and gets five more.

He misses every shot. This time, when he goes back for more money, he comes up empty. Steve thinks he sees his lip shaking.

A man, one in a leather jacket and boots that Steve thinks look mean, comes up to the boy, drops a heavy hand on his shoulder. He's too far away to hear the conversation, assumes the boy asks to play again and the man's response is a shaken head and a tight smile. They walk away from the games, right towards Steve, who slinks back to the side of the midway, not wanting to be caught staring.

"What was it you wanted? That stupid bat? Just another piece of trash you wanna bring in my house." Steve hears as they pass.

The boy nods, but keeps his eyes down and to the side.

He feels bad then. Felt bad before, but now he looks at his own bat, at its funny eyes and poorly attached wings, and wishes he could hand it over to the boy who really wants it. Steve almost does, then, makes to go after them, but his dad appears, dropping a hand to Steve's shoulder and saying, "ready to hit those rides?" And he knows the opportunity is gone, knows his dad will say it's too soft, not what men do.

Steve manages to lose himself for a while in the swirling lights and funhouse music and carnival rides, forget about the little bat in his back pocket and the boy who wanted one so desperately. But then his dad's pager goes off some more, he goes back to the pay phone, and Steve ducks into the low brick building that houses the bathrooms.

His eyes immediately land on the same boy from the basketball game. His eyes are red, face damp, obviously from tears, and Steve just--

"Here." He shoves the bat into the boy's chest.

For a second, the brownest eyes Steve's ever seen widen at him, before narrowing in a harsh glare, the boy's teeth barred.

"Why?" He snarls.

Steve thinks he may regret every choice that led him to this but he says, he says, "Because I want you to have it."

The boy blinks a few times, hand reaching out to gently pinch the bat's smallest wing. "You sure?"

Steve nods and the bat is slowly withdrawn from his grasp.

"No takesies-backsies?"

"It's yours."

The boy looks at the bat in awe, and Steve says, "see? It already looks happier with you."

The boy's beaming smile is cut-off by a voice calling from the door, "you in there,? I ain't got time to be waiting for your boohooing."

"Coming!" The boy carefully tucks the bat into an inner pocket of his jacket. "Thank you," he whispers, eyes big and glistening and happy, before he disappears out the door.

---

13 years later, give or take a few months, and Steve stands in the cracked shell of a bisected trailer, rummaging through what remains of a life well-lived, searching for anything whole. He's already found a few undamaged mugs and clean hats, but this room--it took a lot of damage. The brunt of it, really. Some sick sort of joke, after everything.

It's mostly rubble in here, scraps of fabric; slivers of notebook paper, magazine, poster; crumbled shards of vinyl and cassette plastic. A few times he comes across the disembodied limb of one of those dnd figures, and something weird happens to his throat.

In the far corner there's half of a dresser collapsed into itself, and he shuffles through the debris to see what he can find. There's something, soft and black, just the edge of it, peaking out from under half of a drawer face. He pulls it out, careful as can be and it's--it's a plush bat. It's a little dirty, but unharmed, though its eyes are a little wonky, and one wing is smaller than the other.

He holds it and he stares and he has to brace himself against the wall. It can't be--it's not the same one--but he remembers those big brown eyes and the curls and--

"Harrington," a warm, rich voice calls from what's left of the hallway. "You get lost in there?"

Eddie shuffles in, slow, careful with his crutches. And it--it took so long, months and months of convalesce and physical therapy, still physical therapy, but he's here. He's alive. He's perfect. And the something blooming between them, it's not spoken yet, but it's there, growing, and now, now--

"Oh my god, you found Lilith! I thought she was toast."

"Lilith?" He's still cradling the little lopsided bat in his hands, but moves closer to hand it over to Eddie.

"Yes, Lilith." Eddie takes the bat, presses it to his chest. "The first boy I ever loved gave her to me."

His heart turns over in his chest and when he swallows his throat clicks. Eddie doesn't notice, he's smiling softly at the bat, at Lilith, but then, "why are you looking at me like that?"

"First boy you ever loved?" He says. He thinks he sounds normal.

Somehow, Eddie's smile grows even softer. "Yeah. Roan County Fair, years ago. Tried to win her, but--" he clicks his tongue--"never had great hand-eye coordination. And then this kid just gave her to me out of nowhere. I used to think I was going to marry him."

"And now?"

Eddie laughs. "I grew up, Steve."

And for a second, he doesn't know what to say, but then, "I was right then, huh? That she'd be happier with you."

He stares at Steve, those same big brown eyes, wide and glistening. "Steve that was--Steve?" Eddie presses a hand over his mouth, overcome, before launching himself into Steve's arms. The crutches clatter to the floor, but Steve has him, will always have him, no matter what.

"I can't believe you kept her," Steve whispers.

"God, I carry her everywhere. She's Corroded Coffin's mascot, and you--Steve, I can't believe that was you."

"Surprise," he bumps Eddie's forehead with his.

They hold each other in the center of the destruction, but none of that matters right now, not when it feels like every moment since they very first met as children was leading them to this.

From the other half of the trailer, they hear footsteps, chattering, Wayne and Robin and Dustin, but Steve wants this to last a little longer.

"So, marriage...that still off the table?"

Eddie laughs softly, nuzzles his face against Steve's neck. "Are you kidding, sweetheart? No way I'm letting you go."

[malum-forev]

Casual

Summary: a glimpse into your secret relationship with Bucky. The one he threw away.

CABNW!Bucky x Agent!Reader

Part 2: More Than Casual?

“This is so, so wrong.” Bucky mumbles against your lips, hands tangled in your hair. 

“But it feels so right.” You counter, looking up at the heaving super soldier through your eyelashes. 

He wasn’t all wrong. It was heavily looked down upon for a senior member to fraternize with a younger trainee. But who cares when the two of you are under the influence of heavy alcohol and worn out from your most recent mission?

It should’ve ended after that. You were supposed to be a one night stand. But Bucky couldn’t get you out of his mind. And what bothered him the most was that you seemed unfazed. 

“Was it not as mind blowing for you as it was for me?” Bucky says in between deep thrusts, the wrinkle between his eyebrow creasing.

“What?” You ask breathlessly. A second ago you were on a mind numbing roll heading toward climax and now, he’s completely taken you out of it with just a couple of words. “What are you talking about.”

He dives deeper, making your eyes roll back. “You’re the best I’ve ever had in decades, and you just acted like I was average.”

You have to stop yourself from laughing. “Didn’t we agree that we were going to keep our little meeting low key?” 

“Low key doesn’t mean forget about it completely.” Bucky says with a huff. 

Your eyebrows raise. “You want recognition.”

“I want you to admit I’m the best you’ve ever had.” His voice is gravelly, his eyes scan your face like he’s trying to catch every single movement in it. 

“And if it wasn’t?” You challenge. 

“Then you’d be lying.” He trails his vibranium arm over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

“How do you know?” You whisper. 

“Because I was right there with you, doll.” He smiles against your lips, driving his hips up. 

A couple of hookups turned into him leaving an extra set of clothes at your place. Supposedly he only did it to make your meet ups more efficient. But you knew that the Sergeant was lying to you, and to himself. Every morning he’d make his way through your kitchen, making two coffees and cleaning up whatever you’d left the night before. 

A few months later, you cleared a couple of drawers for him. And Bucky gladly left his favorite Henley’s at your place along with his infamous leather jacket. 

Neither one of you knew what this was but you were having fun. And that’s what counted, right?

You liked moving up the ranks without having anyone undermine your work just because you’re sleeping with Bucky. And he liked not having to be vulnerable in front of other people. 

But soon, months turned into years. And before you knew it, Bucky was bringing you flowers every Friday and staying over more days than not. 

He’d share his fear of navigating the new world without a clear purpose. And you’d talk about how this job made you feel lonely most of the time. 

Your fellow agents would always try to set you up with whoever they knew. You’d politely decline the blind dates, not missing the way Bucky would give whoever would be your potential date, a tougher routine. 

And Bucky, well, no one was really trying to set him up with anyone. 

But your favorite part was work functions. Galas and charities where the two of you would act like strangers only to go back home to the same address. It was like a game for you two, until it wasn’t. 

“Sergeant Barnes,” you nod your head, ordering a cocktail at the bar. 

He tilts his head. “Agent.”

You should have known something was off, his eyes were dull and his voice sounded tight. But you assumed it was just because of the setting. Bucky never felt comfortable in places like this. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask under your breath.

“Nothing,” his voice is clipped. 

A photographer comes close to you two, holding up his camera and getting a picture before either one of you could object. 

“Delete that,” Bucky snaps. “Now!”

“What’s gotten into you?” You hiss, waving away the innocent photographer. 

“We can’t be seen together.” His blue eyes look everywhere but yours. “It’s not good for my image to be with a former widow.”

Your jaw slacks. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Sure, Bucky had expressed some interest in running for congress but you never thought he was serious. And between constant missions and Bucky staying back, you weren’t quite up to date with the man you’ve been seeing for three years. 

“I hired a publicist,” He shoots a look back to a man standing close to Sam. “He recommends I stay away with my former team. It looks better for my campaign if I focus on the future, rather than the past.”

“The past?” Your breath gets caught in your throat. 

Bucky looks down at the floor. 

“So us…” You couldn’t finish your sentence. 

“Us?” Bucky raises his eyebrows, questioning all those years of you two. 

You scoff. “Drop the act, you know what’s between us.”

“Look, these years have been nice,” Bucky gulps. “But we both knew that we were just playing around.”

“Playing around?” You raise your eyebrows, a knot forming in your throat. 

“Casual.” He shrugs. 

“Was it casual when you chased after me in Bangladesh?” You challenge. “Was it casual when you asked me to stay because you wanted to feel me at night? Was it casual when you said you loved me?”

Bucky finally looks at you. “You have to understand, congress means I can make an impact-“

You finish off your drink. “Listen to me, James Buchanan Barnes, this is the last time I let you speak to me. From now on, we’re strangers—better yet, you’re dead to me.”

“C’mon, it doesn’t have to be like this,” he tries to hold your hand but you escape his soft grip. 

“Good luck, Congressman Barnes,” your eyes get glassy. “I hope you get everything you want.”

You never look back, not wanting to let him see how much he hurt you. 

Author's Note: hihiiii please remember I posted the first chapter of my book All For The Crown, it's on my page. I'd love it if you guys could take a read and leave me a comment! Thanks as always for all the love! My asks are always open!

[rvp32]

Falling for the Unknown

Karina x reader

length: 10K

Thank you so much msafterhours and kesujo for proofreading

The crowd surges with energy, the stadium shaking as Tottenham wins a corner kick. You shift in your seat, the weight of your brace tugging at your leg—a constant reminder that you should be out there on the football pitch, not watching from the stands. Your knee bounces restlessly, gripping them so tightly you're worried they'll snap. All you want is to be out there on the pitch. Not here, not like this, sidelined when every part of you is aching to play.

The seat next to you creaks, and someone slips into it. You glance over and see a woman wearing an oversized hoodie and a cap pulled low over her face. Despite her casual outfit, there’s an air about her—a presence that’s hard to miss. She offers a small nod and an even smaller smile, tucking herself in as though she hopes to disappear.

“Excuse me,” she murmurs, her voice soft but steady.

“No problem,” you reply, shifting slightly.

You try to refocus on the game, but something about her pulls at your attention, her quiet energy filling the space between you. When Son Heung Min takes possession and streaks down the pitch, she leans forward in her seat, her hands balling into excited fists.

“You’re rooting for Tottenham?” you ask, breaking the silence as a half-smile tugs at your lips.

Her focus flickers to you, and you catch the faint curve of a grin under the brim of her cap. “Not Tottenham. Heung Min Son. He’s from Korea. Same as me. Gotta cheer for my own.”

The way she says it—with pride, subtle but unmistakable—makes you smile. She feels familiar, though you can’t put your finger on why.

“Fair enough,” you say with a shrug. “Watching him is great and all, but I’d kill to be out there right now. Watching just isn’t the same when you know what it’s like to play.”

Her head tilts slightly as if she’s studying you. “You used to play?”

“Kind of,” you hedge, not wanting to make it a big deal. “I just... miss it, that’s all. The game. The rush. Being part of it.”

You glance back at her to find her watching you, curious but unreadable.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” she says, her tone casual but pointed.

"Oh, right," you reply, then tell her your name. She repeats it to you and offers a smile and a hand. Her grip is warm but firm, and her smile is understated, but you notice it all the same.

"I'm Jimin"

Her name rolls over you like a mystery, simple yet layered. You get the feeling there’s more to her than meets the eye. And maybe, just maybe, she’s thinking the same thing about you.

The match kicks into high gear, and with every near miss or botched pass, the tension grows. You're so focused on the play that you almost miss the low chuckle beside you.

“Are they trying to lose possession?” Jimin says, biting back a grin as one of United’s midfielders gets dispossessed in a sloppy tackle.

You lean back in mock offense, shaking your head. “Bold words for someone cheering for a team that’s about to concede.”

She gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “How dare you! Tottenham has been flawless today.”

“Flawless? Did we watch the same first half? Pretty sure Son had a one-on-one and managed to kick it straight at the keeper.”

“That was strategy,” she counters, narrowing her eyes playfully. “He was… throwing the keeper off for the next one.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Ah, of course. Miss on purpose to make him overconfident. Genius.”

She smirks, rolling her eyes but not bothering to defend her logic. You find yourself grinning despite yourself. For someone so discreet, she’s got a lively, quick wit that keeps you on your toes.

A few minutes later, one of your defenders attempts a clearance and shanks it straight up into the air. Tottenham pounces on the mistake, but the shot flies well over the bar.

Jimin lets out a loud, exaggerated sigh. “See, that’s what happens when you make fun of Son. Karma works fast.”

“Yeah?” you reply, gesturing at the field. “Looks to me like karma hit your team there. Did that shot even stay in the stadium?”

Her laugh is soft but genuine, bubbling out before she can stop herself. “Okay, that was bad,” she admits, still giggling. “Maybe they’re tired from carrying the match.”

“Carrying? You mean carrying the ball to their goal line?”

Her jaw drops, and for a second, you’re sure she’s trying to come up with a comeback. Instead, she lightly nudges your arm with her elbow, a mock scolding gesture. “You’re mean.”

“I’m honest.” You grin, glancing sideways at her. She’s not looking at the field now, but at you, her face slightly hidden beneath her cap, her expression amused but softer than before.

As the game heats up, you both start reacting in sync—wincing at close calls and groaning when your respective teams miss chances. But there’s a lightness in your shared frustrations, and the banter flows naturally.

When United fumbles an easy counterattack, you drop your head into your hands. “Are we playing with our shoelaces tied together?”

Jimin bursts out laughing, practically leaning into you. “At least they’re consistent! I feel like this could be a comedy show.”

Moments later, Tottenham fluffs a promising free kick, sending the ball soaring into the stands. You glance at her and deadpan, “Your turn. What was that, a field goal attempt?”

She stares at the pitch, lips pressed together in an attempt to look serious, but the edges of her mouth twitch. “I have no explanation,” she says, shaking her head. “Let’s just say they’re… being humble.”

“Humble?”

“Yes,” she nods confidently. “They’re giving United false hope before destroying them.”

“Destroying themselves, maybe.”

You nudge her with your elbow this time, and the spark of challenge in her eyes is enough to tell you she’s about to retort. Before she can, the crowd erupts as United forces a save from Tottenham’s keeper. Both of you pause, swept up in the thrill of the moment.

When the noise dies down, Jimin grins at you. “Okay, fine. Your team has their moments.”

“You mean ‘moment,’ singular,” you reply. “We’ve only had one good play.”

She tilts her head, lips pursed. “You’re more self-aware than I expected.”

“Why, thank you,” you shoot back.

The words hang there for a second, easy but charged. She laughs softly, looking back at the pitch. It’s not much, just a small moment shared between two people in a stadium full of thousands. But somehow, it feels significant.

The final whistle blows and the stadium erupts into a medley of cheers and groans, depending on which side the fans were on. You barely notice. The game could’ve ended an hour ago for all you care. Your thoughts are preoccupied with the woman sitting next to you, the one who somehow turned a frustrating day on the sidelines into something you’re reluctant to let go of.

Jimin stretches her arms lazily, a satisfied grin on her face as the players begin to shake hands on the pitch. “Well, that was fun,” she says, pulling her hoodie tighter. “Stressful, but fun.”

“Speak for yourself,” you tease, gesturing to your team trudging off the field. “I’ve aged ten years watching that mess.”

She laughs, the sound genuine, and you can’t help but smile back. For someone who made such an effort to stay inconspicuous, she’d become the center of your focus. Her easy banter, quick wit, and that occasional spark of mischief made the ninety minutes flash by faster than you thought possible.

People start to filter out of the stands, and you glance at the growing exodus with a sudden pang of panic. You don’t want to leave, at least not before figuring out how to see her again. But how do you ask without sounding like… well, a complete idiot?

“Thanks for keeping me entertained,” you say, testing the waters. “I was worried I’d spend the night sulking, but you made it bearable.”

“Bearable?” she repeats, pretending to be offended. “What a glowing compliment.”

“Fine, you made it… slightly enjoyable,” you say, grinning.

She narrows her eyes at you but lets it slide, standing and dusting imaginary lint off her hoodie. “Well, I’m glad I could brighten up your very exciting night of sitting still.”

You watch as she adjusts her cap, clearly preparing to leave, and the urgency spikes. Your chance is slipping away, and your tongue feels like it’s made of lead.

“Hey,” you blurt out awkwardly, and she pauses, looking at you expectantly. You scramble to keep your tone light. “So… do you, uh, give your number to people who survived watching their team crash and burn?”

Her eyebrows lift in surprise, and for a split second, you worry you’ve blown it. But then a small, amused smile plays at her lips.

“Survived, huh?” she echoes, reaching for her phone. “You make a compelling case.”

Your heart jumps as she taps her screen and then holds it out toward you. You quickly input your number and save it. “I’m putting myself down as ‘The Entertained.’ Just so you don’t forget,” you say, trying to hide your nerves with humor.

She laughs softly, tucking the phone back into her hoodie pocket. “I’ll make sure I remember.”

As she starts to step away, she pauses and turns back to you, her expression thoughtful. “By the way, there’s this bar at The Lowry Hotel. Quiet, discreet, nice atmosphere. If you’re free tonight…”

Her words hang in the air, the invitation surprising but undeniably deliberate.

You blink, processing her suggestion as quickly as you can without looking like a complete idiot. “I… yeah, I’d like that,” you manage, your voice betraying the excitement you’re trying to keep in check.

“Good,” she says, her smile small but somehow brighter than the stadium lights. “Meet me there around eight?”

You nod, trying to play it cool despite the fact your heart is doing somersaults. “I’ll be there.”

She gives you a quick wave before disappearing into the dispersing crowd, leaving you sitting there with a racing pulse, a saved number, and a strange feeling that maybe tonight isn’t over just yet.

The crowd thins, the noise of the stadium fading into the background, but your thoughts are anything but quiet. Jimin’s parting words linger in your mind, looping like a highlight reel: Meet me there around eight. You’ve been invited to a lot of things over the years—interviews, parties, sponsorship deals—but this? This felt different.

You finally make your way to the dressing room, joining your teammates. Their banter is loud and animated, dissecting the game’s highs and lows, but you’re barely tuned in. A couple of them throw curious glances your way, probably picking up on your distracted demeanor, but you brush it off with noncommittal smiles and nods. The injury already drew enough unwanted sympathy; you weren’t about to add, “Oh, by the way, I met someone incredible in the stands tonight” into the mix.

After a quick round of goodbyes, you head home, the familiar comfort of your flat both a relief and a source of frustration. Tonight’s meeting looms, and for the first time in ages, you’re genuinely nervous.

Standing in front of your wardrobe, you stare blankly at the options. Button-ups feel too formal, but a hoodie seems too casual. And then there’s the crutch—practical, necessary, and ruining the aesthetic of every potential outfit you try to piece together. You sigh, slumping onto the edge of your bed.

“This shouldn’t be this hard,” you mutter to yourself. But it is.

It’s not just about the clothes. The pressure comes from how rare this feels—how rare she feels. She didn’t look at you like everyone else does, with that glimmer of recognition that usually comes just before the questions, the assumptions, the offers to take a picture. She laughed at your jokes, called you out when you were being cheeky, and for a while, you forgot about the brace around your leg and the ache of not playing.

There’s no way she knew who you were, right? She didn’t talk about goals or rivalries or the usual clichés you’ve grown used to hearing. She felt really—interested in you, not your career or your reputation.

You rub your hands over your face, both excited and nervous. It had been years since anyone made you feel that way. Fame had a way of isolating you, creating a chasm between you and the rest of the world. But Jimin? She didn’t feel like the world—she felt like the bridge you didn’t know you needed.

You glance at the clock: 6:45 p.m. The thought of being late tightens your chest, but the idea of overthinking and over-dressing makes you groan. Standing again, you sift through the closet with a new goal in mind—keep it simple.

Finally, you settle on a clean, dark jacket over a simple shirt, jeans that fit just right, and comfortable shoes that won’t make your crutch feel more awkward than it already does. There’s no denying the crutch complicates things, but for the first time, it feels secondary. Your nerves don’t come from the injury or how people might stare—they come from the thought of seeing her again.

You glance in the mirror and adjust your jacket. It’s not perfect, but it’s good enough. And besides, she already liked you enough to invite you out. Maybe tonight, for once, it’s not about appearances but the connection you hadn’t dared to hope for.

The excitement bubbles under your skin, tempered by discomfort but impossible to ignore. As you grab your keys and head out the door, you can’t stop thinking about the moment she smiled at you and said Good. Tonight felt like it could be something more than just another night—and you couldn’t wait to see if that was true.

The Lowry’s bar hums with gentle, quiet energy as you settle into your seat at the counter, the clink of glassware and a low murmur of voices in the background blending in an almost soothing way. You take in the surroundings—a few scattered patrons, cozy lighting—and fiddle with the cocktail napkin beneath your old fashioned, trying to distract yourself from the small knot of nerves that keeps tightening in your stomach.

