#and everyone else is doing so well I don’t wanna fall behind…

[starkeymeow]

hi! loving your rafe cameron who thingy at the moment it’s so good and i love all the different fandoms and ideas! i was wondering if you’d ever consider writing a slytherin rafe x hufflepuff reader one?

love you work <33

# HOGWARTS — slytherin!rafe who . . .

main masterlist | series masterlist

glances at you the first time during second year when you trip over your robes in the hallway and instead of laughing like his friends, he just keeps walking, but his gaze lingers half a second too long.

bumps into you on purpose one afternoon, knocking your bag to the ground, just to see if you’d cry or snap, and when you glare at him like you’re not scared at all, he grins for the first time in days.

scoffs when a professor partners him with you for a magical creatures project, muttering “great, a puff. this’ll be fun,” but still does every part of the work because he refuses to be outdone.

sends a jinx your way during third year dueling club, smirks when you fall, then just stares when you laugh and get right back up like you weren’t humiliated at all.

stays behind after class when you drop your quill and actually hands it back instead of kicking it like he used to. he doesn’t smile, but doesn’t look away from your eyes either.

starts watching you more during fourth year, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying to decide when exactly you stopped being annoying and started being interesting.

sighs dramatically when he’s paired with you again in potions but doesn’t argue this time, just lets you lead and mutters “guess you're not just sunshine and stupid after all.”

glares when you wave at him across the great hall, but still nods back.

tosses a sugar quill on your desk after snapping at you in front of the whole class, then walks off before you can thank him.

gets weirdly quiet in fifth year when someone calls you “just a puff” under their breath. he doesn’t say anything until after class when he meets that kid’s eyes and hexes their ink bottle to explode mid-essay.

starts sitting next to you in electives without being asked, and when someone points it out, he just shrugs like “we’ve partnered before. might as well.”

starts watching your quidditch matches, always near the back, arms crossed and scowl tight maybe, but he still never misses a game.

lets you wear his scarf during a snowy sixth year hogsmeade trip with a sigh, muttering “don’t stretch it out.”

fights with you in the courtyard after you catch him hexing someone again, and when you shove him, he grabs your wrist and kisses you, like he’s been waiting since second year.

doesn’t tell anyone about the kiss, but he doesn’t need to. everyone sees the way he stands beside you now.

still teases you in front of others, still rolls his eyes, still calls you “too soft,” but starts doing it while holding your hand under the table.

starts waiting for you outside your common room, hands in his pockets, pretending he’s “just walking by” even though it’s across the damn castle LMAO

pulls you aside before every quidditch match now, lifts your chin, says “don’t get distracted. and don’t die.”

listens when you talk about what you’ll do after hogwarts, doesn’t say his own plans, but quietly shifts his to be closer to yours.

says “you’re not allowed to fall in love with anyone else” on a late walk after curfew, and you realize it’s the closest he’s ever come to saying he loves you.

walks beside you on the last day of seventh year like it’s just another morning. he doesn’t kiss you goodbye just yet. he just says “you were the best thing i got out of this place.”

me when i write them a happy ending idc i dont wanna ruin them id probably cry

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @sukunasmuse @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts

[itsahotminuteinbetween]

wuh wait what do you mean I have to people

[k1mbe3rly]

Could you maybe do a smut with Dom!female!reader(xmin-su/player 125) with a mommy kink? You dont have to if you dont want to!

my dream 😩🥵

𝓢𝓽𝓪𝔂 𝓼��𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽

warnings: smut, mommy kink, public sex, a small bit of overstimulation

(a bit short 😢)

It was lights out, everyone was sleeping and quiet, expect for the soft noises of whimpers and heavy breathing.

You were naked waist down and so was Min-su. A blanket tried to cover yall but kept falling over, behind those tiny blankets was min-su desperately trying muffle his moans against your clothed shoulder as you rode him.