You hadn’t realized how tense you’d been until the moment you sat down here, waiting. The minutes crawl by and your mind begins to overthink everything. What if she changes her mind and doesn’t show up? What if she realized inviting you out was a mistake? The simple thought twists something deep inside you.

But just as you’re about to take your first sip, a hand grazes your shoulder—light and gentle, like an electric jolt that cuts through the sea of your anxious thoughts. You snap your head around, and there she is—standing before you, an effortless beauty.

She’s dressed in an emerald shirt dress, and the way the light hits it gives the fabric a liquid shine that you can’t help but notice. The rich green hue complements her fair skin, and the dress moves gracefully with her every motion. It fits perfectly, cinched just enough at the waist to highlight her figure. The sleeves fall delicately, and there’s a small slit along one side that catches your eye as she shifts her weight. Her long black hair tumbles over one shoulder in soft waves, framing her face in a way that somehow makes her seem even more striking than when you first met.

Her look is confident, but she doesn’t radiate the usual celebrity vibe—there's no over-the-top flair or pretense. She seems grounded, accessible, someone who isn’t caught up in her appearance, even though it’s clear she could make heads turn effortlessly. As she takes the seat beside you, there’s no sign of the usual guarded behavior of someone used to the spotlight. In that moment, she’s just another person you’re meeting—and it’s oddly refreshing.

“You didn’t have to wait this long,” she teases with a soft, playful smile, her eyes warm with that casual, no-pressure charm. “Were you worried I’d bail?”

You can’t help but feel a little more at ease. “Not at all,” you reply, brushing away the thought of being stood up. “I just got here early.”

She chuckles a sound that immediately sets you even more at ease. “You're definitely on time. I, on the other hand, maybe took my time getting ready.” She taps her fingers on the bar and grins, looking slightly sheepish, though the confidence never fully fades from her presence.

You look her up and down, no longer trying to ignore how stunning she looks in that dress. You take in the way she’s carrying herself without even trying too hard, and for the first time in what feels like a long while, you feel normal sitting beside someone.

“You look great,” you finally manage, your voice softer than you intend, surprised by how genuine your compliment comes across. She didn’t need any fanfare, no show of luxuries or grand gestures—she just is.

“Thanks,” she says, slightly flustered but masking it with a small shrug. “I figured this dress would be fine for a restaurant of this level.”

“I was trying to look decent, too,” you joke. “But I wasn’t sure what ‘decent’ meant in this situation.”

She laughs, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “That makes two of us,” she says, leaning against the bar a little more comfortably as she orders a drink, her tone laid-back and completely at ease.

“So,” she says after a moment, glancing at your drink. “What is it about an old-fashioned you like? Never had one before myself.”

You pause, surprised at the genuine curiosity in her voice—like she’s asking not because she’s trying to keep up with some conversation routine, but because she truly wants to know. “I don’t know, really,” you respond, grateful for the chance to dive into the simplicity of this interaction. “It’s reliable, you know? Like me—when it comes to drinks. Doesn’t need a bunch of flair. Just straight to the point.”

“Straight to the point?” she echoes, eyes gleaming in amusement. “Then I’m glad I’m not a ‘complicated cocktail.’” She laughs at her own joke, nudging you playfully.

It’s funny how quickly the conversation flows—how easily the weight of self-awareness seems to vanish. You’re talking to her just like you would any ordinary person, and she’s responding like you’re just an ordinary guy. For that moment, there’s nothing remarkable about either of you; there’s no fame, no headlines, just two people trying to have a quiet night out after a chance encounter. And for some reason, that makes everything feel all the more real.

As you settle into the rhythm of the conversation, the noise of the world around you fades into the background. And with each passing second, it’s harder and harder to picture the world that she could potentially live in—the one you don’t know about, where she could be someone completely different from the woman you’re laughing with right now.

The conversation flows effortlessly between you two as the night stretches on, each exchange between you both deeper than the last but still lighthearted enough to make you both chuckle without thinking too hard. There’s an ease to it—a sense of freedom in just talking, being completely unaffected by the distractions that life usually throws at you.

“You know, sometimes I think it would be nice to just… disappear,” Jimin says, taking a sip of her drink, her gaze distant for a brief moment. “Not permanently, just… vanish for a while and live somewhere where nobody knows your name. No expectations, no pressures. Just doing whatever you want, you know?”

You nod, feeling a strange sense of understanding. There’s something so undeniably human about the need for freedom. “I get that. It’s easy to get caught up in everything else, especially when people start treating you differently. It's almost like you can’t even exist for yourself anymore.”

She looks over at you, her eyes thoughtful, catching the light from the bar just enough for her long lashes to cast soft shadows against her cheeks. There’s an almost wistful look to her, but it doesn’t diminish the softness in her gaze. “Exactly! Like… you can’t be your real self, because you’re always someone else in their eyes. Whether it’s someone’s idea of who you should be, or the version of you they want you to be, you stop knowing who you are.”

You smile gently, admiring the way her eyes shift when she speaks, the way her voice seems to take on a dreamier, more intimate tone, revealing a side of her you’ve never seen on stage or through the screen. “Yeah,” you reply, “I get it more than you probably think. I’d love to just take a break, and escape for a bit. No cameras. Just… do whatever feels right.”

Her lips curl into a soft smile, and for a moment, it feels like the world stops. “Seems like we’re both yearning for the same thing,” she says. “Maybe we’ll just disappear together.”

The weight of her words sits between you, but before either of you can fully sink into it, she lets out a small laugh. “Can you imagine? You and me, in some random country, pretending to be regular tourists.”

“You think we’d blend in?” you tease, raising an eyebrow. “If people saw you, they’d probably think we were famous from the second we step out.”

“Not true,” she counters, leaning closer, her laugh becoming brighter. “I could wear sunglasses the whole time, and no one would know it’s me.”

“Ha, well I could walk around and claim I’m a professional soccer player for, like… a tiny club or something,” you lied, leaning back in your chair, resting your hand on your drink, you don’t want her entire view about your profession, you want her to genuinely get to know you.

Her eyes flash with mischief. “You? A soccer player? I’ve seen your crutch. Hard to pull that off.” Her words are teasing, but there’s a genuine lightness in her voice that you can’t help but smile at.

She shakes her head, her laughter twinkling like it’s a shared secret, and you catch yourself for a second, admiring how incredibly radiant she looks in this moment. It’s not just the way her face lights up or the way her dress catches the bar lights; it’s the sense of comfort she exudes as if you both get what the other needs.

Suddenly, the waiter comes over, breaking the mood entirely. He’s an older man, and you can see a certain tiredness in his eyes. “Excuse me, but we’ll be closing soon,” he says politely, his voice kind but firm. His words are almost apologetic as he gestures around the bar, indicating that the night is ending.

You glance at Jimin, and both of you are suddenly brought back to the reality of time. There's a momentary, almost imperceptible shift between you both—a small sigh, a quick look, and then that familiar weight of the outside world pressing in.

"Right," you say, laughing awkwardly, “Guess it’s already late, huh?”

Jimin seems to be calculating something, her eyes narrowing slightly in thought before meeting your gaze with a sudden gleam of mischief. “Actually,” she begins, her voice dropping to a playful murmur, “if you don’t mind… we could hang out in my room for a bit after. I always end up missing out on the fun when things get too busy. Plus… you don’t seem to be in any rush to go anywhere.”

You grin at her, finding it impossible not to tease. "Ah, so you’re trying to keep me around for more of your delightful company, huh?"

She raises an eyebrow in return, a smirk tugging at her lips. "What, are you saying I couldn’t get enough of you?"

You laugh lightly, the playfulness sparking once again between you two. “You’re right, I could see why you’d need some more of me.��� You give her a cheeky wink, and even though you’re half-joking, the warmth from the playful exchange makes you feel suddenly at ease. In her presence, things just seem... lighter.

Jimin laughs again, a sound that sends a pleasant shiver through your chest. “Maybe just this once. You’d be surprised how often I’ve had to cancel plans or end up by myself. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy my time alone, but… tonight’s been Amazing”

The sincerity of her words lingers with you for a moment before your grin returns. "Well, I guess I’ll take you up on your offer," you say, nodding toward the door. 

You both stand, the light atmosphere between you two still strong, keeping things easy and uncomplicated as you begin to walk toward the exit. You’re about to follow her when she turns and pauses, giving you a look that’s almost too soft to be fleeting but too playful to be serious.

“Well, come on then," she says, her voice low but excited, full of intent. “Are we going or not?”

The walk to Jimin’s room is lighthearted, with teasing remarks flying back and forth, keeping the mood buoyant. When the elevator doors open, she playfully gestures for you to follow her, her emerald dress swishing gently as she leads the way down the hallway.

“You didn’t expect a five-star suite, did you?” she says over her shoulder, unlocking the door.

“Of course not,” you tease. “But given the night’s events, I’m just glad you’re not leading me to the janitor’s closet.”

She bursts into laughter, shaking her head as she pushes the door open. Her room is modest yet elegant, with warm lighting and a cozy feel. It’s much less extravagant than you’d expect, which, in a way, fits perfectly with the down-to-earth side of her you’ve gotten to know.

As the door shuts behind you, she kicks off her shoes and flops onto the small sofa by the window. “Okay, we’ve discussed soccer and random dreams, but what about food? What’s your guilty pleasure?” she asks, patting the seat beside her.

You drop down onto the couch, leaning back comfortably. “Pizza,” you admit almost sheepishly. “The greasy, extra-cheese kind that’s probably got more calories than I need in a week.”

She gasps dramatically, clutching her chest. “Pizza? That’s so basic! I thought you’d be more creative. Aren’t athletes supposed to have fancy nutrition plans or something?”

“I do,” you retort, smirking. “But pizza is my cheat day savior. Don’t tell me you’re above a classic slice.”

She tilts her head, grinning. “Fine. But if we’re talking cheat foods, I win. Tteokbokki—spicy rice cakes, no competition. If there’s a heaven, it’s probably made of that.”

“Tteokbokki?” you repeat, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re telling me mushy rice cakes drenched in spicy sauce beat pizza?”

“First of all, mushy is the wrong word,” she says, jabbing her finger toward you in mock offense. “And second, tteokbokki is a cultural treasure. You don’t deserve it.”

You both crack up at each other’s exaggerated expressions, bantering back and forth about which food reigns supreme, each escalating into increasingly ridiculous arguments. When you both tire out, the mood has shifted to a calmer energy.

The conversation starts to fade naturally, and silence settles in like a comfortable blanket. You’re sitting closer than you realized, her arm resting just inches from yours. The soft glow of the lamp lights up her features—the gentle curve of her cheekbones, the glint of her eyes that seem to hold a secret only she knows.

And then, without even fully realizing it, you both move at the same time. You lean in, and so does she, the space between you evaporating in an instant.

When your lips meet, the world seems to fade into the background. The kiss is slow and unhurried, and yet it feels like time itself has stopped. Her lips are warm and soft, fitting perfectly against yours, and for those few seconds, it’s as if nothing else matters. Your heart pounds in your chest, loud enough that you’re sure she can hear it.

The kiss lasts only a moment, but it feels eternal, filled with a mix of tenderness and unspoken emotion that you hadn’t realized had built up between you both. When you finally pull back, your eyes meet hers. She’s looking at you, her expression unreadable but not unhappy.

And then it hits you—what just happened. Your stomach flips with a mixture of exhilaration and nerves.

“I… uh…” you begin, trying to find the words, but none come.

Jimin blinks, then lets out a soft laugh, the sound breaking the tension just enough. “Well… that happened,” she says, her voice warm, laced with the same kind of tension that you’re feeling.

“I wasn’t planning on…” you trail off, unsure of how to finish the thought.

“Neither was I,” she says, her lips curving into a small smile. Something is comforting in the way she’s looking at you, her hand unconsciously brushing against yours.

For a moment, you’re both silent, the gravity of what just happened settling in. But beneath the surface of the shock, you feel something else—a flicker of something new, something that feels undeniably right. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The room feels heavy with unspoken emotions, the electricity between you both palpable. You wonder if you should say something, break the silence, or try to bring things back to the easygoing vibe you’d both been enjoying all night. But before you can even think of what to say, Jimin shifts slightly on the couch, her fingers brushing against your knee as if testing the waters.

You glance over at her, and there’s something in her eyes that wasn’t there before—a quiet intensity, a question, and an answer all at once. She’s still close, close enough that you can see the way her lips part slightly, close enough to catch the faint sweetness of her perfume mingled with the softness of something else—moisturizer, maybe, lingering on her skin.

Then, without a word, she leans in.

Her hands find your face first, delicate fingers framing your jaw as her lips crash against yours with a sudden fervor that takes your breath away. This time, there’s no hesitation, no lingering doubt. The kiss is deep and consuming. Her body presses against yours in a way that leaves no space between you, and her warmth is seared into you through the thin fabric of her dress.

You respond instinctively, your hands moving to her waist as if drawn there by some unseen force. Her dress feels silky beneath your fingers, cool to the touch compared to the heat radiating from her skin. The kiss grows more passionate with every second, her lips soft and full, tasting faintly of the wine she sipped earlier, mingled with something uniquely her.

Her hands slide to the back of your neck, her touch firm yet tender as she tilts her head, deepening the kiss further. Your senses are overloaded—her scent, her touch, the way her body seems to fit perfectly against yours. The world outside her room ceases to exist, and all that remains is her—her lips, her hands, the sweet and intoxicating press of her body against yours.

You’re acutely aware of everything in this moment: the way her hair brushes against your cheek, the subtle warmth of her breath as the kiss slows just slightly, becoming less urgent but no less intense. Her lips move against yours with a rhythm that feels both deliberate and effortless, each motion sending a shiver down your spine.

Her moisturizer leaves a faint taste of sweetness on her skin as you kiss her deeply, a detail that makes this moment feel impossibly more intimate. The air grows heavier between you, charged with an unspoken understanding that transcends words. Her hands slide downward, resting against your chest as she finally pulls back just a fraction, her lips hovering close to yours as if reluctant to let go entirely.

When her eyes meet yours again, they’re smoldering, and her cheeks flush in a way that only makes her more stunning. She lets out a soft, unsteady breath, and her lips curve into the faintest smile.

“Well…” she murmurs, her voice barely audible over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. “That should clear up any doubts, don’t you think?”

Her tone is teasing, but there’s an unmistakable vulnerability in her gaze that makes your chest tighten. You can’t help but laugh softly, the tension breaking just slightly as you rest your forehead lightly against hers.

“Yeah,” you manage to say, your voice husky and tinged with disbelief. “Message received loud and clear.”

She smiles again, her thumb brushing absently against your cheek as her gaze flickers down to your lips and back up to your eyes. It’s clear she’s not in a rush to move away, and you realize that, for the first time in a long while, you feel entirely at ease—no pretenses, no masks, just her and you, connected in a way that feels both new and somehow inevitable.

For a moment, your mind is a whirlwind of emotions. The glow of the soft lighting dances on Jimin's skin, accentuating the curve of her jaw, the delicate shape of her lips, and the faint blush blooming across her cheeks. She looks breathtaking—no, beyond breathtaking—and you can’t help but get lost in the surreal nature of the situation.

Here you are, sitting so intimately close to someone who seemed to fit perfectly with you as if the universe itself had aligned every star to bring you together in this moment. But the intensity of it all—the vulnerability, the yearning in her gaze—has your thoughts racing to places you shouldn’t linger.

Without even realizing it, you lean forward again, capturing her lips in a slower, more deliberate kiss that is still filled with the magnetic pull you feel toward her. Her hands, soft and unyielding, begin to explore your chest, tracing light circles over the fabric of your shirt, the warmth of her palms seeping through. A faint shiver courses through you, but a voice in the back of your head—one part reason, one part hesitation—makes you pull back.

You rest your forehead against hers for a lingering moment, your breath still catching up with the intensity of her kiss. “I don’t know if we should go any further,” you whisper, the words coming out almost reluctantly. “I don’t want us to do something we might regret tomorrow morning.”

The room is silent save for the faint sound of the city outside, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Jimin doesn’t respond immediately, and her silence feels louder than anything she could have said. It creates a sinking feeling in your chest, and for a split second, you wonder if you’ve completely misread her—or worse, let her down.

Taking her lack of response as a quiet agreement, you swallow hard and gently start to shift away from her. “I should probably go,” you murmur, rising to your feet. There’s a soft ache in your voice that even you can hear. This isn’t what you want, but the last thing you’d ever want to do is make her feel rushed into something.

As you head toward the door, a soft, almost imperceptible sound makes you pause—a faint rustling, followed by the light tug of fabric. You glance down, and your heart nearly stops when you see her slender hand gripping the edge of your shirt. Her touch is gentle yet firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

“What if I want this?” she asks softly, her voice trembling slightly but resolute. You turn to face her, and the raw emotion in her eyes catches you off guard. “What if I want you? What if this… is what I need?”

The vulnerability in her voice hits you like a wave. Her confession, so open, so unguarded, leaves you speechless for a moment. You can see the truth in her expression, the way her hands cling to your shirt as if letting go would shatter something fragile between you both. She’s not being impulsive—she’s being honest, and it terrifies you how much you want to believe her.

“Jimin,” you whisper, stepping closer and gently cupping her face with your hands, your thumbs brushing against her cheeks. “Are you sure about this?” Your heart feels like it’s beating out of your chest, caught somewhere between hope and uncertainty.

Her gaze never wavers as she nods, biting her bottom lip. “I’ve never been more sure,” she murmurs, her hands sliding up to rest against your chest. “You’re not like anyone else. With you, I feel... free. I don’t want this night to end.”

Her words wash over you, and any lingering doubts crumble under the weight of the sincerity in her voice.

“Nor do I,” you whisper into her neck as your lips place gentle kisses all over them. Her skin was smooth and smelled like almond vanilla, you couldn’t get enough of her. 

Raw desire takes you over more and more, chipping away at your control as your hands caress and explore her body.

“Jimin, any more than this and I won’t stop, this is your last chance to run,” You warn.

There is no reply from her side, but her actions speak a hundred words. The dress she is wearing is now on the floor, exposing her well-sculpted body. The dress she wore earlier didn’t do enough justice to how perfect this woman is. 

Looking at her body in nothing but a bra and panties puts you in awe. How could something so perfect exist? The need to touch and feel her takes over and you rush to her. The kiss was a mess both of you longed for each other, there was a need to get closer to her that you couldn’t satisfy. Jimin’s legs now warped around your waist and her back slammed against the wall, the kiss was intoxicating but the need to worship every single inch of her body was more.

The kiss breaks when you pull away from Jimin much to her dismay but you are not going to let go of this chance to worship her body. You trail kisses from her cheeks to her collarbone. Her gentle moans and gasps are driving you crazy. You want this woman screaming and moaning your name. 

Your lips latch onto her neck, biting, and nibbling at her sensitive skin. It was going to leave a mark on her pale skin but you didn’t care at least not right now. While your lips were placing naughty little kisses all over her neck, Jimin’s legs let go of you and she is now with each leg around yours. Your hand slowly moves to her panties. 

Jimin soaked through her panties and she freezes up with a loud gasp when your hand grabs her inner thigh. Looking at how she reacts, you tease her a little, hands hovering over her thighs tracing her skin and pulling away just before it reaches the place she wants it at.

Jimin whines when your fingers move in the opposite direction. She can’t take much more teasing, and you finally give her the touch she needs. Jimin let out a loud gasp; you rub her clothed pussy for a few more seconds. The room is filled with the sound of Jimin’s sweet moans; her legs are giving in. 

“Just take off my panties. Please just stop teasing,” Jimin says, there is growing frustration in her voice, and you are not going to deny her any more pleasure. 

The very next moment, you tear away Jimin’s panties and are presented with a glisteningly wet pussy and you are mesmerized by it.

“D-don’t stare,” Jimin’s hands now cover up the very thing you so desperately want to taste.

“No need to be shy, Jimin; you are perfect. Let me worship this perfection, and I will give you a night that you won’t be able to forget,” You say as you place a kiss on the hands that are covering her crotch.

Jimin’s breath hitches at your words, her hands trembling slightly as they shield her from your hungry gaze. The tenderness in your voice, laced with raw desire, sends a shiver down her spine. She hesitates for a moment, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink, but then slowly—agonizingly slowly—she lets her hands fall away, revealing herself to you completely. Her vulnerability only makes her more breathtaking, and you feel your own heartbeat thundering in your chest, a perfect rhythm to match hers.

“God, you’re beautiful,” you whisper, your voice thick with awe as you lower yourself closer, your breath warm against her skin. Jimin squirms slightly, her thighs twitching under your touch, but there’s a flicker of trust in her eyes that tells you she’s ready—more than ready. You press a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh, eliciting a shaky whimper from her lips, and it’s like a spark igniting something primal between you both.

Your hands slide up her thighs, gentle yet firm, parting her legs just enough to give you access to her glistening core. The heat radiating from her is intoxicating, and when your lips finally brush against her, Jimin’s head falls back with a moan that’s equal parts relief and desperation. “Oh… oh God,” she gasps, her fingers instinctively threading through your hair, pulling you closer as if she’s afraid you’ll tease her again.

You don’t. Not this time. Your tongue traces her slowly at first, savoring the taste of her, the way she trembles beneath you. She’s sweet and addictive, and every little sound she makes—every hitch of her breath, every choked whimper—fuels the fire building inside you. You can feel how much she needs this, how much she needs you, and it’s like the world narrows down to just the two of you, locked in this perfect, electric moment.

Jimin’s hips buck slightly, chasing the sensation, and you respond by deepening your movements, your tongue circling her clit with a deliberate tenderness that has her crying out your name. “Yes—please, don’t stop,” she begs, her voice raw and unraveling. You glance up at her, and the sight nearly undoes you: her eyes half-lidded with lust, her lips parted as she pants, her chest heaving with every breath. She’s a vision of pure, unfiltered need, and you’re determined to give her everything she craves.

Your hands grip her hips, anchoring her as you lose yourself in her, the intimacy of it overwhelming. The way she responds to every flick of your tongue, every press of your lips—it’s like she was made for you, her body fitting against yours as if it’s always belonged there. You can feel the tension coiling tight inside her, her legs trembling as she teeters on the edge, and you want nothing more than to push her over it, to see her fall apart in your arms.

“I’m so close,” Jimin whimpers, her voice breaking as her fingers tighten in your hair. “You feel so good—I can’t—” Her words dissolve into a moan as you suck gently on her clit, your eyes locked on hers. The connection between you is palpable, a current of heat and trust and something deeper that neither of you needs to name. You can feel her unraveling, her body arching toward you, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever witnessed.

When she comes, it’s with a cry that echoes through the room, her entire body shuddering as waves of pleasure crash over her. You don’t stop, guiding her through it with slow, reverent strokes, tasting every pulse of her release. Her hands clutch at you desperately, grounding herself as she rides out the high, and you feel a surge of pride and adoration swelling in your chest. She’s yours at this moment—completely, utterly—and you’re hers just the same.

As her breathing steadies, Jimin looks down at you, her eyes glassy and soft, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “You’re… incredible,” she murmurs, her voice hoarse but dripping with affection. She reaches for you, pulling you up to her, and when your lips meet hers, it’s a kiss that’s slow and deep, tasting of her and the intimacy you’ve just shared. You can feel her heartbeat against your chest, syncing with yours, and it’s like the two of you are one entity, fused by something beyond words.

“I’ve never felt like this,” you admit against her lips, your hand cupping her face as you gaze into her eyes.

“Neither have I,” Jimin whispers back, her voice a soft confession that sends a jolt of heat through you. Her hands roam your chest, tugging at your shirt with an urgency that mirrors the ache building inside you. You help her strip it off, and soon her fingers are tracing the lines of your body, her touch igniting every nerve. She pulls you closer, her lips brushing your ear as she murmurs, “I need you… all of you.”

Her voice undoes you. You shed the rest of your clothes in a frenzy, and when you’re finally bare before her, Jimin’s eyes darken with desire, her breath catching as she takes you in. You position yourself between her thighs, the heat of her core radiating against you, and for a moment, you just look at her—her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the way her chest rises and falls with anticipation. She’s perfect, and you’re about to lose yourself in her completely.

You guide yourself to her entrance, teasing her just for a second, and Jimin’s hips lift toward you, a silent plea. Then, slowly, you push inside her, and the sensation is overwhelming—tight, wet, and so warm that it steals the breath from your lungs. A groan escapes you, raw and unrestrained, as her walls clench around you, welcoming you in like you were always meant to be there. “Fuck, Jimin,” you rasp, your hands gripping her hips as you sink deeper. “You feel… incredible.”

Jimin’s response is a broken moan, her head tipping back as her nails dig into your shoulders. “Oh God, you’re—so deep,” she gasps, her voice trembling with the intensity of it. She’s stretched around you, her body molding to yours like it was crafted just for this moment, and the way she shudders beneath you tells you she’s feeling every inch as keenly as you are. Her eyes flutter shut, then open again, locking onto yours with a look that’s equal parts vulnerability and ecstasy. “It’s like… you’re perfect for me,” she breathes, and the words hit you like a tidal wave, amplifying the intimacy of being buried inside her.

You start to move, slow at first, savoring the way she pulses around you with every thrust. Each motion draws a whimper from her, her legs wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, deeper. “Don’t stop,” she pleads, her voice a sultry melody that drives you wild. You lean down to kiss her, your tongues tangling as your hips find a rhythm, steady and deep. The friction is exquisite, her slick heat enveloping you, and every thrust feels like a declaration of how seamlessly you fit together.

After a few minutes, you shift, gently guiding her onto her side. You lift one of her legs over your shoulder, and when you slide back into her from this new angle, Jimin’s cry is sharp and unrestrained. “Oh—yes,” she moans, her hands fisting the sheets as you hit a spot that makes her entire body quake. You can feel the difference too—the way her walls tighten even more, the way every thrust sends a jolt of pleasure through you both. “You’re so good,” she pants, her eyes glazed with lust as she reaches for you, needing to feel your skin against hers.

You oblige, leaning down to press your chest to hers, your breaths mingling as you pick up the pace. The position lets you grind against her clit with every thrust, and Jimin’s moans turn into desperate, breathless cries. “I can’t—I can’t get enough of you,” she gasps, her hands clutching your back, pulling you impossibly closer. The heat of her, the way she clenches around you, is driving you to the edge, but you hold on, wanting to see her unravel again.

You pull out briefly, earning a needy whimper from Jimin, but you’re quick to reposition her. “On your knees,” you murmur, your voice rough with desire, and she complies eagerly, her body trembling with anticipation. When you enter her from behind, the angle is devastating—for both of you. She’s tighter like this, her ass pressing against your hips as you thrust deep, and the sound she makes is pure bliss, a high-pitched moan that reverberates through the room. “Fuck, you’re—so big,” she groans, her head dropping forward as she pushes back against you, meeting every thrust with equal fervor.

You grip her hips, steadying her as you lose yourself in the rhythm, each movement drawing a symphony of gasps and moans from her. “You take me so well,” you growl, your own pleasure mounting as her walls flutter around you, signaling she’s close again. You reach around, your fingers finding her clit, and the moment you start rubbing tight circles, Jimin’s entire body tenses. “Yes—right there,” she cries, her voice breaking as she rocks against you, chasing that peak.

The sight of her like this—back arched, sweat glistening on her skin, her hair a mess from your hands—sends a surge of possessive pride through you. She’s yours, and you’re hers, and the way you move together feels like a dance you’ve known forever. You thrust harder, deeper, and she matches you, her moans growing louder, more desperate. “I’m gonna—” she starts, but the words dissolve into a scream as she comes undone, her body shaking as her orgasm rips through her.

You slow just enough to let her ride it out, but you’re not done—not by a long shot. You pull her up so her back is flush against your chest, your arms wrapping around her as you thrust up into her still-trembling body. “You’re amazing,” you whisper into her ear, your lips brushing the shell of it as you move slow and deliberate, savoring the aftershocks that ripple through her. Jimin turns her head, capturing your lips in a sloppy, heated kiss, and the way she clenches around you tells you she’s still lost in the haze of pleasure.

“You feel so good inside me,” she murmurs against your mouth, her voice soft but dripping with need. Her hands reach back, tangling in your hair as she grinds against you, urging you to keep going. And you do, shifting her again—this time onto her back, her legs spread wide as you settle between them. When you slide back in, the look in her eyes is pure adoration, and it fuels you as much as the physical sensation of being buried in her once more.

You gaze down at Jimin, her body spread out beneath you, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat. The connection between you feels unbreakable, a current of desire and intimacy that keeps pulling you both deeper. You thrust into her again, slow and deliberate, and her moan is soft but laden with need. “You’re driving me crazy,” she breathes, her hands sliding up your arms to grip your shoulders, pulling you down for a kiss that’s all heat and hunger.

The rhythm builds naturally, your hips rocking into hers as the bed creaks beneath you. Her legs tighten around your waist, urging you deeper, and the way she clenches around you sends a shiver up your spine. “Fuck, Jimin, you’re so tight,” you groan, your voice rough as the pleasure coils tighter inside you. She meets your thrusts with her own, her hips lifting off the mattress, and the friction is maddening. Her breath hitches, her nails digging into your skin, and you can feel her trembling on the edge again.

“I’m—oh God, I’m coming,” she gasps, her eyes fluttering shut as her body arches beneath you. Her orgasm hits hard, her walls pulsing around you in waves that nearly undo you. You grit your teeth, thrusting through it, and the sight of her—head thrown back, lips parted in a silent scream—pushes you over the brink. “Jimin—fuck,” you growl, spilling inside her, your release crashing through you with an intensity that leaves you dizzy. You collapse against her, both of you panting, your foreheads pressed together as you ride out the aftershocks.

But you’re not done—not even close. After a moment, you pull out, earning a whimper of protest from Jimin, but you’re already moving. “Come here,” you murmur, guiding her off the bed and toward the wall. She follows, her legs shaky but her eyes alight with anticipation. You press her back against the cool surface, lifting one of her legs to hook around your hip. “I want you right here,” you say, your voice low and possessive, and she nods eagerly, her hands gripping your shoulders.

You slide back into her, and the angle makes her gasp, her head tipping back against the wall. “Oh—yes,” she moans, her voice echoing faintly in the room. She’s still sensitive from before, and every thrust sends a jolt through her, her body trembling against yours. You brace one hand against the wall beside her head, the other holding her thigh as you move, deep and relentless. “You feel so fucking good,” you mutter, your lips brushing her neck as you nip at her skin. The heat of her, the way she grips you, it’s intoxicating, and you can feel the pressure building again.

Jimin’s hands slide down your back, her nails raking lightly as she clings to you. “Harder,” she pleads, her voice raw, and you oblige, slamming into her with a force that makes her cry out. “Right there—don’t stop,” she gasps, her body tensing as another orgasm builds. You reach between you, your fingers finding her clit, and that’s all it takes. She comes undone with a scream, her body shuddering against the wall, and the sight of her—wild and lost in pleasure—triggers your own release. You groan her name, your hips stuttering as you cum inside her again, the sensation overwhelming as you press yourself flush against her.

You’re both breathless, but the fire between you hasn’t dimmed. After a moment, you pull her away from the wall, her body pliant in your arms, and guide her toward the small desk in the corner of the room. “One more place,” you whisper, a grin tugging at your lips, and Jimin’s eyes sparkle with mischief despite her exhaustion. You turn her around, bending her over the desk, her hands bracing against the edge as she arches her back instinctively.

“God, you’re perfect,” you say, running your hands over her hips before sliding back into her from behind. She’s slick with arousal and your previous releases, and the sensation of entering her again is almost too much. “So wet for me,” you murmur, and she moans in agreement, pushing back against you. Your voice rough as you start to move, slow at first, then faster as her moans grow louder.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” Jimin pants, her voice breaking as you thrust deep, hitting that spot that makes her tremble. The desk rattles beneath her, papers sliding off as you pick up the pace, your hands gripping her hips to keep her steady. She’s a mess of gasps and whimpers, her body responding to every move you make, and you can feel her tightening around you again. “I’m gonna cum—again,” she warns, her voice desperate, and you lean forward, your chest pressed to her back as you drive into her harder.

“Do it,” you growl, your own climax building as her walls flutter around you. She cums with a cry, her body shaking beneath you, and the way she pulses around your cock sends you spiraling into your third release. “Jimin—shit,” you groan, spilling into her once more, your vision blurring as the pleasure crashes over you. You hold her close, both of you trembling as you ride out the high together, the desk creaking under your combined weight.

Finally, you pull out, your legs weak but your heart full. Jimin turns to face you, her face flushed and glowing, a tired but satisfied smile on her lips. “You’re insatiable,” she teases, her voice soft as she steps into your arms. You kiss her gently, tasting the salt of sweat on her lips, and guide her back to the bed.

You collapse onto the mattress together, limbs tangled as you pull her close. “You’re amazing,” you murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She nestles against your chest, her breathing slowing as exhaustion takes over.

“So are you,” she whispers, her voice fading as her eyes flutter shut. You feel the weight of her body relax against yours, her warmth seeping into you, and as your own eyelids grow heavy, you drift off, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat lulling you into a deep, contented sleep.

The morning sun filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the tangled sheets. You stir awake, a faint smile tugging at your lips as memories of the night flood back—Jimin’s touch, her voice, the way you fit together so perfectly. You reach out, expecting to feel her warmth beside you, but your hand meets only cool, empty fabric. Your eyes snap open, and a jolt of confusion hits you. She’s not there.

“Jimin?” you call softly, sitting up, your voice hoarse from sleep. The room is silent, eerily still. You scan the space—the wall where you’d pinned her, the desk still askew from your passion—but there’s no sign of her. Panic creeps in as you stumble out of bed, your heart pounding. “She wouldn’t just leave,” you mutter to yourself, tearing through the room in a desperate search for something, anything—a phone number, a hint of where she’s gone.

You flip over pillows, rummage through the bedside drawer, even check under the bed, but there’s nothing. The clothes she’d worn are gone, her presence erased as if she’d never been there. Your chest tightens, a sinking dread replacing the warmth you’d felt just hours ago. Then, on the desk, beneath a shifted paper, you spot it—a small, folded note.

With trembling hands, you pick it up, unfolding it to reveal two simple words in her delicate handwriting: Thank you. That’s it. No explanation, no goodbye, just those two words staring back at you, cold and final. Your breath catches, and a sharp ache blooms in your chest, an icy chill permeating through your bones, leaving you cold and empty. You sink onto the edge of the bed, the note crumpling in your fist as your heart shatters. She’s gone, and all you’re left with is the ghost of her touch and a thank you that feels like a knife to the soul.

The days after Jimin’s disappearance stretch into weeks, then months, each one heavier than the last. You replay that night in your mind endlessly—her gasps, her laughter, the way she’d clung to you—searching for clues you might’ve missed. It’s as if she’d vanished into thin air, leaving only that crumpled thank you note, now worn from being unfolded and refolded in your pocket. Life drags on, hollow and incomplete, and though you try to move forward, a piece of you stays tethered to her, aching with unanswered questions.

Preseason arrives like a lifeline. You’re a midfielder for Manchester United, freshly recovered from a nagging ankle injury that sidelined you for months. The team’s trip to South Korea for a small tournament feels like a chance to shake off the rust—both physical and emotional. The first match is against a local club, and you start on the bench, easing back into the rhythm of the game. The whistle blows for halftime, and you’re jogging back to the pitch, mind focused on tactics, when the stadium erupts into cheers for the halftime performance.

You glance up at the Jumbotron out of habit, and your heart stops. It’s her—Jimin—moving across the stage with a group of dancers, her presence commanding the crowd. She’s radiant, her movements sharp yet fluid, every step a testament to her grace. You freeze mid-stride, the noise of the stadium fading into a dull roar as your eyes lock on her. It’s been months, but the sight of her cracks something open inside you, a flood of longing and disbelief. Then, as if drawn by some invisible thread, her gaze flicks toward the sideline—toward you.

For a split second, her mask slips. Her eyes widen, her step falters ever so slightly, a hiccup in her otherwise flawless performance. Most wouldn’t notice, but you do—you know her, even after all this time. The moment passes, and she recovers, finishing the routine with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. You’re left staring, breathless, as the crowd roars and your teammates nudge you back into motion. The second half begins, but your mind is elsewhere, lost in the shock of seeing her again. You play on autopilot, your body moving while your thoughts whirl—Why is she here? Why didn’t she stay? Manchester United wins, but the victory feels distant, overshadowed by the ghost of her on that stage.

The final whistle blows, and you’re off the pitch in an instant, sprinting toward the tunnel. You scan the shadows, heart hammering, hoping—praying—she’ll be there, waiting. But the tunnel is empty save for staff and lingering reporters. Disappointment crashes over you, sharp and familiar, and you trudge to the locker room, mechanically showering and changing. She’s slipped away again, and the realization stings deeper than before.

As you sling your bag over your shoulder, a teammate claps you on the back. “Oi, mate, someone’s waiting for you outside. Looked pretty anxious.” Your pulse spikes, and you don’t even respond—just bolt for the exit, shoving past curious glances. You step into the cool evening air, and there she is, standing by a barrier, her dancer’s outfit swapped for a simple hoodie and jeans. Her eyes meet yours, and the world narrows to just the two of you, the months apart dissolving in an instant.

You stop a few feet away, breath catching as you take her in—her nervous fidgeting, the way she bites her lip. She looks different, yet achingly familiar. Neither of you moves for a beat, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you. Then, almost in unison, you both speak, voices soft and tentative.

“Hello,” you say.

“Hello,” she echoes.

And in that single word, a fragile thread reconnects, trembling with possibility.

TBC

[urdreamydoodles]

X-MEN x FEM!READER

The X-Men Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Emma Frost, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Laura Kinney & Wade Wilson

Logan Howlett aka. Wolverine

You aren’t sure what possesses you to send it—not exactly. Maybe it’s boredom, maybe it’s the way Logan’s been gone longer than expected, leaving you restless. Either way, you know it’s reckless. The second the picture sends, you can already hear his voice in your head: Darlin’, you got a death wish? But you know Logan, know that he’s a beast caged in skin, and there’s nothing he loves more than being provoked by you.

He’s at a dive bar when his phone vibrates. The place is crowded, a few bikers at his table arguing over a pool game. Logan isn’t paying attention—until he glances at his screen. The moment he sees you, bare and sinful, every muscle in his body locks up. His breath hitches, his grip on his beer tightening until the glass threatens to crack. The scent of his own arousal floods his senses, so sharp he’s sure the few mutants around can catch it. One of the bikers nudges him, saying something about his "weird face," but Logan’s already pocketing the phone, jaw clenched.

He needs to get out of here. He doesn’t get embarrassed—not exactly—but the heat that licks up his spine is too much, too distracting. Logan swipes his tongue across his teeth, exhaling hard through his nose as he stands. His voice is a growl, all gravel and heat. “Got somewhere to be.” His movements are stiff, his body thrumming with need as he shoves out of the bar, barely resisting the urge to snarl at the people in his way.

The second he’s outside, he presses a number on his phone. When you pick up, he doesn’t say hello. His voice is low, dangerous. “You got no idea what you just started, sweetheart.” His free hand flexes at his side, his control razor-thin. “You better be home when I get there. And you better be ready.” Then he hangs up, already making his way to his bike, his thoughts full of nothing but you.

Remy LeBeau aka. Gambit

Remy is used to being desired. He knows the weight of hungry stares, the way people fall over themselves trying to get his attention. But you—you’re different. You make him ache. And you know it. Which is why you send the picture when you do, when he’s at a poker table, mid-game, surrounded by half a dozen people.

He sees the message light up his phone and, without thinking, checks it. The second the image fills his screen, his pupils dilate, his breath hitching just enough that the man across from him—some big-shot casino owner—narrows his eyes. “Something wrong, LeBeau?” Remy schools his features quickly, smirking as he locks his phone. “Non, mon ami,” he drawls, voice smooth despite the heat licking at his spine. “Just feelin’ a little… distracted.”

But he is struggling. His heartbeat is unsteady, his palms itching to touch, to grab. You’ve effectively thrown him off his game, and you know it. He shifts in his seat, stretching his legs out, forcing himself to focus. But his mind keeps circling back to the curve of your body, the way your skin looked in the dim lighting. His fingers twitch, itching to shuffle his deck, to channel all this pent-up energy somewhere before it burns him alive.

He doesn’t text back. No, that would be too easy. Instead, he waits until he’s out of the game, until he’s walking down the neon-lit streets of New Orleans. Then he calls you, his voice a lazy purr. “Ma belle, you really gon’ tease me like that?” He pauses, his smile slow, wicked. “Think you should be waitin’ by the door for me, chérie. Don’t want me comin’ in all impatient now, do you?”

Kurt Wagner aka. Nightcrawler

Kurt is used to wanting. He has spent a lifetime longing for things he believes he doesn’t deserve—love, touch, a home. But then there’s you, and you make him greedy. So when his phone vibrates in the middle of a crowded hallway at the Xavier Institute, he doesn’t think much of it. Not until he sees what you’ve sent.

His tail flicks so fast it nearly knocks over a nearby vase. A choked sound catches in his throat, his golden eyes widening, pupils dilating. He should look away, should pocket his phone before someone notices. But instead, he stares, heat rushing to his face so quickly it nearly makes him dizzy. The image of you burns itself into his mind, searing and divine.

Someone calls his name, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, fumbling to lock his phone. His three-fingered hand twitches, his tail coiling around his waist as he forces a shaky breath. Gott im Himmel, you’re going to be the death of him. He can feel the heat rising to the tips of his ears, can sense the way some of the younger students glance at him in curiosity. He clears his throat, tugging at the high collar of his uniform, muttering something about needing air.

The moment he’s alone, he teleports straight to your room, appearing in a burst of sulfur and smoke. His voice is hoarse, thick with something between reverence and hunger. “Liebes… do you have any idea what you have done to me?” He steps closer, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I hope you are prepared to confess your sins… because I am more than willing to be your punishment.”

Scott Summers aka. Cyclops

Scott prides himself on control. It is all he’s ever known—containing his power, his emotions, his every sharp-edged want. But you? You make control feel like a curse. So when his phone vibrates in the middle of a team debriefing, he barely glances at it. Until he does. And then his world tilts.

His breath halts, heat rushing up his throat so fast it makes him dizzy. The conversation around him blurs, the sound of Logan and Ororo discussing strategy fading into static. He swallows hard, locking his phone, fingers tightening into a fist on his thigh. You are going to ruin him.

“Scott?” Jean’s voice pulls him back. He clears his throat, straightening his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says, voice just a little too tight. “I’m fine.” But he’s not fine. His skin is too hot, his thoughts spiraling. He adjusts his visor, as if that’ll help him regain some semblance of control. It doesn’t. He can still see the image burned into his mind, can still feel the ache you’ve ignited in him.

The moment the meeting ends, he heads straight to his quarters, his movements stiff, controlled. He doesn’t call, doesn’t text. Instead, he waits until he’s inside, the door locked. Then he pulls out his phone, staring at the image for a long, slow moment before finally responding: You just made a very big mistake, sweetheart. And you’re going to spend all night making up for it.

Jean Grey aka. Marvel Girl / Phoenix

Jean is used to knowing. She reads people as easily as turning a page in a book. But you—you manage to surprise her. When her phone vibrates, she’s mid-conversation with Ororo, standing in the bustling halls of the X-Mansion. She checks the message out of habit, and then—Oh.

The world around her vanishes. Her breath catches, her fingers gripping her phone tighter. Heat blooms beneath her skin, a slow, simmering thing. She locks her phone quickly, but not before Ororo arches an eyebrow, a knowing smirk curling her lips. “Something interesting?” Jean lifts her chin, feigning nonchalance. “Just a… distraction.”

But she is not unaffected. No, she can still feel the pull of you, the way you linger in her mind like a whispered temptation. She exhales slowly, steadying herself. You’ve always had a way of making her unravel, of setting her pulse racing with just a look, a touch. And now, with that picture—she knows exactly what you’re doing.