You were moaning softly as a hand was on a metal bar of the bunk bed and the other tangling in his hair, you looked at him as he looks up at you with teary eyes, “M-mommy please..mm!! too much!~” he moaned out as he gripped on your hips tightly. “You can take it baby…i know you can, just be a good boy, you can do that for me right?” you told him, he nodded.

you tighten your walls around his cock, the moment he felt you tighten he moaned out again as you quickly cover his mouth “Shh..don’t wanna get caught huh?” you said as you stopped your movements

He whined out as he slowly started to go quiet and you removed your hand, “mommy.. please..” he said looking up at you with puppy eyes, “Hm? please what? use your words..” You said to him stroking his hair, “Please keep fucking me..” he said while moving his hands up and down your hips, you smirked down at him, you begin bouncing on his cock, “a-agh~ mommy~!” he moaned out, “shh baby!” you quickly told him but didn’t stop your movements, “mm-..mommy i can��t..f-feels too g-good” he whimpered out between moans, he bit his lip but all that came out were whines. You went a bit faster as he gasped out “mmmm-! m’gonna cum! gonna cum! can i cum inside you mommy please?” he whimpered out as he gasped between moans and whines as well.

You didn’t answer him, basically ignoring him, it was until you felt your walls being painted by his cum. You slowed your movements, “Did you just cum inside me without permission?” you told him sternly “..m’sorry you didn’t answer me! and i couldn’t hold it mommy..” he said in guilt as you grabbed his chin lifting it up, you gave him a soft slap to the face as he gasped, “mommy please don’t be mad at me! i..i really am sorry!” he said as he tried to put his hands under your shirt.

You scoffed at him and smirked, “it’s okay baby.. but you know, mommy didn’t cum.” you said grinding down on him, “w-what? i thought you did!” he said as i let out a soft moan once he felt you grinding, you shaked your head as you begin bouncing harshly on his cock again, he moaned out as he felt your ass slam into his thighs, he gasped out breathlessly as his eyes rolled back slightly, “W-wait! m-mommy!~ my- my cock is too- augh~! too sensitive! too much~!” he whimpered out while trying to push your hips away while whining

he didn’t bother quieting down his whimpers, you felt your orgasm rise as you panted a moaned a bit, “fuckk- shh it’s okay baby, i’m about to cum.. you can take a bit more right baby?” you said out of breath a bit and sweaty, he quickly nodded squirming his hips a bit, he put his hands back into your shirt gripping onto your tits, you felt his cock twitch inside you, with one final bounce you cummed on his cock and slowed down gasping a bit, he quickly cummed right after you as he looked at you, he was a mess, sweat dripping and his hair sticking to his forehead, you slowly grinded again “N-no! please no more! i can’t.. cum anymore!” he quickly said as you chuckled “I’m just joking baby.. i’m tired” you said kissing his cheek and slowly lifting yourself.

Let’s just hope these people are a deep sleeper or else y’all gonna get weird stares in the morning..

[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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[kxsagi]

WAIIIIIt I have so many request bllk boys with someone who plays rough or is tough with them?? Pls pls Reo because he's rough sometimes 🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

“𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬”

a/n: ultraviolenceeeee

ft. mikage reo, nagi seishiro, itoshi rin, shidou ryusei, kaiser michael, isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, ness alexis

mikage reo

he's rough in games, yeah, but the first time you smacked his shoulder after he made a snarky comment, reo just blinked like did i just get manhandled?? by my crush?? 

you tackled him during a casual soccer scrimmage and instead of being mad, he was grinning like a lunatic, lying in the grass like: that was hot. 

he tries to get you back by shoving you playfully during practice, but the second you full-body slam him into a tree? he’s wheezing and in love. 

“you scare me sometimes.” “good.” “... but like in a sexy way.” 

will absolutely brag to nagi like “my girl kicked me in the shin today. true love.” 

nagi seishiro

does not fight back. won’t even dodge. 

you could smack him with a throw pillow, tackle him mid-hug, or steal the last piece of candy right out of his mouth, and nagi would just blink slowly and go “mmm. annoying. do it again.” 

he lies on you like you’re a body pillow and when you push him off with a “you’re heavy,” he flops back even harder. 

“ow.” “you didn’t even move.” “you’re comfy.” 

he finds your roughness kind of endearing, honestly. especially because it makes everyone else scared to mess with you. and he loves having a dangerous guard dog for a girlfriend. 

itoshi rin

you tackled him once while joking and he immediately turned to you with the deadest eyes and said: “... you’re lucky i like you.” 

that being said? he does like it. way too much. 

when you shove him out of your way, smack his arm for being dramatic, or yank his hoodie over his head mid-convo, rin is just there grumbling like a wet cat while secretly enjoying every second. 

if someone else touches him like that? murder. 

if you do it? he'll scowl, call you a menace, and then follow you around for the rest of the day like a broody little duck. 