So she doesn’t text back. Instead, she closes her eyes, reaching out mentally, brushing against your thoughts with a teasing whisper: You’re playing a very dangerous game, darling. And you know I always win.

Ororo Munroe aka. Storm

Ororo has always carried herself with grace. There is a quiet strength in her, an effortless command of any room she enters. But when her phone vibrates, when she glances at the screen and sees you, bare and unapologetic in your teasing, even a goddess can stumble.

She is in the middle of the X-Mansion’s garden, surrounded by students tending to the plants under her guidance. The air is warm, the scent of rain lingering from a previous storm. But the second she opens your message, heat spreads through her veins like wildfire. Her fingers tighten around the phone, the wind around her shifting just slightly, enough for the nearby students to glance up in confusion.

With practiced ease, she takes a steady breath, forcing composure to settle over her. She locks her phone, tucking it away in the folds of her robe, but the image of you remains burned in her mind. She has faced gods and walked through storms, but nothing has ever made her this desperate. She exhales slowly, smiling at the students before dismissing them early.

Later, when she is alone in her room, she finally allows herself to look again, to savor. Then, with a smirk, she types out a message: You test the patience of a goddess, beloved. But I promise you—when I return, I will show you the consequences of such boldness.

Anna Marie aka. Rogue

Rogue ain’t shy. Not really. But there are certain things she doesn’t expect—like her phone buzzing in her back pocket while she’s in the middle of a conversation with Logan. She pulls it out absently, expecting a mission update. But when she sees your name, when she opens the image—her whole body locks up.

"You good, kid?" Logan asks, eyebrow raised as she nearly drops the phone. Rogue snaps the screen down against her thigh so fast she nearly fumbles it. "I—uh—yeah! Peachy!" But she can feel the heat rushing to her face, burning down her neck. Logan narrows his eyes, but she’s already stepping back, waving him off. "I—uh—gotta go!" She turns so fast her boots squeak against the floor.

She beelines for the nearest empty room, slamming the door shut before pressing her back against it, exhaling hard. "Mon Dieu…" she mutters, staring at the phone again. The sight of you makes her stomach flip, makes her hands itch with the desire to touch—even though she knows she can’t. And maybe that’s what makes it even worse, the sheer torture of it.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard before she smirks, biting her lip. She types back, her accent thick even in text: Ya better be waitin' for me, sugar. ‘Cause I got some real pent-up frustration I need to work out.

Erik Lehnsherr aka. Magneto

Erik is a man of control. He has spent his entire life bending the world to his will, shaping metal and fate alike with the force of his power. But when he sees your message, all that careful composure fractures like shattered steel.

He is in the middle of a political gathering, surrounded by dignitaries and mutants alike, discussing the future of mutantkind. He is calm, poised, his presence commanding the room. But then—his phone buzzes. And when he checks it—his grip on his glass tightens. The metal bends beneath his fingers, distorting under the force of his sudden, sharp desire.

He exhales slowly, willing himself to focus, but it’s impossible. His thoughts are consumed by the image of you, the sheer audacity of what you’ve done. He lifts his eyes, scanning the room, but the conversation has blurred into meaningless noise. He is no longer interested in politics. No, there is only you now, and the punishment you so clearly deserve.

Later, in the privacy of his chambers, he finally allows himself to react. He sets his drink down, removing his gloves with slow, deliberate movements. Then, he types a message: You are a very foolish woman, my dear. And I am a very dangerous man. I suggest you prepare yourself accordingly.

Charles Xavier aka. Professor X

Charles is used to knowing things before they happen. His telepathy grants him insight into the minds of others, makes surprises a rare thing. But you—you always manage to catch him off guard. So when his phone vibrates mid-lecture, when he absentmindedly glances at the screen—he nearly chokes.

His fingers tighten around the armrest of his wheelchair, his usually composed demeanor faltering for the briefest moment. He quickly locks the screen, but it’s too late—the image of you is seared into his thoughts. And worse, the faintest flicker of his reaction has echoed across his psychic link with you, letting you feel the way his breath hitched, the way his pulse stuttered.

He clears his throat, composing himself with practiced ease. "Shall we continue?" he asks smoothly, though his mind is miles away. The students remain oblivious, but you? Oh, you know. And Charles can feel your amusement through the bond you share, a teasing whisper against his mind.

Later, in the quiet of his study, he sends a message—not with his phone, but directly into your thoughts, his voice smooth, measured. My dear, if you wished to test my restraint, you have succeeded. But I fear you’ve also ensured that when I return, you will be left utterly undone.

Emma Frost aka. The White Queen

Emma Frost is not easily shaken. She has built an empire on her confidence, her ability to keep control in even the most delicate of situations. But when she receives your message, she very nearly gasps.

She is at a Hellfire Gala, surrounded by high society, diamonds glittering at her throat. The room is alive with conversation, champagne glasses clinking. She is draped across a velvet chaise, effortlessly poised—until she sees you on her screen. The way her lips part, just slightly, is the only betrayal of her reaction.

With a slow inhale, she tilts her phone away from prying eyes, locking the screen. But inside, her mind is already buzzing. You have nerve, sending this while she’s in public. It’s a power play, a challenge. And Emma does not lose. She takes another sip of champagne, a knowing smirk curling her lips.

Later, when she is alone, she finally lets herself look again, savoring the way you look—so tempting, so utterly hers. Then, with a slow, deliberate tap, she types: My darling, I do hope you enjoyed your little game. But let me make one thing clear—you are mine to tease. And when I return, I will remind you exactly why.

Wanda Maximoff aka. Scarlet Witch

Wanda has spent most of her life feeling like the world was just a little too unsteady. Magic crackles beneath her skin, her emotions tied too tightly to the fabric of reality itself. But when her phone vibrates in the middle of a very serious conversation with Doctor Strange, she has no idea the real chaos is about to begin.

She checks the message absentmindedly, but the second she sees you, bare and utterly wicked, the world around her tilts. The air shimmers—just slightly—like heat rising from pavement. Wanda sucks in a sharp breath, locking her phone quickly, but it’s too late. Strange is watching her with an arched brow, the flicker of mystical energy curling at her fingertips a dead giveaway.

“Are you alright, Wanda?” Strange’s voice is calm, but there’s a glint of amusement in his gaze. Wanda clears her throat, forcing her magic back under control, smoothing her expression into something composed. “Fine,” she says, a little too quickly. But inside, her mind is burning, and it’s all your fault.

When she finally gets a moment alone, she sends a message—not with her phone, but with her magic, a whisper of her voice threading into your mind: You have no idea the kind of spell you’ve just cast, my love. But don’t worry—I’ll break it soon enough. And when I do, you won’t be able to breathe without thinking of me.

Pietro Maximoff aka. Quicksilver

Pietro is always moving. His mind, his body, his thoughts—everything is fast, too fast for the rest of the world to keep up with. But when his phone buzzes, and he actually takes the time to check it, the impossible happens—he stops.

He’s in the middle of a conversation with Clint Barton, something about training drills, when he pulls out his phone. And then—bam. His mouth shuts, his brain short-circuits, and for the first time in years, he is frozen.

“...Pietro?” Clint frowns, waving a hand in front of his face. “You good, man?” Pietro’s fingers twitch, and suddenly, he is gone, zipping out of the room at impossible speed. The moment he stops—several cities away, in the middle of nowhere—he grips his phone, running a hand through his silver hair.

Then he smirks, his heartbeat pounding. He types back, quick as lightning: You are so cruel, bellezza. But don’t worry—I’ll be home in five seconds. Hope you’re ready for me.

Hank McCoy aka. Beast

Hank prides himself on his intelligence, his ability to remain rational in even the most unexpected situations. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a scientific symposium, and he—without thinking—checks it, all rational thought leaves his brain.

His glasses slide down his nose. His usually eloquent mind is reduced to pure static. He should lock his phone, put it away, but instead, his blue-furred fingers tighten around the device as his brain short-circuits. A faint growl rumbles in his throat before he catches himself, quickly clearing it.

“Dr. McCoy?” One of his colleagues is staring at him, waiting for a response to a question he definitely didn’t hear. Hank straightens, adjusting his glasses, willing his heartbeat to slow. “Ah—yes. My apologies. I seem to have been... momentarily distracted.”

The second he’s alone, he finally allows himself to breathe. Then, adjusting his tie, he sends a message: My dear, I do hope you’re prepared to be thoroughly lectured on the consequences of distracting a scientist. In great detail. Preferably with a demonstration.

Laura Kinney aka. X-23 / Wolverine

Laura doesn’t get flustered. She doesn’t blush, doesn’t stammer. But when her phone vibrates, and she checks it in the middle of a mission briefing with Logan, something deep in her animal brain nearly malfunctions.

She sees the image, and every muscle in her body locks up. Her sharp, enhanced senses go into overdrive. Her claws almost unsheathe from sheer tension. Logan is talking, saying something about enemy patterns, but she hears none of it. The only thing in her head is you.

“Laura?” Logan’s voice pulls her back, and she snaps her phone shut, jaw tight. “Tch,” she mutters, shifting in her seat, pretending like she isn’t burning alive under her own skin. “Nothing. Keep talking.” But she’s not okay. She’s seething with the need to do something about this, now.

The moment the briefing is over, she finds the nearest exit, presses her back against the cold wall, and breathes. Then, she types—short, sharp, dangerous: You think that was funny? Good. Let’s see if you’re still laughing when I get my hands on you.

Wade Wilson aka. Deadpool

Wade is always unhinged. Nothing shocks him. Nothing catches him off guard. But when his phone pings in the middle of a mercenary bar, and he casually opens your message—his brain leaks out of his ears.

“Oh holy chimichangas.” His voice is too loud, and every thug in the bar turns to look at him. Wade barely notices, his masked face tilting down at his phone, staring. Staring so hard his mask is probably fogging up.

One of the mercs nudges him. “You good, Wilson?” Wade slowly lifts his head, his voice an octave higher than usual. “I have never been better. In fact, I am having a religious experience. Thank you for asking.” Then he stands—abruptly—phone clutched to his chest like a lifeline.

The second he’s outside, he’s already typing, fingers flying: BABE. BABY. LOVE OF MY LIFE. I AM ON MY WAY. DON’T MOVE. ACTUALLY, MOVE A LITTLE, STRETCH OR SOMETHING. MAYBE DO A LITTLE TWIRL. OH GOD. I’M RUNNING HOME IN SLOW MOTION FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT.

[seospicybin]

BAD.

Han x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: You’ve always known Han Jisung is trouble—the kind of guy who flirts like it’s breathing and disappears like smoke when things get real. But the more time you spend with him, the deeper you fall—despite knowing he’ll probably break your heart. Again and again. (20,2k words)

Author's note: This fic is based on this song and spoiler alert: Han Jisung is a bad boy here. You've been warned ⚠

You hadn’t meant to go out that night. You were tired, two drinks behind everyone else, and already half-set on ghosting your own friends with a quiet Irish exit. But then you saw him—leaning against the bar like he owned the place, all dark denim and lazy posture, twirling a lime wedge between his fingers like he was bored with the world.

He wasn’t your type. Too cocky. Too casual. Messy dark hair pushed back like he didn’t care how good he looked, a silver chain hanging loose around his neck, and a smirk that looked like it came with a warning label. There was something sharp in his eyes—something dangerous, like he knew exactly how to get what he wanted and had never once been told no. You should’ve known better.

He looked up right as you glanced his way, and he didn’t miss it. That smirk widened just enough to make your stomach flip.

“Hey,” he said, with that deep, velvet-soft voice that felt too smooth for a stranger. “Did it hurt?”

You gave him a look and a low scoff. “Seriously?”

He tilted his head, unfazed. “I mean, falling from heaven? Yeah. But I had to try. You looked like you needed saving.”

You rolled your eyes and turned back to your half-finished drink, determined not to entertain him. Guys like that were a headache. Pretty smiles and pretty lies, and way too much effort for someone who’d already break your heart before you learned his middle name.

However, Han didn’t take silence as rejection—he took it as a challenge. He dropped into the barstool next to you, close enough that you could smell the sharp citrus of his cologne, feel the warmth of his presence even without touching.

“I’m Han,” he said. “And you are…?”

Still, you stayed quiet.

“Alright,” he said with a lazy grin. “Mystery girl. I like it. But just so you know, I’ve got, like, five minutes before I charm you.”

You hated the way your lips twitched at that. Hated that he was already chipping away at your resolve with nothing but a few words and a well-timed smile.

You should’ve walked away. You should’ve finished your drink and left without looking back. But instead, you turned to him and said, “Alright, Han. Five minutes starts now.”

Han grinned like he’d just won something. He leaned his elbow on the bar, gaze flicking down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “So,” he said, swirling the ice in his glass. “Are you always this hard to read, or am I just off my game tonight?”

“I don’t know,” you said coolly, lifting your drink. “Is this your game?”

He laughed—low and boyish, the kind of sound that made it too easy to forget he was probably trouble. “God, you’re fun. Most girls just giggle and fall right into it.”

“Maybe you’re not my type.”

Han raised an eyebrow, like that was a challenge. “Then what is your type?”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t look away either. That was enough to make his grin stretch wider, all teeth and charm and a little too pleased with himself. He glanced across the bar and nodded toward the dartboard in the corner. “Wanna make this interesting?”

“I don’t play games,” you said, setting down your glass.

“Lucky for you, I do.” He was already halfway off his stool. “Come on. You beat me, I buy you a drink. I beat you, you give me your number.”

You snorted. “What makes you think I’d want to give you my number even if I lost?”

He shrugged, holding out a hand like a dare. “Because deep down, you kinda want to.”

You scoffed at his audacity and stared at him for a beat too long, then you took his hand.

The dartboard was tucked in a quieter corner of the bar, just dim enough to blur the line between friendly competition and flirtation. Han let you go first, leaning against the wall with a drink in hand, watching you like he was trying to memorize your moves. You missed your first shot by an embarrassing margin.

Han chuckled. “Okay, maybe we should change the bet. You give me your number now, and if I lose, I’ll delete it.”

You shot him a glare, but it didn’t land. Not when he looked at you like that—like you were the most interesting person in the room.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered.

“And yet,” he said, stepping up behind you, his voice brushing your ear, “you haven’t walked away.”

You told yourself it was just a game. Just a drink. Just one night. But when Han’s hand brushed yours as he passed you the next dart, you didn’t pull away.

And when he whispered, “Careful. You’re starting to like me,”

you laughed, because he was right.

You don’t remember how many rounds of darts you played after that. Or how many drinks. Just that the more the night stretched on, the more dangerous Han started to feel.

He was easy to talk to—too easy. Every sentence laced with flirtation, every smile a silent promise. He leaned in when he spoke, laughed too loudly at your jokes, and somehow always found a reason to touch you—his hand brushing your wrist, fingers grazing your back as he passed behind you, knuckles tapping your knee under the table like a secret rhythm only the two of you understood.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You weren’t drunk. Just warm. Buzzed and comfortable and a little too aware of the way his knee kept knocking into yours, the way his eyes kept dropping to your lips.

“I’m trying to be good,” he murmured once, after your third drink.

You looked at him over the rim of your glass. “Are you?”

He seductively smiled. “Trying. Failing.”

He leaned in then—slow, testing the waters—but you turned your head at the last second, pretending to laugh at something on the TV above the bar.

“Mm. Cold,” he said, sitting back with a grin.

“You’ll live,” you casually respond with a sly smile.

Another drink later, you were having your drink facing the counter and Han was standing behind you, his chest pressed firmly against your back and one of his arms wrapped around your waist. You could feel the weight of his gaze as you peacefully sipping your drink.

“You’re still thinking about kissing me,” he whispered right into your ear, like it was a fact, not a guess.

You ignored the way his hot breath brushes your skin as you raised an eyebrow and said, “You’re very confident.”

He shrugged, eyes dropping to your mouth again. “You keep looking at mine. I’m just connecting dots.”

When you turned your head to the side, he leaned in close enough until his lips made the slightest contact with yours, intentionally or not. But you made him work for it, you leaned in and when he was about to capture your lips, you pulled back with a smug.

“You're persistent,” you said, though your voice wasn’t as steady as it had been.

He only smiled triumphantly, taking your words as a compliment and it seemed to only give him motivation to keep trying. One hand held your face by your chin, holding your head still as he leaned in again. He brushed your nose with his before finally aiming for your lips.

You stopped him by putting your fingers over his small mouth. “Not tonight.”

He exhaled, slow, like he was trying not to push. “Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll behave.”

He didn’t. Not really. Because later—when the bar was emptying out and the city felt quieter than it should’ve—he walked you outside, his hand brushing yours, barely touching but somehow lighting your whole arm on fire. He asked if you wanted a cab. You said you’d walk.

“I’ll walk you, then,” he offered with his charming gummy smile.

Two blocks into the walk, you turned down a quieter street. The air was cool, but you felt warm under your jacket. Han walked close, so close you could feel the swing of his arm next to yours, hear the way he slowed his steps to match yours exactly.

When you stopped at the corner, he stopped too. He looked at you, staring into your eyes and briefly glanced at your lips, tempting, inviting. And you, you looked at him with the glow of the streetlights created a halo on his dark hair, hesitating, considering.

Should I? You asked yourself. You figured out the answer as he leaned in and you didn’t move away. You felt his breath against your mouth first—hoping, waiting. When your lips parted just slightly, like an invitation… He kissed you. Soft, at first. Careful. Then again, firmer—like he’d been holding back all night and finally got permission.

You let yourself fall into it for a moment too long. Just long enough to forget that he wasn’t your type. That guys like Han never stopped at one kiss. And that deep down, you already knew—this wasn’t going to end well.

-

One moment, Han had you pinned against the door, fingers tangled in your hair, his kiss rougher and more urgent, like he’d been waiting all night for this. In the next one, you ended up on your bed, feeling the press of his mouth against yours and his hands mapped your sides like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. And then, he was everywhere.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and Han followed, lips trailing down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. He kissed like he meant it—deep and consuming, like he wanted to swallow the sound of your sighs. His hands were firm on your hips, but not greedy—like he could take his time, like he wanted to take his time.

Suddenly, he slowed. He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, lips red and swollen from the kiss. His gaze lingered on yours, asking a silent question—one you didn’t need to answer aloud because you were already reaching for him.

He sat back on his knees, his hands gripping the hem of his black t-shirt. In one fluid motion, he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. Your breath caught at the sight. His body was lean but toned—defined in that way that made you want to reach out and trace every line. Broad shoulders and small waist. And there, on his right shoulder, was a black ink tattoo: sharp edges, elegant curves, something that looked both dangerous and deeply personal. The other one ran down his side in a smooth line, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans, teasing your imagination and making you wonder where does the tattoo ends.

You sat up slowly, eyes dragging across his chest, down to the subtle V of his hips.

He looked like sin wrapped in skin. He knew it, too. That stupid, perfect smirk curved at the edge of his mouth as he caught you staring.

“What?” he asked, voice low, a little smug.

You swallowed. “You’re just…”

“Hot?” he offered with a wink.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah,” you admitted quietly, your voice soft as your fingers brushed over the tattoo on his shoulder. “You really are.”

Han leaned down, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Careful,” he whispered, “you’re making it very hard to behave.”

You didn’t tell him to stop because even though you knew better… you didn’t want him to.

Han leaned and hovered over you, lips brushing against yours in slow, languid kisses that made your breath catch. His hand moved with a practiced ease—fingertips grazing the zipper at the back of your dress, a silent question in the way he tugged, lips still coaxing you deeper into him.

You didn’t say a word. You let him. Then you heard the sound of the zipper cutting through the silence in the room. The fabric slipped down your shoulders, warm air brushing over newly exposed skin. He pulled the dress down until it's off of you and you were bare except for the matching underwear you were wearing.

His gaze dropped, jaw tightening just slightly, like the sight of you like this did something to him he couldn’t put into words. “You’re unreal,” he whispered, kissing your collarbone, then lower, down the center of your chest.

He buried his mouth in between your soft mounds and drinks in your natural scent. “What kind of spell are you putting on me?” He murmured with his lips against your skin.

You let out a soft laugh, but it caught in your throat when his lips found your stomach, then the curve of your hip. His hands smoothed along your sides, slow and reverent, like he wanted to worship every inch of you.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured between kisses. “So fucking perfect.”

He came back up to kiss you again—deeper this time, his mouth claiming yours like he couldn’t get close enough. Your hands gripped his shoulders, felt the heat of his skin under your palms, the sharp inhale he took as your fingers trailed along the tattoo on his ribs.

And then— Something shifted. It happened all at once. A flicker of hesitation in your chest, the way your body stilled beneath his, the sudden tightness in your throat that you couldn’t quite explain. His kiss slowed, but your hands had already gone slack at your sides. The fire was still there—but your heart wasn’t in it anymore.

Han noticed immediately. He pulled back, just enough to look you in the eyes. His brows furrowed, voice softer now, careful. “Hey… you okay?”

You hesitated for a second, trying to find the right words. “I—” You bit your lip, avoiding his gaze. “I think I’m changing my mind.”

His weight shifted off you a little more. “Yeah?”

You nodded, cheeks hot. “I don’t want to do this. At least… not tonight.”

There was a pause. Not heavy—just quiet. And then Han gave the smallest, most genuine smile. “Okay.”

You anxiously clutched the sheet under you. “You’re… okay with that?”

“Of course I am,” he said, brushing your hair gently behind your ear. “You think I’m gonna get mad because you're being a decent human with boundaries? Please.”

The relief hit you like a wave. You leaned up and gave him a soft peck on the lips, more grateful than anything. “Thank you, Han.”

He laid down beside you, still shirtless, arm behind his head as he looked at the ceiling like it was no big deal. Like you hadn’t just hit pause on something you both clearly wanted.

“You’re really sweet,” you said quietly.

He smirked. “Don’t ruin my reputation like that. I’ve got a bad boy image to maintain.”

You laughed as your head fell back onto the pillow, finally relaxing again. “Sorry. You’re so dangerous and mysterious.”

“That’s better,” he said with a wink. “Now c’mere. I wanna cuddle and sulk dramatically about being denied.”

You rolled your eyes but moved closer, letting his arm wrap around your waist, your head finding the space between his neck and shoulder. He was warm. He smelled like cologne and the night and something that already felt too familiar.

-

The air in the room had shifted—less charged, more peaceful. You weren’t sure how long you’d been lying there in silence, his arm still wrapped around your waist, your head tucked into the crook of his neck. His fingertips were brushing soft, aimless patterns along your side when his gaze drifted across the shelves by your bed.

“You’ve got a lot of books,” he murmured.

You smiled against his skin. “Yeah. I like to collect them even when I don’t have time to read.”

Han tilted his head, scanning the spines. “The Song of Achilles,” he said, pointing. “That one wrecked me.”

Your brows lifted. “You’ve read it?”

“Twice,” he said proudly. “And cried like a loser both times.”

You laughed, shifting slightly so you could see him. “You don’t strike me as the Greek tragedy type.”

He grinned. “I’m full of surprises.”

The conversation spilled easily from there—first about the book, then about other favorites, stories that moved you, characters you felt too much for. You didn’t realize how natural it felt until you noticed the hour on your phone and blinked.

“Wait… it’s almost four?”

Han chuckled, voice gravelly now from the lateness. “Guess you’re just too interesting.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was soft. “I don’t remember the last time I stayed up all night just… talking.”

He looked at you, expression gentler than usual. “Me neither.”

There was a pause. Then, maybe without meaning to, you spoke.

“I think…” you began, voice low, almost unsure. “I think that’s why I hesitated earlier.”

Han stayed quiet, just watching you.

Your voice small as you kept going. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’ve never felt really… confident. About my body. I’ve had a few… not-so-great experiences, and sometimes it just gets in my head, you know?”

Han didn’t interrupt. He didn’t rush to fix it or brush it off. He just listened.

“Sometimes I feel like if someone sees too much of me, they’ll change their mind.”

His fingers tightened slightly around your waist—not in a harsh way, just grounding. Reassuring. “You know what I see when I look at you?” he said quietly.

You looked up at him, throat tightening.

“I see someone brave enough to set boundaries. Someone smart and kind and way, way too good at darts. I see someone who didn’t have to let me in—but did anyway.”

Your chest ached in the best way, not expecting the talk turns this personal when you only have met this person merely hours ago.

“You don’t have to earn being wanted,” he added. “You just are.”

You blinked fast, trying not to let the sting behind your eyes win. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He shrugged, a teasing smile returning. “I’m trying to impress you. My shirt’s already off, and you said no, so I had to resort to personality.”

A laugh broke out of you, honest and full. You nudged his shoulder. “It’s working.”

The warmth between you softened into something tender—quiet and still and when you turned your head to look at him again, you found him already watching you. Something shifted in that moment. Something slow, sweet, inevitable.

Without overthinking it, you leaned in and this time, the kiss was gentle. No rush. No heat. Just a quiet surrender to the connection already blooming between you.

The kiss deepened naturally, without hesitation this time—just the slow, steady build of heat that had been simmering between you all night. Han’s hands rested on your waist, anchoring you to him as your mouth moved with his, the closeness buzzing with electricity.

You shifted, gently pushing him back against the pillows as you moved to straddle him. His hands slid down your sides, his eyes fixed on you now, wide and dark with something more than lust—something softer, deeper.

“You’re…” His voice was low, almost reverent. “God, you’re beautiful.”

The words landed right where your insecurities had been moments before, like he somehow knew exactly what to say to quiet them. His admiration wasn’t just in his voice—it was in the way he looked at you, like he was seeing something rare. Something precious.

It gave you a surge of something bold. A confidence you hadn’t felt in a long time. Your fingers moved behind your back, unclasping your bra. You let it fall between you, leaving you completely bare before him.

For a moment, Han just stared—lips parted slightly, eyes drinking you in like he didn’t want to miss a single detail. “I must be dead,” he said, voice still thick with awe. “Because there’s no way I’m this lucky and still breathing.”

You laughed—soft and real, your body finally relaxing as the tension slipped away. “Shut up,” you said while covering his mouth with your hand, even though the corners of your mouth were still curled in a smile.

“I’m just saying,” he added with a smirk, hands sliding up your thighs, slow and steady. “How am I not blind after seeing that?”

Your heart fluttered, warmth blooming in your chest and between your ribs, in all the quiet spaces where doubt used to live. There was something about being seen like this—not just touched, not just wanted, but seen. And even more than that… adored.

You leaned down again, brushing your lips against his. The kiss was softer now, but no less full of promise. In that moment, you let yourself believe—for just a little while—that this thing between you might be more than a night.

-

Han sat up slowly, eyes still fixed on you, the sheets rumpled around his waist as you remained straddling him. The way he looked at you made your skin tingle—as if you were the only thing that matters in this world.

He reached up, cupping the side of your neck with one hand, his thumb brushing just below your jaw. Then he leaned in and kissed you again—deeper, slower, savoring the way your lips moved with his.

His hand trailed downward, fingertips gliding over your collarbone, then lower, tracing the curve of your chest with a delicate touch that made you inhale sharply against his mouth. He hummed softly into the kiss, the sound low and pleased, like your reaction was exactly what he hoped for.

His other arm slipped around your waist, pulling you flush against him until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between your bodies. Skin to skin, warmth to warmth, heartbeats syncing into something that felt more intimate than you expected.

In the next moment, the kiss growing needier, more consuming with every second. Your hands tangled in his hair, nails grazing the back of his neck as his lips claimed you again and again, with no sign of stopping. It felt like you were falling—into him, into this and you didn’t want to stop it.

Han dragged his lips down the slope of your neck, slow and heated, making your breath catch in your throat. You tipped your head back as a low moan escaped you, helpless against the way his mouth explored your skin—biting softly, then soothing the sting with warm kisses that made your spine curve and your fingers grip his shoulders tighter.

When he reached your sternum, he paused—just long enough to look up at you with a wicked glint in his eyes—before burying his face in the valley between your breasts. His kisses were open-mouthed, and lingering, lips moving with reverence as he worshipped every inch of your soft mounds. And then he took your breast into his mouth, hot and wet, the sudden suction making you gasp.

“Han—” you breathed out, nearly a whimper as he rolled your nipple against his tongue, then sucked harder—hard enough to make you yelp in surprised pleasure.

The sting was sharp, but the heat it sent rushing through your core was sharper. Your hips shifted beneath him instinctively, your body already responding faster than your mind could catch up.

When he looked up at you again, his lips glistened, and that smug little smirk you were starting to know too well curved at the corner of his mouth. “You sound so pretty,” he murmured, voice heavy with desire. “Don’t hold back.”

And then his mouth was on you again—trailing fluttering kisses down your stomach while enjoying the way your body arched into his. You barely had time to catch your breath before he shifted, his hands finding your hips, and with one smooth motion, he flipped you onto your back, slipping easily between your legs.

You gasped, a mix of surprise and heat curling inside you as he looked down at you—his pupils blown wide, his hair a mess, and his mouth already back on your skin.

His kisses continued down your front, warm and teasing, until his lips hovered at the edge of your underwear. He pressed a slow, deliberate kiss right against the thin fabric, eyes flicking up to meet yours just as you gasped—your hips twitching in response. You moaned, unable to stop the sound, your body trembling slightly under his touch.

Han smirked against you. “Still doing okay?” he asked, voice thick, dark, and laced with mischief.

You could only nod, breathless, your fingers threading through his hair again. Without giving you a moment, Han places an open-mouthed kiss on your clothed core, ignoring the way the fabric already damp with your arousal. Even with a layer of barrier, you felt his tongue tracing your bundle on nerves and continuously circling on it.

Han pulls away with a smirk. His fingers curled around the band of your underwear, his touch is unhurried like he was giving you every chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You just watched him, heart pounding as he pulled the fabric down your legs, inch by inch, until you were bare beneath him.

His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it softened. He lifted your leg by the back of your knee and leaned down, pressing light, fluttering kisses to the inside of your thigh—so delicate they felt like sparks dancing over your skin. The closer his mouth got to your center, the harder it became to breathe. Your body reacted on instinct, legs trying to snap shut from the overwhelming vulnerability of it all.

He looked up at you, eyes full of patience as he waited for you to open yourself to him.

“I—” you started, voice barely a whisper, “I just… it might take me a while... to come.”

There was no judgment in the way he looked at you. No hesitation. Instead, he smiled—soft, a little amused, endlessly kind. “You’re not in a hurry, right?”

And then, with that signature glint in his eye, he added, “Should I get you a book? Something to keep you busy while I work my mouth on you?”

You let out a startled laugh, your nerves cracking open into something lighter, easier. “You’re such an idiot,” you mumbled, smiling despite yourself.

“Mm, but I’m your idiot tonight.” He leaned up and pressed a kiss to your lips—slow, grounding, warm. “Just relax,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you.”

With that, he moved back down, settling between your thighs like he belonged there. His arms curved under your legs and his hands resting on your abdomen, anchoring your hips gently.

The first contact of his mouth on your bare sex was gentle at first—exploring you with soft, unhurried licks between your folds that made your entire body tense and then melt into the mattress. He was careful, attentive, like he was learning every part of you with his lips and tongue, every little sound you made guiding him deeper into the rhythm that left you trembling.

You gasped and moaned, your fingers clutching at the sheets, legs trembling on either side of his shoulders. But then—his hands reached for yours. You felt his fingers lace through yours and pull them down to rest flat on your stomach. The unexpected intimacy of it made your chest swell with something tender. Even while he was driving you completely wild, he was grounding you—keeping you connected to him, reminding you that he was here, with you, for you.

Your back arched as his tongue found that perfect spot again and again, moving with a precision that made your breath stutter and your hips buck toward his mouth. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He just tightened his hold on your hands and kept going, lips and tongue working you over until you were gasping his name, your moans a helpless melody echoing off the walls of your bedroom.

You were undone—squirming under him, your body drawn tight with every wave of pleasure building inside you, held steady only by the feel of his hands wrapped around yours and the determined, reverent way he worshipped you with his mouth.

You felt it cresting—slow and intense, like a wave building higher and higher until it crashed through you all at once. Your body arched, a helpless moan tearing from your throat as the pleasure hit, all-consuming and warm, unraveling every thread of restraint you had left. Your fingers tightened around his, your thighs trembling around his head as you came apart under his mouth.

Han didn’t stop right away. He eased you through it with soft, fluttering kisses along your inner thigh, then up your abdomen, tender and patient as you slowly came down from the high, your breathing ragged and your skin still buzzing.

“You were perfect,” he murmured against your stomach. “So damn good for me.”

You let your eyes flutter open, dazed and breathless, and found him already looking at you. A teasing smile tugged at the corners of his lips—his mouth and chin glistening with the evidence of what he'd just done to you. He didn’t wipe it away. He licked his bottom lip instead with his eyes never leaving yours.

Then he leaned in, kissing you deep and slow, his tongue sliding against yours, letting you taste yourself on him. It was intimate, almost possessive—like he wanted you to feel everything, to know exactly how much he’d enjoyed every second of you. Your hands slid around his shoulders, pulling him closer as your heart pounded against your ribcage.

Han didn’t rush you. He laid beside you, propped on one elbow, his other hand lazily trailing up and down your side. Featherlight touches. Just enough to make you shiver, even now.

“You’re kinda quiet,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Did I break you a little?”

You turned your head and gave him a weak glare, but your smile betrayed you. “A little. Yeah.”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and smug as he nuzzled against the side of your neck. “Not a bad first impression then.”

You huffed a laugh, still catching your breath but that didn't stop him from kissing you again, his lips dragging over your cheek and then down to your collarbone. Each one lingered just long enough to keep your skin tingling.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against the curve of your waist, slipping lower for just a second before rising again. “You... under me. Breathing like that. Looking at me like I just rewrote your nervous system.”

“Cocky much?” You said with a raised eyebrow.

He smirked against your skin. “Only because you’re not denying it.”

You rolled your eyes and before you could fire back, he caught your lips in another kiss . It was gentler now—slow, drawn-out. His tongue moved lazily with yours, coaxing you back into that hazy warmth you were just coming down from. All the while, his hand never stopped moving—light strokes over your ribs, the underside of your breast, the dip of your waist. Not pushing. Not asking. Just... building. Again.

“You good?” he whispered when he pulled back, his voice all gravel and honey now, his eyes searching yours like he really meant it.

You nodded, already feeling the ache of wanting him again as his body pressed flush to yours. You answered him by kissing him. Your fingers curling into the nape of his neck.

Without breaking the kiss, he took your hand in his and slowly guided it down his chest, over the smooth lines of his torso. Your breath hitched, unsure of where he was leading you—but then, just when you thought he was going to push your hand lower, he slid it around to the back of him instead. Your palm met the firm muscle of his ass, and he grinned against your mouth.

“Go on,” he murmured, his voice thick and teasing. “Tell me that’s not the finest ass you’ve ever touched.”

A surprised laugh escaped you, and you gave it a playful squeeze. “I mean… I’ve touched worse.”

“Ouch,” he gasped dramatically, feigning offense. “After all I’ve done for you tonight? That’s the best I get?”

You giggled, rolling your eyes. “Okay, fine. You’ve got a great ass, Han.”

“There it is.” He beamed proudly, his voice smug and affectionate. “You’re so good at flattering me. I should keep you around for morale.”

You gave it another squeeze just to mess with him, and he let out a low laugh, burying his face in your neck for a second before pulling back to look at you—really look at you.

In that moment, between the laughter and the heat, something softer flickered in his eyes. He didn’t say anything about it. He just leaned in to kiss you again, and you let yourself fall into it, warm and breathless and beginning to wonder how someone could be this addictive after only one night.

He let your hand linger where he’d placed it, his own hand coming up to cup your jaw as he kissed you slowly, deeply, addictive. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, his body pressed against yours, every inch of him alive with tension and need.

So you took initiative by sliding your hand down with clear intent, and he groaned softly into your mouth as your fingers wrapped around his swollen cock. The way he responded—jaw tightening, breath catching—only encouraged you, but you kept your pace slow, teasing him the way he’d teased you earlier. Your thumb rubbed over the crest and applied gentle pressures on it, then you began slowly stroking it.

His hand eventually joined yours, fingers curling around yours as he guided the motion with a rhythm he liked, each stroke making him pulse harder in your hand. Together, you pumped his cock in slow, steady motion. His forehead pressed to yours, and his eyes fluttered shut as the pleasure rippled through him.

“You’re really testing here,” he murmured, voice ragged.

You only smiled, tightening your hold around his length, feeling him twitch with growing need.

Before things could blur too far, Han’s hand paused yours. “Wait—condom?”

You nodded toward the drawer on the bedside table. “Inside. Right side. There’s a box.”

He reached over without fully detaching from you, retrieving one and giving you a look that was somehow both focused and teasing as he tore it open with his teeth. He rolled it on carefully, his eyes flicking to you every few seconds—watching you watch him.

When he was done, he raised an eyebrow. “So... how’s my form? Did I pass the test?”

You gave him a smirk and a playful nod. “A+ in safety and presentation.”

“Good.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours. “Now let’s see if I can get extra credit.”

With that, his mouth was on yours again, harder, deeper yet more certain. The anticipation hung thick in the air between your bodies as he pressed closer, your legs parting to welcome him in, the heat between you impossible to ignore.

Han moved slowly, his body flush against yours as he guided his cock into your entrance with care. He ran his length between your folds, drenched it with your arousal, giving your clit enough stimulations for what’s coming next.

When he began pushing his tip into you, his eyes never left your face, watching you, searching for any sign of hesitation. He kept going, eyebrows furrowed as he penetrated you with utmost care and carefulness.

The second his cock buried to the hilt inside you, you gasped—not from pain, but from the overwhelming closeness—he kissed you softly as if he tried to make up for the unpleasantness.

“Good?” he whispered, his voice breathless but gentle.

You nodded, fingers curling into his shoulders. “Mm-hmm… I’m good.”

He stayed like that for a moment, fully buried in you but still, giving it a moment for your bodies to adjust to each other's. When he finally moved, he moved in slow, measured thrusts that made your body tremble with each drag of his cock against your tight walls.

In the heat of the moment, his mouth found yours again, kissing you through every shift in rhythm, as if he wanted to share every part of it with you. “You feel amazing,” he murmured into your skin, a quiet confession between kisses on your neck, your collarbone, your lips. “Like you were made for me.”

His hands cradled your waist, keeping you close, and every so often, he paused just to glance down to where your bodies joined, where you took all of his cock inside you and wrapped tightly around him. He kissed you again and again before picking up the pace.

The tension between you grew hotter, sharper, but the tenderness never left his touch. He wasn’t just trying to make you feel good—he was trying to imprint every second of this in the back of his mind.

The way your bodies moved together was effortless, like some rhythm you'd always known and with every breath, every breathless moan escaped your lips, Han was right there—present, connected, real. You clung to him, and he to you, as though the moment might vanish if you didn’t hold on.

And when it finally crested—your body arching into his, tightening and fluttering around him, making Han coming soon after, groaning your name as he held you through the aftershocks, not once letting go. He went still for a moment as he released, filled the condom with his seed.

For a while, neither of you said a word. The room was filled with the sound of your mingled breaths, soft and slowing, hearts still racing under flushed skin. He was the first to move, gently pulling you into his chest, his arms wrapping securely around you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, voice low and tender against your hair.

You nodded, your cheek resting just over his heart. “Yeah… Okay.”

His arm stayed snug around your waist, the other trailing lazy fingers up and down your back as your breathing slowly returned to normal. Then, in the quiet hum of the room, he tilted his head down toward you and murmured, “So... would now be a bad time to ask for a Yelp review?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh, your body still buzzing. “Right now?”

“I just think it’s important to gather feedback,” he said, grinning smugly. “You know, for quality assurance.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “Five stars for effort. Four and a half for the bad jokes.”

Han gasped dramatically. “Excuse you—my jokes are premium content.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered, snuggling closer to him.

“I know,” he said, and kissed the top of your head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You softly exhaled, eyes fluttering shut in drowsiness as his lips continued placing little kisses on your skin, reverent and steady, with a quiet devotion that left you feeling like you were falling—into something deeper than lust, something dangerously close to trust.

-

Sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, warming your bare shoulders, gently waking you up from your slumber. You stirred, stretching out a hand to the other side of the bed—only to find it empty and cold.

Of course. You muttered in your head as you heart sank a little. You let out a quiet sigh and rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling. You should’ve known better. One night, a little charm, and then gone by morning. Classic. Still, you couldn’t help the flicker of disappointment curling in your chest. Because, as much as you tried not to… you liked Han.

And then—there it was. The unmistakable clatter of something in the kitchen, followed by a low curse.

Pulling on whatever piece of clothing from the floor, you padded out of the bedroom and found him in the kitchen.

Han was shirtless and under the pale sunlight, his tattoos were contrast to his honey skin, his hair messily tousled, standing in front of your coffee machine with a deep frown on his face. His fingers were poking at buttons like they personally offended him. He looked up the moment he sensed you and broke into a sheepish grin.

“Morning. So, I may or may not be losing a fight to this highly complicated coffee machine.”

You squinted, walking closer to assess the issue. “Did you… plug it in?”

He paused and then he checked the back of the machine, finding the unplugged cord hanging limply beside the counter.

“Ah.” He scratched the back of his head while sheepishly chuckling. “That explains the lack of coffee. I was just about to blame capitalism.”

You chuckled despite yourself, shaking your head as you plugged it in. “Are you always this charming in the morning?”

“24/7 actually,” he said, watching you with that same lopsided grin.

As the coffee started brewing, the warm scent beginning to fill the kitchen, you turned toward the fridge. “I’ll make breakfast.”

Han leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest as he watched you. “Are you sure? I mean, I was planning to impress you with my gourmet bowl of cereal.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for the eggs. “How about you handle coffee duty, Chef Cereal and I’ll take care of the rest?”

“Copy that, Kitchen Commando,” he said, reaching for two mugs with a mock salute.

The two of you moved around each other in quiet rhythm, filling the kitchen with soft clinks and sizzling sounds. No awkwardness. No morning-after weirdness. Just warmth, quiet laughter, and the smell of coffee and toast. It was… easy, strangely easy and you couldn’t remember the last time something felt like that.

The two of you sat across from each other at the small kitchen table, plates filled with scrambled eggs and toast between you, steaming mugs in hand. He took a bite, chewed, and gave you an impressed nod. You held the urge to chuckle at the way his cheeks puffed as he chewed on his food.

“Okay, chef,” he said with a grin. “This is actually good. I had low expectations after seeing your coffee machine situation.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You mean your coffee machine situation?”

He pointed at you with his fork. “Fair.”

Between bites and sips of coffee, the conversation drifted into something lighter. Easier.

“So, what do you do?” you asked, wiping a crumb off your lip.

Han leaned back a little, stretching his legs under the table. “I work at a music studio. Mostly sound engineering. Some producing. It depends on who’s asking.” He smirked. “But yeah, I help make people sound better than they actually are.”

You laughed. “Do you enjoy it?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Long hours, weird clients, but music’s kind of the only thing I ever wanted to do. Even when I was a kid.”

There was a flicker of something sincere in his eyes, and for a moment, it made your chest warm.

He tilted his head. “What about you?”

“I co-own a vintage clothing store with a friend,” you said, reaching for your coffee. “We do a lot of curating, reselling, sometimes minor alterations. I’m there most days.”

Han perked up. “Wait, so you’re telling me I know someone with taste and access to cool jackets?”

You smirked. “Maybe.”

“Do I get a discount if I come shop there?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

“That depends. Do you plan on plugging in the coffee machine next time?”

He let out a laugh and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Harsh but fair.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of coffee refills, inside jokes already forming, and conversations that slipped from playful to surprisingly thoughtful with ease. It felt oddly natural—like the two of you had known each other long enough to tease and jab without hesitation.

And maybe that was what made it so dangerous.Han, with his charm and his grin and his casual warmth—he was the kind of trouble that came wrapped in comfort.