“stop roughhousing.” “you didn’t tell me to stop yesterday.” “... shut up.”

shidou ryusei

his soulmate. 

you shoved him for saying something gross and he immediately perked up like a dog hearing a treat bag open. 

“oh? you wanna fight? i’m so turned on right now.” 

he 100% tries to get under your skin so you’ll rough him up. like he wants you to body slam him into the couch. 

“c’mon, princess, hit me again. harder this time. i won’t fall in love unless you draw blood.” 

will go around showing off scratches like badges of honor. “she did this. isn't she perfect?” 

he also never loses a chance to pick you up and yeet you into the pool/bed/couch. it’s mutual violence love. 

kaiser michael

in public? he plays along so well. you roughhouse him, shove him when he’s cocky, flick his forehead when he teases you, and kaiser just laughs like you’re his favorite game. 

he’ll smirk, catch your wrist mid-slap and go, “don’t stop, i like it rough,” like the walking menace he is. 

but in private, when the lights are low and no one’s watching, that’s when the cracks show. 

sometimes, after you playfully shove him or even jokingly raise your voice, something flashes behind his eyes. a beat of stillness. the way his shoulders go tense just for a second too long. 

and when you notice, when you pause, reach out, and touch his cheek gently, he melts. 

“you’re not mad, right?” he asks, too quietly. “i’m not.” “and you love me?” “always.” “… and you’re not gonna leave?” 

there are nights when he crawls into your arms without a word and just clings to you like a lifeline. presses his face into your neck like he’s trying to disappear. 

“i know you’re joking when you push me. i do. i know.” “but?” “but sometimes my brain doesn’t.” 

you learn to hold him tighter after the laughs fade. you learn the difference between when he wants to be wrestled and when he needs to be held. and in return, he trusts you in a way he never has before. 

“you’re the first person who can rough me up and keep me safe,” he whispers once, voice shaky, forehead pressed to yours.

isagi yoichi

he tries to be a good sport but he is so unprepared for your physical affection. 

you punch his arm playfully after a win and he straight-up staggers. 

you jump on his back and he makes the most dramatic noise. “agh– baby why– okay okay i got you!!” 

secretly loves it. his inner shonen heart is like: my strong, feisty gf… she's so cool… 

he starts going to the gym more because he wants to be able to handle your suplexes. 

“if you body slammed me in front of my enemies, i think i'd fall harder for you.” 

probably keeps bruises like love marks. "this one's from when she tackled me after practice. best day ever." 

itoshi sae

you shoved him once while teasing him and he turned his head soooo slowly like. did you just touch me unprovoked. 

what surprises him is that... it kinda awakens something in him. he’s always surrounded by people tiptoeing around him. you? you called him a smug little brat and kicked his shin after he said you couldn’t outrun him. 

he still looks perpetually done, but he keeps letting you manhandle him. “you’re violent.” “you’re smug.” “don’t stop.” 

if anyone else tried that? dead. but when you do it, he’ll let you poke his face, flick his ear, and drag him around by the wrist with the softest eye roll ever. 

and don’t let him catch someone trying to shove you – he’ll end their career in .02 seconds. only you can bully him like that. 

ness alexis

you shoved him once in the hallway and he fully gasped. 

“i’m delicate.” “you’re dramatic.” 

he keeps saying you’re bullying him, but he literally follows you around just to get roasted or shoulder-checked. 

the most likely to shriek “ABUSE” when you flick his forehead but then blush and giggle like “wait that was kinda fun.” 

he’s like a cat. will hiss at you, act like you’re the worst, then ten minutes later snuggle into your side all clingy. 

“i’m a lover, not a fighter.” “then stop poking my ribs when i’m eating.” “... make me.” 

loves that you’re tough and fearless, especially around kaiser. he watches you clap back at him and goes wow. she’s powerful. terrifying. i want her to step on me.

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[orellazalonia]

Always There, Never Seen

Summary: You're the quiet presence who keeps everything running, always helping but never truly seen or included. You sit on the edges of conversations, offer silent support, and watch others be chosen and loved while you remain in the background. Despite being essential, you're basically invisible and it hurts more than anyone realizes.

Word Count: 1.9k+

A/N: According to the poll, y’all really like angst (and hurt/comfort). So I deliver to you, angst. Also, does it count as Bucky x reader if they’re not pining for each other? Hmmm… Also Disclaimer: Not much dialogue, more descriptive writing than anything. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

You weren’t anyone special. Not in the way the world was used to noticing. You didn’t carry a weapon with confidence, didn’t have a degree that earned you any kind of awe, and you certainly didn’t have a face or charm that pulled people in.

You worked in admin at the Tower. Basically paperwork, scheduling, and making sure the chaos of superhero life ran just a bit smoother. You were the one who emailed team briefings, filed mission reports, and organized therapy appointments like they were just blocks on a calendar, not battles for someone's mind.

And Bucky Barnes… well, Bucky was the kind of person people did notice.

You’d liked him for a while. Quietly. Patiently. In the way someone watches a storm from behind a window. Close enough to feel the pull of it, but far enough not to be noticed.

You liked the way his voice got low when he was trying not to wake anyone in the early mornings. The way he peeled oranges with military precision and always left one for someone else. The way he laughed when Sam or Steve dragged him into something dumb, like water balloon fights or bad TV marathons. You liked him. Not the myth, not the metal arm, not the past filled with ghosts. Just Bucky.

But you were no Natasha. No Sharon. No enhanced warrior woman who could flip a man twice her size or disarm a room with a wink. You weren’t brilliant like Shuri or effortlessly magnetic like Darcy. You were just… the person who knew which printer was working and which one wasn’t. You were the one who remembered who liked what in their coffee. You were the background hum, not the spotlight.

And Bucky liked someone else.

You didn’t blame him. She was kind. Bright. The kind of person who glowed when she smiled. She moved like she’d always belonged on a battlefield, and yet, she somehow made everyone around her feel safe. She was witty, beautiful, strong, and all the things people fell in love with.

You tried not to let it show. You weren’t close enough to him for it to be a betrayal but you were far enough that even your absence would go unnoticed. You smiled when you passed him in the halls, nodded when he grunted a hello, even handed him reports when they were meant for Steve, just for a brief second of acknowledgment. He always said thank you. Always polite. Always… kind.

But never more.

Sometimes you imagined saying something. A small, “Hey, do you wanna grab a coffee sometime?” Nothing big, nothing cinematic. But your voice always caught in your throat before the words could make it to daylight. Because what would be the point? What could you possibly offer him that he didn’t already have?

So you kept your head down. You typed, sorted files, watched him laugh in the kitchen over takeout containers with her. And you reminded yourself that this was enough. And maybe, maybe one day it wouldn’t ache so much. Maybe one day, you’d stop comparing yourself to all the people who stood in the sun while you stayed in the shade. Maybe.

But not today. Today, you’d file mission debriefs, pretend not to glance at him too long, and keep being the kind of person who’s easy to forget. The kind of person no one falls for.

However, even with that reminder in your head, it didn’t make it any more easier to live by. Because you didn’t need super-hearing to know when a room grew quieter once you entered.

It wasn’t tension. No one disliked you. It was more like… when you walked into a space, conversation naturally shifted. Not because anyone was guarding secrets, just because you weren’t the kind of person people thought to include.

You were background.

You were the click of the elevator. The shuffle of papers being filed. The voice that said, “He’s in briefing room three” without ever being asked your name in return.

You sat in meetings and never got asked for your opinion. You brought backup cables, extra notepads, bandages for knuckles bruised in training and when someone needed something, you always had it. You noticed when Natasha’s shoulder was bothering her and quietly adjusted the gym reservation to avoid that day’s sparring. You reminded Steve about appointments he forgot. You updated Sam’s reports so they’d match his fieldwork without making him look careless.

No one noticed.

You weren’t angry about it. Not really. You weren’t owed gratitude. That’s not why you did it. You just… wanted to be part of something. And if you couldn’t be the center of it, you thought maybe you could be its foundation.