When it was time for him to go, you followed him to the front door, your sweater sleeves pulled down over your hands, fingers gripping the hem to keep yourself from reaching for him. He crouched slightly to put on his sneakers, and a strange heaviness pressed on your chest—the kind that came with goodbyes, especially the ones you didn’t want to say out loud.

This is it, you thought. A fun night. A morning after. And then he disappears like they always do.

But just as he finished lacing up his shoes, Han straightened and turned to face you again. His eyes flicked across your features, lingering in that way that made it feel like he was seeing more of you than he should.

“So,” he said slowly, almost cautiously, “can I see you again?”

Your breath hitched—just for a second. “Well... You know where to find me.”

A smirk crept onto his lips, cocky and triumphant, like he’d just won a game you didn’t realize you were playing. “That I do.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you stretched taut with something unspoken. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, and when he stepped forward, it was deliberate.

Han reached up, his fingers gentle as they found your chin and tipped your head slightly toward him. He leaned in slowly—so slowly—and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. It wasn’t lustful or teasing this time. It was tender, like a promise.

When he pulled away, his voice was lower than before. “I’ll see you soon.”

You opened your mouth to respond, to say it back, but you barely got the words out before he leaned in again and kissed you deeper this time, stealing the air from your lungs. It left your head swimming, your hands balled into the fabric of your sweater to keep yourself from holding onto him. And then he stepped back, letting go of your chin with frustrating gentleness. You almost frowned at the absence of his touch but caught yourself, painting a smile on instead.

Han turned toward the door, opened it, and paused—just for a beat. His eyes found yours again, like he was trying to burn the image of you into memory, then he stepped out.

You stood frozen for a moment after the door shut, the silence of your apartment suddenly deafening, and without meaning to, you were already counting the seconds until you saw him again.

-

The bell above the door jingled as someone left, the fading sound echoing in the stillness of the vintage shop. You barely looked up from where you sat behind the counter, chin resting in your hand, watching the second hand tick around the clock mounted on the wall.

Five days. Not a text. Not a call. Not even a stupid emoji. You hated how often you found yourself checking your phone, hoping for a notification from Han. Even more, you hated that your heart still fluttered at the thought of him—even now, after all the silence.

Your friend, Morgan, appeared from the back room with a new rack of denim jackets and gave you a knowing look. “Still nothing?”

You shook your head, sighing dramatically as you slumped over the counter. “Maybe he died.”

Morgan snorted. “If he’s dead, the universe just did you a favor.”

You groaned, burying your face into the crook of your elbow. “Don’t say that. What if he’s just…busy?”

She shot you a flat look, raising an eyebrow. “Busy? Please. That boy is a smooth-talking, fine-ass ghoster, and you know it. You're not the first girl he made promises to with his shirt off and that dumb pretty smile.”

You sat back up, whining like a child being told no. “I know, okay? I know. You’re right. He’s just a typical fuckboy. I just…” Your voice softened. “It didn’t feel like that.”

Morgan sighed and leaned on the counter next to you. “That’s how they get you. They make you feel like you’re the one exception to their pattern. That you’re the one they actually mean it with.”

You stared down at your hands, fiddling with a loose thread on your sleeve. “It’s just,” you muttered, “my heart’s being stupid. I know he’s not coming back. I know that night probably meant nothing to him. But…”

“But it meant something to you,” Morgan finished your sentence with a fed-up sigh.

You nodded, lips pressing together in a hard line.

Morgan gave your shoulder a squeeze. “It sucks. And I hate seeing you like this. But you’ve gotta stop feeding the fantasy. He ghosted you, babe. Whether it was deliberate or not, you deserve better than that.”

You swallowed hard, forcing the bitterness of the truth down your throat. “Yeah.”

“And I mean—look at you.” She gestured at your outfit. “You’re a catch. Hot, smart, funny. And you run a kickass vintage store. You think he's the only guy who’s gonna notice that?”

You managed a laugh, weak and watery. “He better not be.”

“There she is.” Morgan grinned. “Now, go fix that rack of leather jackets and start forgetting about that doe-eyed, tattooed piece of—”

The bell above the door jingled again and you both turned to look. Your heart nearly stopped only for some customers coming into the store.

“Better put my focus on work,” you sighed in defeat as you grabbed the rack of leather jackets and hauled it.

Morgan gives you an encouraging slap on the butt. “Atta girl!”

Rearranging a rack of vintage coats did help distracting you from thinking about Han and how a part of you still hoping that your phone chime with a message from him. It worked until a familiar voice sliced through the low hum of the store.

“What do you think?” he said. “Is this totally my color, or am I giving discount magician vibes?”

That voice. That joking, cocky, annoyingly charming voice. You turned slowly, fingers still clutching a velvet blazer, and there he was—Han—standing under the warm light of the shop’s interior, holding up a glittery gold button-down shirt with a grin that was clearly meant to disarm you.

“Or should I add this?” he asked, grabbing a feathered boa and wrapped it around his neck.

Your heart kicked up painfully in your chest, but your face remained neutral. “Can I help you?” you asked flatly, like you would with any other customer.

Han’s smile faltered. He let the shirt fall against his chest, his eyes searching yours. “I—uh. Okay. I deserve that,” he admitted, stepping closer. “I’m sorry. I know I should’ve called. Texted. Something. I’ve just… things got complicated.”

You didn’t say anything, you just moved on to the next rack, slipping hangers back in place like you hadn’t heard him.

He followed behind, undeterred. “I’m not trying to make excuses. I just got overwhelmed with work. Studio stuff’s been nonstop. I kept meaning to reach out, but it felt like the longer I waited, the worse it would seem.”

You paused, glanced at him, and then kept walking. He was doing it again—smooth talking, saying all the right things, making you almost want to believe him.

From behind him, Morgan stood at the counter, arms crossed, and as soon as your eyes met, she silently pointed at Han and mouthed: Bad news.

You sucked in a breath and walked past Han, heading toward another rack of clothes. He caught up with you and gently grabbed your elbows, halting your steps.

“Please,” he said, voice softer now. “I’m really sorry. I’ve been thinking about you. About that night. A lot. I didn’t mean to disappear. I just—I handled it badly.”

You looked up at him, heart racing. His eyes were wide and vulnerable, but you couldn’t tell if it was genuine or just an act to win you over. His grip on you wasn’t forceful, but there was something desperate in the way he held you there—like he needed to fix this, needed to make you hear him.

However, your head was swimming. You couldn’t trust your instincts around him. Not when your chest still ached from pathetically waiting for a text from him.

So you gently pulled your arms free and walked toward the counter. “Morgan, can you help this customer?” you asked, barely looking back.

Without waiting for an answer, you gave him the cold shoulder and pushed open the backroom door. You stayed there and only came out after Morgan texted you that Han has left.

When it came to close the shop, you and Morgan worked together to tidy up the store. You turned the keys repeatedly and pulled the door to make sure it was securely locked before dropping the keys into your bag.

As you were about to turn away, Morgan tapped your shoulder and you turned just as she tilted her head toward the street. “Behind you,” she murmured.

You followed her gaze—and there he was. Han, sitting on the hood of his car like some hopeless romantic cliché, bundled in his jacket, arms crossed, breath visible in the cold night air. He’d been waiting.

Morgan sighed, already exhausted with him. “You want me to scare him away?”

You shook your head. “It's okay. I got it.”

She hesitated, watching your face with that same mix of concern and curiosity, before stepping back with a parting, “Text me.”

Then you were alone with the sound of distant traffic and your footsteps clicking against the pavement as you approached.

Han stood up when he saw you. Despite the chill, he smiled. “Hey.”

You raised a brow. “You’re still here.”

“Well,” he said with a shrug, stepping closer. “I’m not leaving until you forgive me.”

You crossed your arms, trying to keep your expression unreadable. “You really think freezing your ass off is going to make up for ghosting me for five days?”

He grinned. “I mean... it’s a start.”

You tried to hold back, but then he added, “And next time, I’ll remember to plug in the coffee machine.”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Your resolve, carefully built up over days of annoyance and disappointment, began to crumble.

He grinned wider, gently reaching for your hand. His fingers were cold, but his touch was careful, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him hold on. “I really am sorry,” he said, quieter this time. “I messed up. I didn’t mean to disappear. I just got in my own head.”

You looked at him, and despite everything, part of you softened. He wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t charming his way out. He just looked... sincere.

You sighed, lips twitching. “You’re forgiven… if you wear that glittery gold button-down shirt. With the feathered boa.”

He blinked, then burst out laughing. “Okay. Go on, unlock the shop. I’ll wear it for you right now. Right here. Right now. I’ll even strut.”

You laughed too, finally, fully and the last bit of tension eased from your chest.

“I’d rock it,” he added, his voice cocky and bright. “I’d look amazing. I just know it.”

That made you burst into laughter, and Han looked at you like he’d already won the lottery, like he knew, somehow, this was the start of something… complicated. Messy, even. But it was a start.

-

It’s been three months now, and somehow, Han Jisung still looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

The months slip by in a blur of warmth and laughter, and if someone told you this was all a dream, you might believe them. Because dating Han feels exactly like that—like you’re floating through something too good to be real.

You remember slow mornings when he kisses your forehead before you're fully awake, the scent of coffee already filling your apartment because he learned how to use the machine properly—though he still jokes about nearly short-circuiting it every time. You eat pancakes in bed, syrup sticking to your fingers, and Han kisses the corner of your mouth like it's a reward for just being there.

There are late-night grocery runs when you both pretend you’re on a secret mission. You race down the snack aisle, Han hiding behind displays and jumping out to make you laugh. Once, he wore a banana costume he found in clearance and asked you to take him seriously. You couldn't.

There are cozy nights in, wrapped in blankets, a record playing low in the background as he hums along and runs his fingers through your hair. He reads to you sometimes— the lyrics he wrote on his journal, silly memes from his phone, even the tag on the cereal box—just to make you laugh at the way he over-dramatizes it.

He holds your hand in public like it’s second nature, like he can’t imagine a world where it wouldn’t be. He tells you you’re beautiful at the most random times—mid-bite at dinner, when you're makeup-free in sweats, when you're annoyed and pacing the room ranting about work. Always. Like it’s a fact of life.

Sometimes, you catch him just staring at you, soft-eyed and completely gone, and when you ask what he’s thinking, he shrugs and says, “Just wondering how I got so lucky.”

He surprises you with sticky notes stuck to your fridge door. Some have compliments, others doodles of the two of you. One just said, You make the world less scary.

And the fights? They happen, sure. But he never lets them last long. He listens. He apologizes. He makes an effort. Every single time.

Your life with Han isn’t perfect—but it’s golden. It’s honest. It’s filled with laughter, affection, and a kind of safety you didn’t know you’d been missing until he gave it to you.

You’re not sure where it’s all headed, but right now? You’re exactly where you want to be.

-

“... And then she had the audacity to tell me our vintage pieces were overpriced, like ma’am, it’s literally a 70s designer coat—what do you want, a time machine discount?”

You wipe your hands on a dish towel, still fuming from your earlier encounter at the shop. You glance toward the living room, expecting some kind of sympathetic sound from Han—but he’s sitting on the sofa, phone in hand, thumbs moving with casual focus.

Your rant comes to a halt, your mouth forming a small pout. Seriously?

You storm over with exaggerated drama, snatch his phone from his hands, and toss it onto the cushion beside him. Without missing a beat, you plop down onto his lap, straddling him with a huff.

“I was talking,” you say, pouting deeper. “And you were scrolling.”

Han grins up at you, arms already winding around your waist like it’s the most natural place for them to be. He tilts his head back slightly to look at you, eyes gleaming with fond mischief.

“I was listening. Something about a demon woman who tried to steal a sacred relic from your temple of vintage fashion.” He raises his brows, then he runs his hand through your hair. “Want me to kill her for you?”

You laugh, cooing at his ridiculousness. “How romantic of you,” you murmur, leaning in for a kiss.

His lips meet yours eagerly, his hold on you tightening like he’s anchoring himself. When you pull away just enough to tease him, his mouth chases after yours, making you giggle.

His hands travel down your sides, settling on the curve of your ass, and he hums against your jaw. “I gotta head back to the studio tonight,” he says, his voice apologetic as he presses a kiss under your ear. “I’m almost done with the track, just need a few more hours.”

You pout again as you look into his dark, doe eyes. “You've been pulling so many overnights lately. I’m starting to think your real relationship is with your audio software.”

Han chuckles, his hand rubbing at the round of your ass. “I promise, it’s just a fling. You’re the one I’m making all this extra time for. More finished tracks now, more time with you later.”

You know he’s right, but you still pout and scrunch your nose at him. “Still unfair.”

“So punish me,” he says with a playful smirk.

You grin, catching both his hands and guiding them above his head, pinning them to the back of the sofa. “Okay. Punishment starts now.”

Han gasps, mock offended. “Oh, no. Punishment.”

“I'm going to make you suffer,” You lean in, just brushing your lips against his, tempting him to kiss you and when he tries to capture your lips, you immediately pull your head back.

He’s already craning his neck, desperate for more. “Oh, I’m so scared.”

You laugh as you kiss him like you're about to swallow his small mouth whole, slow and indulgent, like you’re trying to make up for the hours you’ll miss tonight.

His hands eventually break free and finding their way back to your waist. Your world narrows to the warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips, and the knowledge that you’ll still be here when he comes home.

-

When you walk through the door after a long day at work, you immediately catch the comforting aroma of something warm and savory. You kick off your shoes, set your bag down, and round the corner to find Han standing in the kitchen, wearing one of your aprons—badly tied—and grinning like a mischievous schoolboy.

"Welcome home, babe," he says, arms stretched wide as if he really did just prepare a Michelin-star meal. The dining table is set: candles lit, plates ready, and takeout containers expertly hidden behind the serving dishes.

You smile wide but with an eyebrow raised at him. “You made dinner?”

He nods like he deserves a trophy. “As a good boyfriend, I sure did.”

You walk straight to him, wrap your arms around his neck, and pull him into a long, slow kiss. Your fingers slide through his hair, and his hands settle naturally on your waist as he kisses you back like he’s missed you all day.

When you finally break away just enough to speak, you whisper against his lips, “Thank you.”

“Full disclosure… I didn’t exactly cook it. I may have… ordered takeout,” he admits between kisses, “plated it really nicely… lit a few candles… made it look like I cooked.”

You laugh softly and nuzzle his nose. “I knew it. You can’t cook without triggering the smoke detector.”

He pulls back with a mock-offended gasp. “You know me too well.”

You kiss him again, and it deepens fast—too fast—because the next thing you know, you’re backed up against the counter, his hands warm against your sides, lips unrelenting. Teeth and tongue clashing in your mouth. It’s only when your stomach lets out a very loud, very real growl that you pull away with a sheepish grin.

“I’d love to keep doing this,” you murmur, breathless, “but I’m really hungry right now.”

Han chuckles, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Dinner first, make-out session after?”

“Deal,” you say, stealing one more quick kiss before heading toward the table.

And just like that, another ordinary night with Han feels like something out of a rom-com.

-

Later that night, you're propped up against the headboard, legs stretched beneath the comforter, a book resting open in your hands. The soft glow from the bedside lamp casts a cozy light over the room, and you're already halfway through a chapter when Han climbs onto the bed with a quiet, dramatic sigh. He crawls over to you like a lazy cat, warm and sleepy, and settles his head right on your chest, his arms loosely wrapping around your waist.

"I thought we're going to make out," he mumbles, burying his nose in the crook of your neck.

Without looking away, you turn a page and say, "But I'm just getting to the juicy part."

"Read it to me then," he mumbles again and this time, he's nuzzling into your shirt. "I wanna hear your juicy voice."

You smile and shift slightly to accommodate him, brushing your fingers gently through his hair. "You sure? You always fall asleep halfway through."

"Then you better make it good," he teases, voice muffled against you.

So you start reading, voice low and soothing, the pages turning slowly as your fingers play through his soft strands. He listens, surprisingly still, until a few lines in, you feel the brush of his lips against your collarbone. You keep reading, even as he kisses higher—your neck, your jaw—and you falter just slightly when his lips find yours.

You chuckle between sentences, breath catching. “Are you even listening?”

“Mhm,” he hums against your mouth, kissing you again. “Every word.”

The kisses deepen, slow and warm, his hand sliding up your side as the book tilts to the mattress, forgotten. He shifts so he’s hovering over you, his smile lazy, eyes half-lidded with affection. “I knew this was better than reading,” he whispers.

Before you can reply, his mouth finds yours again, and the words on the page dissolve into soft sighs and tangled sheets. His hand reaches for yours, taking your book and you feel his smirk against your lips when he tosses the book away.

"Hey, I was reading that," you grumble against his kiss.

He playfully tugs your lower lip between his teeth and then lets it go. "Admit it, this is way more fun," he murmurs followed by a haste kiss on your lips.

The room soon filled with the smooching sounds and the sighs that slipped out of your mouth in between as Han kisses you again and again. His hands are roaming around your body, touching, worshiping, he's slipping them under your night dress to feel the softness. His body is pressing on you until his body heat seeps into you and your bodies mold into one.

No matter how much you enjoyed it though, your body can't fight the fatigue anymore. You slowly pull away from his kiss, lips brushing his as you murmur, “It’s been such a long day… I can barely keep my eyes open.”

Han gives you a soft smile, the kind that makes your chest ache in the best way. He nods, understanding without a hint of complaint, and places a tender peck on your lips. “To be continued?”

You smile and nod. "To be continued."

"Now, come here," he whispers, lifting his arm and offering it to you.

You immediately nestle into his side, your head resting against his chest, arms wrapping around his torso like a blanket of your own. He shifts just enough to pull the comforter over both of you, his body warm and solid beside yours.

“Goodnight,” you mumble into his shirt, your voice already thick with sleep.

“Goodnight, baby,” he murmurs back, and then you feel the gentle flutter of his lips across your face—your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose.

His hand strokes slowly up and down your back, a quiet, calming rhythm that lulls you further. With his kisses still tingling on your skin and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, sleep takes you easily.

However, you stir in the middle of the night, disoriented by the emptiness beside you. Your hand reaches out instinctively, brushing over cool sheets where Han should be. The absence tugs gently at your sleep-heavy mind, and just as you're about to drift off again, you catch the faint sound of water running in the bathroom. You figure he’s probably just using the bathroom. Nothing unusual.

But then, layered beneath the soft rush of water, you hear the muffled sound of his voice. It’s faint—just the low, indistinct hum of someone speaking quietly on the phone. You strain to make out what he’s saying, but the faucet masks everything, leaving you with only your curiosity.

A minute later, the water stops, and the door clicks open. Han steps back into the darkened room, lit only by the sliver of moonlight coming through the curtain. He’s shirtless, his hair a little tousled, and he climbs back into bed as if nothing happened.

You blink up at him sleepily. “Hey... Who were you talking to?”

He settles in beside you, pulling the blanket back over both of you. “Just a guy from the studio. He needed something about the track we’re finishing. Did wake you, baby? I'm sorry.”

You hum in response, not pressing further. It sounds believable and it’s late, too late to overthink. So you curl into him, letting his arms wrap around you. His warmth is comforting, familiar. His hand finds its way to your back again, rubbing in slow circles the same way he did earlier until you're asleep again, nestled in the space you know best—his arms.

-

You stir to the feeling of gentle kisses being pressed to your bare shoulder—slow, warm, and lingering. One lands on your neck, then your cheek, then your forehead, until your entire face is dotted with affection. You groan softly and turn over, squinting your eyes open to find Han lying next to you, propped up on one elbow with his messy hair and that irresistible lopsided grin.

“Morning, sunshine,” he murmurs, voice low and sweet.

“Mm,” you hum sleepily, offering your lips, which he kisses with a soft, closed-mouth kiss that melts into a smile. His hand gently rubs up and down your arm, slow and reassuring.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks, still dotting little kisses along your temple.

You peek one eye open and stretch, a lazy grin on your face. “Like a baby. Probably because I wasn’t sleeping with my boyfriend who hogs the blanket like it’s a survival tool.”

Han gasps, dramatically clutching at his chest. “How dare you slander me first thing in the morning.”

You laugh against his shoulder. “Just stating facts.”

“Well,” he says, brightening again, “at least your boyfriend doesn’t hog your breakfast.”

He reaches over the side of the bed and lifts a brown paper bag triumphantly. The smell of fresh croissants and cinnamon rolls instantly fills the room, and your stomach lets out the most telling growl.

Han grins like he’s won the lottery. “I come bearing peace offerings.”

“And caffeine?” you ask hopefully.

He holds up two to-go coffee cups like it’s a trophy. “Double-shot latte for you. Because I like living.”

The two of you sit up in bed, pillows behind your backs, breakfast between you. You each pick at the warm pastries, sipping coffee in between bites. It's one of those rare slow mornings where everything feels just right.

Between mouthfuls, Han nods toward you. “By the way, the studio’s throwing a party tonight. Just a small thing. The team and a few other musicians.”

You raise your brows and tear a piece of croissant with your teeth. “You want me to come?”

Han looks at you like the answer is obvious. “Of course. I want to show you off. Also… moral support, because I might have to socialize with people I’ve only ever emailed.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” you playfully coo before letting out a chuckle.

He nudges you playfully with his knee. “You’ll come though, right?”

You grin over the rim of your coffee cup. “If you promise not to make bad jokes around me.”

Han smirks before pulling you for a sweet kiss and he pulls away just to mutter against your lips, “No promises.”

-

It’s chaotic in the best way—hairbrushes and makeup scattered across the vanity, clothes strewn over the bed, the laundry basket half-dumped as you scramble to find the perfect outfit for the party. Your hair is half-done, one eye fully made up while the other still waits for mascara. You’re digging through the laundry basket, looking for that dark top you swore you washed,when you accidentally lift Han’s jeans and something falls out of the back pocket. You pull them out—and with them, two ticket stubs. You glance at the date. Two days ago.

Your brows furrow as you read them again. Movie tickets. You carry them with you to the bedroom where Han is lying on his back, one hand under his head and the other holding his phone, lazily scrolling. You hold the stubs up and show them to him. “Babe?”

He looks up, raises a brow. “Yeah?”