But even foundations crack under enough silence.

When they gathered in the common room, you stayed near the doorway, not because you preferred it but because there was never really a space for you on the couch. Not in the way people sat. Not in the way conversations flowed. Sometimes someone would offer a smile in your direction, a wave, a half-hearted “Hey, you’re still here.” But the spotlight never lingered.

Even the interns forgot you were in the room. More than once, you’d heard them gossiping about the others. About Steve’s diet, or Wanda’s mood, or what Bucky might be like behind closed doors. You were there the whole time, filing reports just a few feet away. Not one of them noticed.

Once, someone forgot to list you on a team-wide email thread. You only found out when the others started referencing a meeting you hadn’t heard of. When you brought it up, the sender laughed nervously with a light “Oh, I thought you weren’t on the main team.” You weren’t sure what hurt more: the comment or the fact that no one corrected them.

You ate lunch at your desk. You kept your voice quiet in shared spaces. You never spoke unless there was something directly requiring your words. People liked you best that way.

And Bucky… Bucky was no different.

He was polite, sure. Nodded if you passed him in the hall. Sometimes gave you a distracted “Thanks” if you handed him a revised schedule or a mission detail packet. But it was never more than that. He had others to talk to. Ones who smiled brighter, laughed louder, leaned easily into his space like they belonged there.

But God, some days you just wanted someone to ask you how you were doing. Someone to say your name like they meant it.

You knew what you were. You were safe. Predictable. The person who remembered extra passwords and booked flights without needing thanks. You weren’t charming or brilliant or needed the way others were.

And maybe that was why, even when you were in the same room, you felt so crushingly alone. You were there. You always were. But no one seemed to see it. And worst of all, you weren’t sure anyone ever would. Because you’d grown used to being the person who knew the team without really being part of it.

You knew Bucky’s schedule. When he trained, when he left early to avoid team briefings, which mornings he preferred to drink his coffee in silence. You knew the brand of painkillers Bruce trusted, the way Wanda liked her tea, how Tony hated the buzzing lights in the lower hallway. You knew all these things without anyone ever having told you. Because you watched. You listened.

That was your talent. Not fighting. Not hacking into alien tech or performing heart surgery with a spoon. You were just good at being there. Good at remembering. Good at caring in the background.

Of course, the person you liked had never really noticed. It wasn’t in a cruel way. Not in an “I think I’m better than you” way. Just in the way someone doesn’t notice the soft hum of a computer fan or the way a hallway light always flickers. You were part of the environment. Static. Expected. Invisible.

Because you knew Bucky had eyes only for her.

Honestly, you didn’t know her well. She was new-ish. Sharp and warm, always dressed like she’d stepped out of some other, better life. She smiled with her whole face. She wasn’t arrogant, but she walked like someone who knew she mattered. It was easy to like her, even if it hurt.

She made him softer. You saw it in the way his shoulders relaxed when she walked in the room, in the way his sarcasm eased into gentleness when she was around. He even smiled more, really smiled.

Sometimes you caught yourself watching them. Bucky, leaning on a countertop, looking at her like she was something rare. Her tossing her head back as she laughed at something he said. It was a kind of closeness you knew you’d never be part of. Not just with him, but with anyone. You weren’t made of magnetism or spark.

You were the pause between other people’s sentences.

One afternoon, you found yourself in the hallway outside the training room, flipping through a stack of revised schedules. You were trying to figure out if you could shift Rhodey’s physical therapy without messing up the team’s briefing timeline, and not watching where you were going when you turned a corner right into the one Bucky chose.

“Oh!” She said, catching your arm. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

You stepped back quickly. “No, my fault.”

She smiled kindly, open, not patronizing. “You’re the one who keeps everything running, right? You’re the one who fixed the mess with my mission debrief last week.”

You blinked. “That was… yeah. That was me.”

“Thank you,” She said genuinely. “Seriously. No one tells you that enough, but I noticed. You’re really good at what you do.”

It stung, how warm those words felt. Like you hadn’t realized how cold you’d been until someone brought a match close.

You gave a small smile. “Thanks.”

She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. “You work here all the time. Do you ever get a break?”

You laughed once under your breath. “Not really. I think that’s kind of the point of me.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t talk much.”

You shrugged. “Not a lot of people want to hear it.”

She watched you for a beat too long, like she wanted to ask something else. But then Bucky’s voice called from down the hall, her name, not yours. Her face lit up.

“That’s me. Thanks again,” She said, and jogged off without waiting for a response.

You stood there a little too long after she left, the fluorescent light buzzing faintly above you. You imagined what it might be like to have someone call your name like that. To be the reason someone’s expression softened. You wondered what it would feel like to matter that easily.

Bucky passed by you without a glance as he walked with her. You didn't expect otherwise.

You held your papers a little tighter and turned back the way you came.

Some people were made to shine. You’d never been one of them. You weren’t bitter. You weren’t even that jealous, really. You just knew your place. You were the one who knew how to quiet a printer jam in seconds. Who carried extra pens. Who remembered birthdays but never had her own celebrated.

Bucky Barnes didn’t know your favorite coffee order. Didn’t know you stayed late so others could leave early. Didn’t know how often you looked at the closed doors of conversations you’d never be invited into.

But you were okay. You had your quiet. You had your rhythm. You had the small comfort of being needed, even if not wanted. And that would be enough. Eventually.

[taintandviolent]

Turbo Lover ; Eddie Munson x Reader

summary: After getting fed up with Jason Carver and his gross attitude, reader decides to take him up on a dare. That dare, is kissing Eddie Munson on the mouth. Something she's been longing to do since she arrived in Hawkins.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 3.5K | female reader, smut, use of pet names (princess, sweetheart, baby, etc.), fingering, handjobs.

a/n: started writing this back in *checks watch* july of 2022....... ahem. finished writing this to turbo lover by judas priest, if you wanna listen! just felt like an eddie song to me, don't ask for clarification. this could possibly be a multi-parter, haven't decided yet. my first (technically) eddie fic...... do not come for my throat, thanks. not beta-read, yada yada yada. divider by @/strangergraphics!!

full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

“Oh, choke on it, Jason.”

“Maybe I’ll ask Mrs. Cowan for a replacement lab partner.”

Rolling your eyes, you resist the urge to fling your forkful of corn at him. “Hah! Please do. I’d rather stick my tongue down Eddie Munson’s throat and spend the weekend with mono than spend another blissful second trying to watch you figure out anatomy, dipshit.”

“Go do it then. I dare you.” Jason barks, nostrils flaring. He was going to call your bluff. There was no way that you were going to go over to that weird satanist’s table. Being more of a rocker, you weren’t posh and cute like Chrissy was, but you still had boundaries. And a good head on your shoulders. He knew you did. He hoped you did.

“Fine,” you snap, slamming both palms onto the table. “I hope you fail your science project.” Jason’s confident expression falls. Your rings scrape against the plastic as you push yourself up. With more determination than you’d had the entire semester, you swing both your legs over the bench and head for Eddie’s table, navigating around the other tables. The rest of his little dungeon buddies are already gawking at you as they’d been paying attention to the shouting. Confidently, you take a running leap up onto the table, and stomp your way down its length like a soldier marching towards enemy fire. The target, Eddie Munson, was staring at you with wide eyes and brows lifted.

“Outta my way.” The pointed tip of your boot sends an empty lunch tray flying off the table and clattering onto the floor.

“Hey, Munson!” You drop down onto your haunches, and now, eye-level with him, grab his face and pull it towards you, crushing your lips against his. The roll he’s holding drops from his grasp, falling lifelessly onto his tray. As soon as his plush lips press into yours, giving way to your tugging, your shoulders relax, melting into the kiss. You had been waiting for an excuse to get his attention since you’d sat down in your first class at Hawkins High, daydreaming about talking to him. You’d spent many a class period staring at Eddie’s lips, so you expected the kiss would be enjoyable… but not like this.

At first, both of your lips were closed, smushed together in the hurriedness of the moment, but when you exhale and his lips part, your tongue delves into his mouth, sweeping along his. To your surprise, he reciprocates the action, and presses his chin up into yours, asserting a new sort of need. Despondent groans and laughs of shock pepper the cafeteria around you, and from behind you, came the confusion of the other residents of the table. As you take Eddie Munson in literal mouthfuls, you felt something shift in him, and the noise started to fade away. You tilt your head, and push deeper into the kiss.