You tilt your head, keeping your voice casual. “These were in your jeans. You saw a movie?”

Han pushes his phone aside and sits up slightly. “Oh, yeah. I got comp tickets from the studio. Luca and I went after work.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, still holding the stubs. “I thought we were going to see this one together.”

He grimaces apologetically and rests a hand on your thigh. “I know. But it wasn’t even that good, honestly. You didn’t miss much.”

Before you can respond, his eyes trail down to your outfit—or what exists of it right now. You’re in a black miniskirt and just your bra, still trying to decide on a top.

He lets out a low whistle. “Wait. Is this what you’re wearing to the party?”

You roll your eyes but the smile curling your lips betrayed you. “I haven’t even finished getting dressed yet.”

Han leans back on his elbows, grinning lazily. “God. Do you want me to cream my pants before we even leave the house?”

You feel your cheeks heat at the way he’s looking at you. A little flustered, a little smug, you climb onto the bed, straddling him with a smirk. “Maybe,” you seductively whisper, leaning in.

Your lips meet in a kiss that deepens quickly, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you closer. You try to pull back, breathless, but he won’t let you, chasing your mouth with another kiss.

“Han,” you murmur between kisses, “if we keep doing this, we’re going to be late.”

“I don’t care,” he breathes, before capturing your lips again.

In one smooth motion, he flips you onto your back, his body pressing down on yours, his mouth trailing slower, deeper kisses. You laugh against his lips, fingers weaving into his hair, momentarily surrendering to him—just a little longer before the party. Or maybe a little more as he roughly pulls your bra down until your breasts spilled out and he takes it into his mouth.

-

The studio party is already buzzing when you and Han arrive. Music pulses through the speakers, lights shifting from soft ambers to bold purples, casting shadows that dance across the walls. The room is filled with familiar faces from Han’s world—producers, engineers, interns, and artists, all with drinks in hand and stories spilling from their mouths.

Han thrives in it. He walks the room like it belongs to him, charming every person he speaks to, his laughter easy and infectious. With one hand comfortably resting at the small of your back, he introduces you proudly. “This is my girl,” he says more than once, eyes lighting up each time.

You smile, laugh along, answer polite questions. It’s warm, fun, easy. For a moment, everything feels perfect. Then you excuse yourself to get a drink, giving his arm a gentle squeeze before disappearing into the pantry-turned-bar.

You’re mixing a splash of something fizzy into your cup when a familiar voice speaks behind you. “Need a real bartender?”

You turn and find Luca—Han’s co-worker and longtime friend—grinning as he pours himself something from a bottle.

“Hey,” you say, friendly. “Yeah, I actually looking for the good stuff.”

“Don’t worry. I got you,” Luca smiles as he grabs a bottle of liquor from the bottom cabinet and pours it generously into your cup.

“Thank,” you say, slightly raising your cup his way. “Han told me you two saw a movie together a couple nights ago. Was it really as bad as he said?”

Luca’s expression shifts almost instantly. Confused. Cautious. “What movie?”

Your smile falters almost immediately. “The one you watched two days ago.”

Luca’s brow furrows and then he shrugs. “I haven’t seen a movie with Han in… weeks, I think? Maybe months.”

You blink, trying to keep your expression neutral, even though your stomach sinks a little. “Oh,” you manage. “I must’ve misunderstood.”

Luca offers a half-smile, oblivious to the storm forming behind your eyes. “He probably went with someone else from the studio.”

You nod slowly, staring down into your drink as the ice clinks against the glass. “Yeah. Probably.”

But that’s the moment the night shifts. Just slightly. Just enough to feel it.

-

The car ride home is thick with silence.

Han tries to reach for your hand, the way he always does when he senses you drifting. But you pull yours away without a word, placing it in your lap and staring out the window. The silence grows louder, pressing into your ears. He doesn’t say anything after that, but you can feel his eyes on you the whole way home.

When you step into the apartment, you don’t bother taking off your heels. You head straight to the bedroom, the weight of your earrings tugging at your lobes as you rip them off one by one. At the vanity, you grab a cotton pad and start scrubbing off your makeup—too harsh, too fast. The skin around your eyes burns, but you don’t stop.

Behind you, Han sits on the edge of the bed, watching you. “You okay?” he asks, careful, as if he’s walking on thin ice.

You don’t answer. You keep your eyes locked on the mirror, your jaw tight.

He tries again, adding a chuckle to lighten the mood. “Oh, no. Did I happen to make bad jokes around you?”

The sound of his laugh—so misplaced, so oblivious—makes your stomach twist. You whirl around. “Why did you lie?” you snap, eyes locked on his.

His smile falters as his eyes widen. “What are you talking about?”

You hold up the movie stubs. “You told me you went with Luca.”

He blinks. A beat too long. “I—I did, didn’t I—?”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice sharp. “I talked to him. He said he never went. So why lie?”

He exhales, like deflating, and stands. “Okay. Okay. I watched it… with someone else. My boss. He made me go with him. It was for work.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. You turn back to the mirror, your hand gripping the cotton pad again. “Do you even hear yourself?” you mutter. “You lied because what? You thought I wouldn’t understand?”

“I thought you’d get the wrong idea,” he says quickly, taking a step closer. “It was stupid. I know it was. I’m sorry.”

You don’t respond. You don’t even flinch as he walks up behind you, wraps his arms slowly around your waist, rests his chin against your shoulder like everything is still okay.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again. His lips press to your bare shoulder, then to your neck. A trail of kisses, light and apologetic.

“Let me make it up to you,” he whispers, voice warm against your skin. “Let me get you on the bed and show you how sorry I am.”

That’s when you freeze and when you still don’t move, he feels it. You gently shrug his hands off you and step away. “Don’t,” you say quietly. “Don’t touch me right now.”

He looks stunned. “Babe—”

You turn to him, your voice tight. “You lied to me. Not once. You kept lying until you got caught. Do you even know why I’m angry?”

He’s quiet and you take a breath to calm yourself down but it doesn’t help. “It’s not just the lie. It’s that you hid something so small like this—so what else are you hiding?”

Han reaches for you again, desperation in his voice. “It didn’t mean anything. I swear. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“You did,” you snap. “You made it worse.”

With that, you storm into the bathroom and slam the door behind you, locking it with a click that echoes in the silence he left behind.

-

The hot water cascades down your body, a comforting blanket against the heaviness weighing on your chest. You close your eyes, lean your forehead against the tiled wall, and try to breathe it all out—the frustration, the anger, the ache of being disappointed by someone you love.

You hear the bathroom door creak open. You don’t need to look to know it’s him.

“Please, leave me alone,” you murmur, a quiet warning laced with exhaustion.

However, Han is already stepping in, already moving behind you like he belongs there—and he does, doesn’t he? That’s the hardest part. You feel his presence before you feel his touch, a warmth radiating just behind you, his chest nearly brushing your back.

When you try to move away, to escape the softness he always uses to reel you back in, his arms slide around your waist and hold you firm. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and sincere against the rush of the water.

You don’t answer. You don’t look at him. You can’t. You’ve seen those eyes before—those shimmering, sorry eyes that he knows how to use like weapons. So you stare straight ahead, hoping the steam in the room can hide the way your resolve is already unraveling.

“I know I messed up,” he continues, voice breaking just slightly. “I panicked. I didn’t want to screw this up, didn’t want to give you a reason to walk away.”

His arms tighten around you and presses his mouth the crook of your neck. “Don’t do this to me. Please.”

It’s unfair, the way his touch feels so familiar. So safe. So warm. The way his skin melts into yours like you were carved to fit him and when he presses a kiss to your wet shoulder—just a soft, lingering kiss—you finally turn to face him. He looks at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted to keep, making your heart thuds.

When he kisses you, it’s slow at first. Sweet. Apologetic. But it deepens quickly, his desperation seeping into every brush of his lips against yours. His hands slide along your back, down your sides, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no space left between you, just heat and skin and the soft sound of breath catching between kisses. His mouth leaves yours only to find your jaw, your neck, his lips mapping the path of forgiveness across your skin. You feel yourself sigh into him, your fingers threading through his wet hair without even realizing it, and then he lowers himself.

You open your eyes to find him kneeling in front of you, the water cascading over both of you like a curtain. His hands rest on your hips, his eyes lifted to meet yours with a look that steals the air right out of your lungs.

Han leans in, presses a kiss just below your navel, his breath warm against your skin. Another kiss follows, then another—fluttering and soft as he trails his mouth down the inside of your thigh. Eventually, he buries his mouth in your delicate flesh, tongue teasing between the folds.

Without detaching his mouth, his hand glides down your leg and swiftly, he lifts it and puts it over his shoulder, allowing him access to bury his mouth deeper in your wetness. He presses his tongue on your clit, flicking his tongue over it repeatedly before sucking on it, hard.

Your head falls back against the wall, your hand finding his shoulder as he pulls you even closer, his mouth devout in its worship, burying himself deeper in your sweet, wet cunt.

You know what he’s doing and you let him, because with Han, resistance is temporary. But surrender is always inevitable.

So instead of resisting it, you give in. Your fingers thread into his damp hair, tugging at it as a way to guide him to where you need him most. You tilt his head with a gentle tug, and he groans into your skin in response, eager and relentless in the way he works you over, like he’s trying to apologize with every motion, every kiss, every flick of his tongue on your clit

If this is his way of apologizing, then you have to make sure that he does it right. So you move your hips begin, following the instinct of your body and chasing the rising heat that coils tighter with each second. Han doesn’t stop—he never does. He holds you firmly in place, completely attuned to the way your body pulses under his mouth. The next thing you know, you’re riding his mouth and he's letting you take what you need from him without hesitation.

When you finally shatter, your legs are trembling and your breath is ragged, he doesn't let go right away. He places soft, featherlight kisses on your inner thighs, on your hipbone, on the curve of your stomach—like he’s trying to soothe every frayed nerve and worship every inch of you.

Still on his knees, he wraps his arms around your waist and presses his cheek against your belly, holding you close. Then he looks up at you, hair wet and sticking to his forehead, eyes wide and honest.

“I love you,” he says.

It’s quiet, but it knocks the air right out of you. You stare at him, heart stuttering, lips parted—but no words come. Just a soft, overwhelmed sound as you drop to your knees, right there with him, letting him catch you in his arms. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, your body still humming with the aftershocks of everything—what he did, what he said, what you feel.

And even though your mind is still a storm, your heart has already chosen. You're his. Just like this.

-

The first thing you register is the smell—something warm and sweet and just slightly burnt. Then comes the sound of shuffling feet and a soft clang of dishes, followed by the familiar weight dipping the mattress beside you.

“Rise and shine, my sleepy baby,” Han says in a singsong voice.

You groan, burying your face deeper into the pillow. “Too early. Try again in an hour.”

Han laughs and slides a hand gently over your back, rubbing slow, lazy circles. “It’s not that early. And I come bearing food. And flowers. And celebration. And possibly an overcooked pancake or two.”

You peek one eye open, and there he is—messy-haired, bare-faced, grinning like he just won a prize. He’s holding a breakfast tray that’s definitely too full for its size: a tower of lopsided heart-shaped pancakes, a bowl of strawberries, a mug of your favorite coffee, and a handful of slightly wilted sunflowers sticking out of a mason jar.

You sit up with a sleepy smile. “You raided the entire kitchen for this?”

“Only the parts I didn’t set on fire,” he says proudly, handing over the tray. “Go on. Try it. I didn’t even Google anything this time.”

You cut into one of the pancakes and take a bite—and it’s honestly not bad. “Okay,” you say, impressed, “this is dangerously close to being edible.”

Han gasps. “Dangerously close? I slaved over a hot stove for this!”

“You used the pancake mix that only needs water.”

“Exactly! And I stirred it myself.”

You giggle as he crawls onto the bed beside you, settling under the covers and wrapping an arm around your waist. He rests his head against your shoulder, watching you eat with far too much fascination.

After a few moments, he looks up at you and murmurs, “You know, dating you has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You glance down at him, amused. “Because I let you sleep in my bed and steal my shampoo?”

“Well, yes,” he nods with mock seriousness. “But also… because you make even the boring days feel good. Because you’re kind, and smart, and weird in the exact same way I’m weird. And you always call me out when I’m being stupid, but somehow still manage to make me feel loved.”

Your chewing slows, and your chest fills with warmth as you meet his eyes. He continues, more softly now, “I used to wonder how long it would take for someone to get tired of me. But with you? I just keep thinking how lucky I am that you’re still here.”

You blink away the prickle behind your eyes and try to lighten the mood. “Well, I was going to break up with you after six months, but you made pretty decent pancakes today, so I guess you get to stay.”

Han gasps again, feigning betrayal. “I knew it. I knew I was on probation this whole time.”

You giggle, but he leans in and kisses you before you can say anything else—a long, slow, kiss that melts every joke off your lips. His hand curls against your side, grounding you there with him. When he pulls away, he whispers, “One year, baby. We made it.”

You sit there for a moment, holding your coffee, the pancakes cooling on your lap, his warmth soaking into your side. Your gaze trails toward the window, soft light pooling into the room, and you think about everything the two of you have been through—every messy fight, every soft reconciliation, every stolen kiss in quiet places, every night you fell asleep tangled in each other, and every morning you woke up just like this.

Despite everything, you're still here. Together. One whole year and there'll only be more of this. More love. More "us". Just as it should be.

-

It's a slow afternoon in the shop and you’re folding a stack of graphic tees near the counter, a subtle smile playing on your lips as you hum under your breath—completely unable to hide your good mood.

Morgan glances up from organizing a rack of skirts. “Okay, you’ve been smiling like a love-struck idiot all day. Spill.”

You grin, hugging a folded shirt to your chest. “Han’s taking me out tonight. It’s our one-year anniversary.”

Morgan lifts an eyebrow, hand pausing mid-hanger. “One year? Damn. Color me shocked.”

You laugh, used to her sarcasm by now. “Thanks for the confidence, my dear friend.”

“No, seriously,” she says, walking over and leaning against the counter. “I didn’t think you guys would crash and burn or anything, but Han Jisung has serious ‘heartbreaker’ energy. I'm impressed you’ve tamed the beast.”

“Tamed?” You snort. “I’d say I’m just as wild. We work because we both know how to keep up.”

Morgan smirks. “Yeah, okay, that’s cute. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” You tilt your head. “Now help me pick a dress.”

“Ooh—here we go. Closet raid time?”

You nod enthusiastically and follow her toward the back racks, where the newest arrivals are still tagged and barely touched. Morgan rifles through the options like a woman on a mission.

“Okay, what’s the vibe?” she asks. “Sweet and romantic? Sexy and mysterious? Or full femme fatale with a side of heartbreak?”

You pretend to think. “Somewhere between ‘look how lucky my boyfriend is’ and ‘he better treat me right or I’ll break his heart in heels.’”

Morgan cackles. “Say no more.”

She starts pulling dresses off the rack—a silky red slip, a flirty off-shoulder white mini, and a classic little black dress with a daring back cut-out.

You hold them up one by one in front of the mirror, Morgan circling around you with a critical eye. “Try the red one first.”

You grin as you head to the fitting room, heart already fluttering at the thought of Han seeing you tonight. This evening is going to be perfect—you can feel it.

-

The midday rush is thinning out as you and Morgan step out of the shop, the spring sun warming your shoulders as the two of you stroll down the block. Your steps light despite the fatigue in your feet from working around the shop for hours. You glance at Morgan beside you, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair, phone in one hand.

“I was honestly skeptical at first, you know,” you say, tugging your jacket closed. “About me and Han. I didn’t think it’d last.”

Morgan lets out a dry laugh. “Gee, I wonder why. Maybe because you forgive him every time he screws up?”

You shoot her a look and pout. “That’s not—okay, maybe once. But he’s been different these past few months. He’s been... good. Like, really good. He shows up. He listens. He makes time even when he’s buried in the studio. He tells me he loves me, Morgan.”

She doesn’t reply right away. Just lets out a long, quiet sigh that seems to stretch across the sidewalk.

You frown because you know it's not nothing. “What?”

Morgan shakes her head, changing the subject. “What do you want for lunch?”

You glance around. “I want that bagel from the coffee shop at the end of the block. The one with the poppy seeds.”

Morgan’s brows knitted in confusion. “Didn’t you already have that this morning with Han?”

Your steps falter. “Huh? What?”

Morgan stops too, confused. “The bagel. You and Han were there this morning, right? I saw you through the window.”

“No,” you say slowly as your smile falters. “Han brought me breakfast in bed. I never left the house.”

Morgan blinks. “Huh? Are you sure?”

You turn to her fully now, something cold crawling up your spine. “What exactly did you see?”

She’s quiet for a second, eyes darting over your face before she says, more carefully now, “I saw Han. At the window. Sitting across from someone. A girl. I only caught a glance. I just... assumed it was you.”

It’s like something inside you cracks in half and collapses. The hope, the trust, the naïve belief that he had changed—it all falls apart in an instant. You turn away from her, one hand rising to your mouth as the tears start to come, hot and fast.

Morgan steps forward without hesitation, wrapping you in a hug, holding you tight against her chest. “Oh, no. He did it again,” she sighs, already knowing the answer without having to ask for a confirmation.

Morgan’s arms stay around you while the world tilts under your feet, and all you can think is how stupid you were for believing he wouldn’t. For believing that this time, it would be different.

-

You’re curled up on the bed, hugging your knees to your chest, the soft fabric of the blanket clutched tightly in your fists. The room is dim, the sun casting a warm orange glow through the curtains, but all you can focus on is the tight ache in your chest. You don’t even look up when the front door clicks open.

Han’s footsteps are light at first, then grow quicker as he walks in. “Babe?” he calls gently. “Aren’t you getting ready for dinner?”

You say nothing. Your back stays turned toward him.

A beat of silence. Then, “Are you feeling okay?”

Getting no response, you hear him sigh, then the bed dips beside you. He slides in close behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist, his front flush to your back. He doesn’t say anything right away—just holds you, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

“Talk to me,” he whispers finally. “What’s going on?”

You sniffle, your voice barely there. “Morgan saw you this morning.”

Han frowns in confusion. “Saw me?”

“At the coffee shop. With some girl.”

He exhales slowly. Not annoyed. Not defensive. Just tired. “I bumped into an old friend from college. We talked for a bit. It was nothing.”

You go quiet, the guilt hitting you like a wave. Your fingers curl into the sheets.

Han doesn’t press. Instead, he leans in and places a soft kiss against the curve of your neck. Then another, lingering a little longer this time.

“Morgan probably only saw like what... five minutes of me talking to a girl and that makes you thought I was with someone else?” he asks quietly.

You don’t answer, but it gets you thinking.

He doesn’t scold, doesn’t tease. He just presses his lips to your temple and murmurs, “There’s no one else. There’s only you. Always you.”

His hand cups your chin, tilting your face toward him, and his lips meet yours in a long, slow kiss—steady and unshakable. A kiss that tells you everything he hasn’t said yet. You melt into it, the tension seeping out of your muscles, the pain in your chest softening until it vanishes altogether.

When he pulls back, he smiles at the look in your eyes. “I was gonna give you this later,” he says, reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, “but now feels like the right time.”

He pulls out a small velvet box and flips it open to reveal a delicate bracelet, thin gold with a tiny charm in the shape of a sunflower and your lips part slightly in surprise.

“Want me to put it on?” he asks.

You nod silently, still stunned.

He takes the bracelet from the box and gently clasps it around your wrist, then finishes with a soft kiss to the inside of it. “Do you like it?”

You nod again.

“I can’t hear you,” he says, teasing now, the warmth returning to his voice.

“I like it,” you whisper hoarsely.

That makes him smile wide and he pulls you into another kiss, gentle yet deeper, his hand sliding along your jaw, and you let yourself fall right into him—into his warmth, into the love that, despite everything, still wraps around you like a shield.

Han pulls away from the kiss, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still warm on your lips. “So…” he whispers, brushing your hair gently out of your face, “do you still wanna go out for dinner?”

You sniffle, your voice quiet and slightly hoarse. “I don’t wanna go out looking like this… my eyes are all swollen.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, brushing the pad of his thumb under your eye. “You still look cute with swollen eyes,” he teases, his tone warm and full of affection. “Like a little chipmunk who’s been crying.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Shut up.”

“I mean it. Cutest emotional chipmunk I’ve ever seen.”

You laugh under your breath, then settle your head on his chest. “Can we just… have dinner at home instead?”

“Of course,” he says without hesitation, already reaching for his phone. “Anything for my emotionally unstable chipmunk.”

You elbow him lightly and he laughs again.

“What do you feel like eating?” he asks, scrolling through the apps with his arm still around you. “Korean? Italian? Ooh, sushi?”

The two of you go back and forth for a while, debating between comfort food and something fancier, never quite landing on a decision but laughing and arguing playfully like you always do. Eventually, Han puts the phone down for a second and wraps both arms around you, pulling you in even tighter.

“Dinner or no dinner,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “this right here’s already my favorite part of the night.”

-

The food arrives just as the sun dips low, casting golden light through the windows of the apartment. You both get up from the bed, reluctantly separating from the cocoon of warmth, and agree — if you’re going to celebrate your first anniversary at home, you’re still going to do it right. You head to the bathroom, freshen up, and slip into the dress you spent your entire morning picking out with Morgan — the one you couldn’t stop holding against your body in the mirror, imagining tonight.

When you walk out, Han’s still pulling a button-down shirt over his head, barefoot and messy-haired, the exact kind of handsome that makes your stomach flutter. But the moment his eyes land on you, he freezes.

“Whoa,” he breathes, eyes roaming from your shoulders down to the hem of your dress. He takes a step back as if he needs distance to take it all in. “You… seriously wore that just for me?”

You shrug, acting casual. “Told you I had a plan for tonight.”

He walks over slowly, dramatically, hands in his pockets. “I think I need to sit down,” he says, overly serious.

You laugh, shoving him lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up.”

He grins, grabbing your hand to pull you into a quick, sweet kiss. “You’re stunning. Like, dangerously stunning. Like, if we weren’t eating soon I’d be tempted to ruin your makeup again.”

“Down, boy,” you tease, and he barks a fake warning growl that makes you burst out laughing.

You both take your dinner and set up a little space on the carpeted floor in the living room, with throw pillows, a blanket, and the ambient glow from a nearby lamp. It’s simple, cozy, romantic in a way that fits the two of you perfectly.

You eat slowly, feet tangled together under the blanket, pausing between bites to talk about everything from his favorite songs to what your childhood dream jobs were. You talk about your families, your fears, your worst dates, and your favorite memories together.

Between stories, Han keeps leaning over for kisses — quick ones, lingering ones, ones that barely brush but feel like whispers across your lips. His hand rests on your knee or your thigh, his thumb tracing small circles, absent-minded and tender.

“Can I tell you something kinda dumb?” he says after a while, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Aren’t you always telling me something dumb?” You tease.

He pinches your waist before continue talking. “I used to think one year didn’t really mean that much. Like, it was just… the first checkpoint, you know? But with you, it feels huge. Like, we made it. We went through shit, and we’re here. Still choosing each other.”

You reach for his hand, squeezing it. “That’s not dumb.”

He smiles, then cups your cheek. “I’m really glad you didn’t give up on me.”

Your heart tightens a little — not painfully, but in that overwhelming, too-full kind of way. You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m glad you gave me reasons to stay.”

The silence between you is full, warm, and deep. He kisses you again — longer this time, slow and full of everything he can’t say out loud — and you think, as his fingers slide up to tuck your hair behind your ear, that this is a moment you’ll carry forever.

-

The plates are pushed aside now, the empty boxes stacked in the corner of the room. The lights are low, and soft music hums through the speakers — something slow, something gentle. Han offers you his hand with a crooked smile and a playful bow.

“May I have this dance?” he says, his voice low, teasing.

You roll your eyes, but your heart flutters as you slip your fingers into his. “Only if you promise not to step on my feet.”

“No promises,” he grins, pulling you close.

Your bodies sway to the rhythm, the kind of dance that doesn’t need choreography — just the soft shuffle of bare feet on carpet, your hands looped behind his neck, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. The song fades into the background as the warmth of him fills your senses — the smell of his cologne, the brush of his breath near your ear, the slow thud of his heart against your chest.

When you look up, Han’s already gazing at you — his eyes soft, adoring, a little playful, a little undone.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “I love you.”

His smile shifts — gentler now, touched by something deeper.

“I love you,” you repeat, because the words are thick on your tongue, desperate to be said. “More than I thought I could. And I need you to know… I’m scared. Of how much this means to me. Of what it would do to me if you ever broke my heart.”

His expression falters — just a little — and then he leans in, his forehead touching yours. “I won’t,” he whispers. “I swear. I won’t break your heart.”

You feel the sincerity in his voice like a current running through you, and when he kisses you — a soft, chaste kiss that lingers, steady and true — it’s not flashy or heated. It’s a promise. A vow sealed between two people still learning, still growing, but trying, again and again, to meet each other in the middle.

The music continues, but you no longer notice it. It’s just the two of you, wrapped in a slow dance under the quiet lights — holding on, hearts full, hoping love is enough.

-

The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the low thrum of music still playing in the background. Han sits back against the headboard, shirt slightly rumpled, lips pink and parted as he watches you crawl over to him, eyes darkening with anticipation.

“You look so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, eyes locked on you. “So hot. You’re driving me insane.”

With the way he looks at you, you don't feel the slightest bit of shy being naked in front of him. If anything, you feel admired and loved. You slowly settle onto his lap, straddling him, your wetness meets his hot, pulsating member. You settle his length between your cleft and begin gliding it between your folds.

“You’re ruining me already, baby,” he sighs as he looks down, watching his cock is getting slick with your arousal.

When you deem both of you are wet enough for each other, you lift your hips just slightly, you wrap your hand around his cock and align it to your entrance. Slowly and deliberately, you ease yourself down on him.

“Fuck, baby,” his hands find your hips instantly, gripping them as he lets out a groan.

You seductively mewl as you take him, you stop for a second to adjust yourself to him before taking him more and more until he's fully disappeared inside you.

Han lets out a sigh of pleasure, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment and they find you in the next second, staring at your face. His hands reaching for you, framing your face, pushing the strands of hair away. “How are you always taking me, mmh?”

You let out a low giggle. Your hands catch his and bringing them lower, making him cupping your breasts because you love how they fit in his hands like they were made just for them.

Han is more than eager to do it for you, palming them, rolling the nipples between his fingers and pinches on it just to earn a whine out of you. You lean in, brushing your lips against his just to tease, and he catches you right away — one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other slipping up your back as he kisses you deep, urgent, like he can’t get close enough.

His hips begin to move under you, answering every motion of yours with increasing intensity, and you gasp into his mouth. The way he moves, the way he holds you — it's overwhelming. You’re already dizzy from the way he makes you feel, but yet he doesn't slow down.

You bite onto his lower lip and grumble against his lips. “Not yet, baby.”

He smirks like he knows he's the one having control so you grab his chin, using your index and middle fingers, you pry open his mouth and shove them into it. His lips wrapped around them almost immediately, you can feel his slick, hot tongue swirling around in his mouth.

“Keep it open,” you order as you pull your fingers out.

He obeys, keeping his mouth open with his tongue slightly sticking out. You prop one hand against the mattress and the other hand guiding your breast into his mouth. Again, he's more than eager to take it in his mouth, his tongue circling the areola before finally sucking at it. Hard. Mercilessly.

As if that isn't enough, he continues bucking his hips from under you. One arm snaking around your back and the other around your neck, keeping you close as he pushes his cock deeper and deeper into you.

The second you feel like you're getting too close to the edge, you pull back and straddling him again. You give yourself a moment to draw yourself back a little but Han is the ever relentless, he continues bucking his hips against you.

Your hands fly to his, uselessly trying to stop him but his grip on your hips is way too strong. His hips moving, sending you bouncing on his cock without you're intending to, tethering you to the edge.

When you finally tip over, you hastily claw at his chest and let out a brief, high-pitched scream with eyes screwed shut. All the while, Han lets out a soft laugh, enjoying the way the pleasure washes over you.

You open your eyes and see a crooked grin painted his face. “You’re enjoying this,” you whine as you put all of your hair away from your face.

An easy smile stays on his lips as he lays his hand flat on your sternum and glides it down to your abdomen. “Can’t help it, baby. You're so cute when you come around me like that.”

Hearing that shouldn't make you flustered but you do, you feel shy in a way because he sees every little thing about you. You lean down, propping your hands against the mattress to hover above him.

However, this position only allows him to easily take your breasts in his mouth. His hands taking handful of your soft flesh, fondling on them and pushes them to the middle so he can take them at once.

“Mmh, yeah, you're definitely enjoying this,” you murmur with eyes closed.

He hums with his mouth full of you and the vibration only adds to the pleasure. Then his arm glides down your spine and rests it on the arch of your back, holding you down as he begins thrusting into your from under.

You catch on his intention right away. “No, baby. No, I'm just coming,” you whine while struggling to handle how hard his mouth latches onto your breast and his cock drilling into you.

“What should I do?” You breathlessly murmurs with eyes shut. “I'm about to come again.”

With hus mouth full of you, he can't answer but he does it with actions as he sucks on your nipple harder and thrusts into you faster. The combination of stimulations get you to your high almost instantly and this time is more intense than the previous. You don’t even stop yourself from collapsing on top of him.

Han lets out another soft laugh, being the one having fun on making you come twice already and can't help himself but putting on a cocky grin. He kisses the valley of your breasts and continues the trail of kisses to your shoulder, then down the length of your arm. When his mouth reaches your hand, he takes it and kisses every single finger like he means it.

“How are you so cute when you come around me like that, mmh?” he murmurs before pressing a kiss to the inside of your hand.

You don't— you can't answer when your whole body is still floating in cloud nine and still needing time to come down. So he holds you close, putting his arms around you and kisses every inch of skin that is within the reach of his small, greedy mouth.

After a moment, he presses his mouth close to your ear and whispers, “Want to switch?”

Still unable to compute words, you nod and without further questions, he swiftly turns you over, lying you gently on the bed as he hovers above you now. He props an elbow next to your head, getting a good look at your face with a hand gently brushing your hair to the side.

“Tell me how did I get so lucky, mmh?” He asks, brushing his nose against yours. “How did I get so lucky to have you as my girlfriend?”

You smile under his gaze and he immediately catches that smile with a kiss. When he begins moving, you wrap your legs around his small waist, pulling him close until your breasts squashed between the chests.

“Are you going to come for me now?” You murmur, brushing his hair away from his forehead and then kiss it.

He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he kisses you and quickens the pace. He chases his high with fierce determination, mouth hot against your skin, your name falling from his lips in between breathless moans and praises.

You glide your hands down his back, nails scraping the skin as you grip his waist and push, asking for more of him, more of that intense, deep thrusts. You can tell from the way his cock keeps engorging inside you, he's close.

“Come for me, baby,” you murmur into his ear with a hot, heavy kiss to his neck.

Two, three thrusts later, he finally lets go, he pulls you tight, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he scatters soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin, murmuring your name like a prayer. Then he lifts his head, gently cradling your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing along your cheeks as he holds your gaze.

“I love you,” he whispers, eyes searching yours and when he kisses you again, it’s deep, tender, meaningful. The kind of kiss that lingers long after it ends.

You stay like that, wrapped up in each other, your heart still racing, your skin still warm from the touch of him. As you lay your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, something swells in your chest — something soft and quiet and full of hope. You don’t say it out loud, but the thought is there, clear and certain: This feels like forever.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe it might actually be true.

-

In the middle of the night, you wake with a start, disoriented for a second before realizing Han’s side of the bed is empty again. The sheets are still warm, but he’s not there.

You sit up slightly, your eyes adjusting to the dark, then you hear the faint hiss of running water coming from the bathroom. You know the sound too well now. The faucet, turned on not because he’s brushing his teeth or washing his hands, but because he’s hiding something.

Quietly, you slip out of bed and pad toward the bathroom. The door is shut, locked. Another habit. You pause in front of it, barely breathing, and lean your head close. Through the rush of water, you hear his voice. Soft, smooth, laced with laughter. The same tone he uses with you when he’s being sweet, when he’s trying to make you feel special.

It’s too familiar. Too intimate. You don’t wait to hear more. You back away, return to bed with your pulse pounding in your ears. You lie down and face the wall, your back to the bathroom, and you stare at nothing.

This isn’t the first time.

It hits you like a tidal wave, how many times you’ve caught glimpses of this. The movie tickets. The odd excuses. The calls with the faucet on. The locked doors. The silent phone when you tried to reach him. You let each of them go. Rationalized them. Told yourself he would never do that. Because he’s good to you. He makes you breakfast in bed. He kisses you like he means it. He tells you he loves you, again and again.

And yet, the weight of it crashes down on you all at once — not just the betrayal, but the dawning truth that you let yourself believe in the illusion. That you wanted it so badly, you ignored all the signs.

You barely move when the bathroom door clicks open. You hear his steps as he walks back in, the soft rustle of blankets as he slides into bed. He doesn’t say anything at first, just wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close against him, spooning you like he always does. His body fits perfectly against yours, warm and familiar. And that’s what hurts the most, because even now, even after everything, he still feels like home.

-

Morning light spills through the curtains when you wake. Well, you haven't been sleeping ever since you caught him in the bathroom but Han is still asleep beside you, his features soft and unbothered, like he’s living a dream instead of lying next to the person he’s been betraying.

You move quietly, slipping out from under the covers without stirring him. His phone rests on the nightstand. You hesitate—just for a second—but your fingers wrap around it with practiced steadiness.

You take it with you to the kitchen. Your hands move fast as you unlock it and check his call history. There it is—last night, just past midnight. A number labeled with a generic male name. Smart. Too smart.

You press call to make sure and it rings once. Twice. Then, “It’s only seven, Han. Did you miss me already or—”

You hang up immediately as you have enough to identify the voice. Sweet. Light. Too familiar. Too comfortable. And obviously belongs to a girl.

The coffee machine gurgles behind you as the first drops begin to pour. You stare at it blankly, phone clutched in your hand like it might shatter.

“I have to leave him,” you whisper to yourself.

It sounds easy when you say it. Obvious. Clean. Like a final punctuation to a sentence already long overdue, but something clings. The memories, his laughter, the way he comfort you and makes you feel safe, the whispered I love yous—

The bedroom door opens behind you and your hear his footsteps coming toward you. You don’t— you can't look at him even as you feel the warmth of his arms sliding around your waist from behind.

He groans, his voice rough with sleep. “You didn’t wake me up...”

You don’t answer and he doesn’t notice because he thinks he hides it well.

“Morning, baby,” he murmurs with a soft kiss on the top of your head and he stays like that, holding you like you're the only one he does it to.

The truth sits heavy in your chest—he couldn’t have loved you better. Not on the surface. He did everything right. Sweet kisses, warm hands, soft apologies. He made love feel like a safe place, until you realized he kept the doors open behind your back. Now you’re left staring at the wreckage of something beautiful.

Maybe if he treated you worse, it would be easier to walk away. Maybe if he yelled, if he hit, if he broke things—then you’d know how to hate him. But instead, he kissed you like a promise and lied with the same mouth.

You still don’t know how this ends—whether you’ll walk away or let him wrap you in another apology, another kiss, another lie. For now, you just sit in the quiet, nursing the ache in your chest, caught between the love that was and the truth you can’t unsee. You press your fingertips to your temple, whispering the thought that has wrapped itself around your ribs: I wish you would have been treated me bad.

-

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[dreamsteddie]

There is an AITA out there that I can't find but it's been haunting me for weeks with visions of semi-angsty Steddie that I need to release onto the world. (If anyone happens to know what I'm talking about hit me up and I'll link it)

Edit: @jazzathebunny found the original AITA from Reddit linked Here for anyone who wants to read it. I'm definitely not doing exactly the same premise but this was my jumping off point 😊

Part Two! ------

Modern AU, Eddie and the guys are a moderately successful local band in the Chicago area playing gigs on the weekends and doing small tours whenever they all have the time. Gareth and Jeff are both in college while Eddie and Freak are both working part-time at a game store. Eddie managed to lock down that assistant manager position that lets him work 30 hours a week with weekends off for gigs. All in all, it's a pretty sweet deal and they can't complain.

Eddie had sworn off dating after a small handful of disastrous relationship attempts in their first year in the city. He dismisses any advances from people who attend their shows and tries not to think about how much he wants to make a genuine connection with someone and have something real. He's been burned one too many times to try and make something with someone he met in a bar or at work.

He knows the guys talk about it behind his back sometimes, he catches Jeff and Gareth fervently whispering to each other and stopping when they catch him entering the room one time too many to not suspect they're talking about him and he can't think of anything else going on in his life that they would feel the need to whisper about.

The fervent conversations take a slight uptick one day and about a week and a half after they do, Gareth hits him up and tells him he wants to set Eddie up with a guy from one of his classes. At first, Eddie is skeptical and cites all the reasons why he doesn't want to try with anyone right now but eventually, Jeff jumps in to plea the case and Freak jumps in on top of that and under the combined weight of his best friends he agrees to meet up with this Steve guy.

The guys set up the whole thing and before Eddie knows it it's Saturday night and he's wearing his best black jeans and a gray button-down, untucked, to go on an honest to God blind date like his life is some low-budget romcom.

Steve is not at all what Eddie thought he would be. Not the kind of guy he thought his friends would pick out for him given they know he usually goes for other alternatives like himself. Steve, who is shyly waving him over and getting out of his seat to great him, is the very epitome of prep. Well-fitted polo, light blue chinos, and what Eddie assumes this guy thinks are casual loafers. He's handsome to be sure, a 12/10 at least with perfect hair and defined biceps but Eddie is fairly sure he's being punked.

But, Eddie doesn't want to be rude so he goes to meet Steve at the table, confirming just in case that he's actually here to meet with a guy named Eddie. Steve gives him a bit of a confused look, saying that Gareth showed him a couple pictures of Eddie before he agreed to meet and figured he'd done the same for Eddie off Steve's Instagram. Gareth had, in fact, not done anything of the sort but they both dismiss it and get on with their date.

In all honesty, Eddie is expecting it to be a complete wash, but it turns out that even if Steve is not at all what Eddie would have previously said what his type, Steve is damn near perfect. He's funny, kind, a little bitchy, and even though he proves himself to be every bit the sports nerd he looks like he doesn't turn his nose up at Eddie's own much more classically nerdy interests. By the end of the date, Eddie has a new type and that type is Steve Harrington. He's quick to lock down a second date for the next weekend which Steve happily agrees to. They exchange numbers and Steve gives Eddie a chaste kiss on the cheek that has him floating all the way home.

Steve texted him that next morning letting him now he had a great time and is really looking forward to their next date and Eddie thinks this might be the start of something big for him. When he gets to practice he's clearly still floating on cloud nine and in his own little world designing their marriage invitations and matching tombstones so he doesn't notice the sly grins on his bandmates' faces.

"So...how'd it go last night? Everything you dreamed it would be?" Gareth asks, a strange glint in his eyes that Eddie doesn't clock.

Eddie goes on and on about how nice Steve was and how he might be The One, thanking Gareth profusely. Freak looks pleased for him, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder in congratulations but when Eddie finally tunes back into the real world he's greeted by Gareth's livid expression and Jeff's overly concerned one.

He asks the guys what the fuck is up and it turns out that Gareth and Jeff set this whole thing up as a prank of sorts. Eddie was never supposed to hit it off with Steve who Gareth selected specifically because he's a "totally brain-dead prep" and as far away as someone could get from Eddie's previous relationships. He was supposed to be someone Eddie could go on a date with and not form a connection with without getting completely burned at the end like all his previous relationships in the hopes of getting him out of his slump.

Jeff was in on it as well. He wanted to get Eddie back out there, so when Gareth presented the plan he sat in on a couple of Gareth's general credit business class sessions to help pick the guy out.

After Jeff and Gareth finish explaining he does a complete 180 and just...leaves. In any other situation, he would be raging and verbally tearing his friends a new asshole but instead, he completely disengages and walks out the garage door, ignoring his friends' shouts to come back.

He goes back home, socked and hurt and so very confused about how the hell he found himself in this position when his phone lights up.

New Message: Steve H.

Fuck.

-------

Part two coming soon??? Maybe???? We'll see.

[undyingdecay]

OKAY!! hear me out. reader x john walker where they’ve talked beforehand about reader getting pregnant and them having a baby. but!! kinda CNC i guess where reader is like “no! you have to pull out!!” and john is like “you feel too fucking good, i’m so sorry” 🫠 but obviously it’s fine. sorry for the brain rot and word vomit

(banging on the bars of my enclosure i WANT HIMM)

you and john, of course, had spoken about starting to settle down. it wasn’t some picture-perfect conversation over candlelight or at the foot of a bed tangled up in satin sheets. no — it was late at night, one too many beers deep, both of you bone-tired from the world and sick of it kicking the shit out of you. some movie was playing low in the background, something old and dumb that john grumbled through the whole way, and you’d said something offhand about being a good wife.

and he went quiet after that.

not in the stiff, pissed-off kind of way he sometimes got when he couldn’t say what he meant, but in that soft, heavy way — the one where he’d let a big, warm hand slide over your thigh and just hold it, thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

after that, it was inevitable.

you were looking at rings.

then finally buying a house — nothing fancy, just good bones and a yard big enough for the dog he swore up and down he didn’t want.

a little german shepherd pup that pissed on the floor and chewed his boots.

“too much goddamn work,” john grumbled. “i’m not taking care of some mutt.”

and yet two weeks later, you came home to find them curled up together on the couch, the pup dozing against his broad chest, john’s hand absently scratching behind her ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. you didn’t even bother teasing him about it. just smiled, pressed a kiss to his temple, and the next morning you quietly tossed your birth control in the trash like it’d never existed.

you’d both wanted this. maybe too much.

ready to live out those stupid little daydreams you used to laugh at, pretending it could never be you. a house. a dog. maybe a baby if life didn’t spit in your face first.

but john was a hardass.

and you were stubborn.

so even after all the talks, even knowing you were both aching for it, there was still this push and pull between you. a give-me-take-it, say-no-make-me game that neither of you ever really meant but both of you loved to play.

and that night, it was thick in the air.

the way he had you on your back, legs trembling against his waist, his cock driving into you hard enough to rock the bed against the wall.

the thick, heady smell of sweat, sex, and that faint ghost of his cologne still clinging to his throat, the way his dog tags slapped against his chest with every rough thrust.

it slipped out before you could think.

“john — no, you have to pull out. you promised.”

and the minute you said it, you knew.

knew from the rough sound that tore out of his throat, from the way his hips stuttered for just a second before grinding deeper, harder, like he was trying to climb inside you.

“too fucking good—you’re so fucking wet, you want this so bad—fuck—don’t you?,” he groaned, voice cracking with it, low and desperate. “can’t. can’t stop now.”

you tried to wriggle, nails digging into his broad, sweat-slicked shoulders, some weak little protest about how you weren’t ready. about how this wasn’t what you agred to.

but your cunt betrayed you — clenching down, wet and eager, the thick slide of him dragging against every oversensitive nerve ending you had. and you hated how much you loved it.

“i’m sorry,” he groaned into your neck, and he wasn’t. not even a little bit.

his grip on your hips tightened, fingers leaving bruises he’d smirk at later.

“told you we’d start trying soon, didn’t i? i meant it.”

you felt his cock twitch inside you, that telltale pulse, and you were done for. the heat, the stretch, the desperate, filthy promise in his voice sending you right to the edge.

and when he finally came, it was a guttural, broken sound — hips jerking, cock spilling hot and thick inside you, enough to spill out around him in slick, messy drips.

he stayed buried to the hilt, grinding those last few lazy thrusts into you, unwilling to let any of it go to waste.

the room was heavy after that.

nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths, the faint hum of the ceiling fan above.

his big hand brushed through your hair, cradling the side of your face as he leaned down and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“guess we’ll see what happens now,” he murmured, voice soft and smug, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

and you knew then — there wasn’t any going back.

you didn’t want to, either.