“Who the hell is she?” One of the boys asks, clearly as confused as everyone else was.

You shudder against him, feeling a burning heat between your legs, and immediately pull away to stand up, turning to face the far table. Jason was staring at you, looking more embarrassed than disgusted, but he did well hiding it with his scholarship scowl. You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth, drawing your — Eddie’s— the mutual saliva across your cheek. Triumphantly, you hold your arms out, daring the blonde haired moron to say anything further. He doesn’t. 

With a proud smirk on your face, you pivot back to Eddie, lips parted to speak, maybe to apologize to him for being so forward. All that comes out though, is the jarring echo of the lunch bell as it rings loudly through the cafeteria. You take that as an excuse to get out of the situation, and step down onto the bench between two of his little minions, then onto the floor. With your heart pounding in your chest like a drum, you make a beeline for the lockers. You’re practically running down the halls, and for what? To get away from Eddie? The guy you had just swapped spit with? And liked it?  

After shaking his head free of the shock, Eddie hurriedly bins his lunch and takes off after you, leaving the boys to their own devices. He was panting quietly once he’d finally caught up to you. “Hey, just wait a minute, okay?”

You say nothing, and keep digging in your locker for a book you knew wasn’t there. You’d left it at home, sitting on the edge of your bed. 

“Come on, you can’t just plant something like that on me and run away, man.” You hear a thump against the locker next to you, and out of the corner of your eye, see him leaning his shoulder into it. You huff and keep digging.

“You really think I’d give you mono?” He asks, sounding hurt.

Forcing your breath out through your teeth, you stop digging, and lean back to look at him. Those puppy eyes…

“No,” you say, feeling bad that he even heard that to begin with. You shut the locker. “I don’t. But the point was that I’d rather suffer with y— errr suffer any sort of wicked sickness than be even remotely happy around him.”

“So… why’d you stop? Was it that bad?”

“No, actually. It wasn’t. I stopped because I… um, the bell was going to ring.” That was a lie. You stopped because your beating heart had sunk between your legs. Kissing him was a massive turn-on, but you weren’t about to admit that.

“That it did…” he starts, absentmindedly playing with a strand of his own hair. “And now we’re late.”

You narrow your eyes. His brows flick upwards and the tip of his tongue presses pointedly into his lower lip, a little glimmer of mischief in his expression. Ready to prove him wrong, your eyes dart to the clock above the lockers, the visual causing you to curse under your breath. You hadn’t even heard the second bell, but he was right. Three minutes past. And Mr. Jenkins? Didn’t let anyone in after the bell rang. Fucker. Eddie shimmies closer, his soft, brown eyes falling to your lips. He was smiling, watching you and looking like he was daydreaming about having those soft lips against his again. 

“You wanna’... maybe show me what else you’d rather be doing than spending your time with brainless Ken dolls?”

You considered the offer for a moment. You had been pining after him since your first English class with him, and now… your split decision had thrown open the door to opportunity. When you’d tried to close it, Eddie had put his dirty white Reebok right in the way.

“Screw it, let’s go.” 

“Yeah?” He confirms, excited.

“Yeah.” 

Eddie wastes no time, taking hold of your hand as he passes you, towing you in the direction of the doors and out into the parking lot. 

How did you end up here? In retrospect; you’d probably have to thank Jason for pissing you off that day, in that particular way that really drove you over the edge. Because if he hadn’t, you wouldn’t have been crawling into the back of Eddie Munson’s van while he stood behind you, looking at the gentle curve of your ass.

After throwing a cautious glance over his shoulder, making sure there weren’t any prying eyes watching the two of you, Eddie follows you inside and pulls the door shut behind him, the metal squeaking loudly. You sit down and cross your legs, resting against the interior wall. The inside of his van is warm, having baked in the sun all afternoon. Cassette tapes litter the floor behind the seats, and a Judas Priest shirt hangs over the headrest of the passenger seat. A few undisclosed cables are wadded up in the corner, you assume they were musical in nature. He seemed like the type. It’s exactly what you’d pictured his van to look like. 

Eddie clears his throat. “Sorry about the… mess.” 

You chuckle, looking brightly at him. “I don’t care. Plus, Judas Priest is rad. That song that came out last month… Turbo Lover? Gets stuck in my head all the time.” 

Delighted by this reaction, Eddie knee-walks over to you, that same mischievous smile on his face as before. He leans down, exhaling over your lips before looking into your eyes with a burning curiosity.

“Why were you sitting at his table anyway? You don’t seem like his type.” 

“His type? Gah, gross. No. We’re lab partners. Regrettably. Turns out, he’s kind of a massive dolt when it comes to science.” You pause and heave a sigh, your breath rushing out over his cheeks. He blinks. “I really don’t want to talk about Jason right now, Eddie.” 

“Oh yeah, totally.” With that, his hand snaps to your jaw, where he holds it gently, his thumb stroking your cheek. “You wanna’ makeout or something?” 

You can’t help but laugh, unsure if it’s because of the butterflies in your stomach, or because he’s kind of a dork. Smooth and very charming, but a dork all the same. You chalk it up to a combination of both and lean forward until the tips of your noses touch. “Yeah, Eddie, I wanna’ makeout. Again.”

This time, Eddie is the one to initiate the kiss. He presses his lips against yours softly a few times, your lips sticking together each time he pulls away. Relishing in the taste of you, he hums into the kiss, pressing himself closer to you. After a few moments, he breaks the kiss to readjust his position. The break is too long, it seems, because before you know it, he’s back to leaning over you and craning his neck down to kiss you from above. His hands drop to find your neck, his thumb trailing down over the front of it while the others stay tenderly wrapped around the side, squeezing slightly. The motion sends a deep shiver down your spine, reigniting the embers of your arousal. Eddie laughed breathily into the kiss. 

“Quite the reaction…” he murmurs over your lips.

“Oh, shuttup.” Your hand makes a fist in his shirt, pulling him back onto you. “Keep kissing me.” 

“As you wish.” He says dreamily, with lust woozying his speech. His voice is slightly deeper now, laced with hunger, and you whimper, pressing your knees together. Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie notices this, and moves his free hand to your kneecaps, wriggling in between them to separate them. They fall apart with no resistance, and again, Eddie’s chuckle vibrates against your lips, sending a tickling wave over them. Your willingness almost embarrasses you, but when Eddie says nothing, only moves to slot himself in between your thighs, you realize that he’s into it. 

“No need to be shy here, princess. Just you and me.”

Your hands wrap around his neck, fingers splaying out over his back. “God, you’re cute.” 

“So are you.” 

“No, you’re really cute.” 

Eddie pulls away, furrowing his brow as if he’s confused. He is – he’s confused on whether or not you realize he thinks you’re a catch, too. You sense the confusion, and roll your hips up against his. His breath hitches in his throat, eyeing you pleadingly. It’s a warning – you can’t do things like that lest he lose control.  

“Uuughh,” you moan. “I don’t know why it took me this long to kiss you.” 

“Me neither.” 

He presses his lips against yours again, his tongue slipping past the two plush pillows, tasting the waxiness of your lipstick. Swiping his tongue along yours, he deepened the kiss, enticing you to join in a painfully erotic dance of spit-swapping. He exhales hotly over your mouth and grinds his hips against yours, groaning softly into your mouth. You grind back, knowing exactly what you’re doing. You can feel what you’re doing to him; it was currently pressed against your inner thigh. 

You reach down between your bodies, finding the warm bulge in the front of his black jeans and give him a soft squeeze. The sudden contact makes him lurch forward, crushing himself somehow further against you. He can’t get any closer to you without melting into your body which, in truth, makes him crazy. He makes a sound — something between a whine and a gasp — and ruts his hips against your center. The pressure has you reeling, pressing your back against the inside of the van. 

“Eddie, fuck…” 

“Yeah,” he echoes your sentiment, nodding his head so enthusiastically that his soft brown hair flutters. 

“Can I…?” 

He grins. “You can if I can. It’s only fair.” 

You let your legs fall farther apart, granting him access. With a newfound urgency, you quickly yank on his waistband, pull the silver button from its slit and maneuver your hand inside the elastic of his boxers. On the way down, you rake your fingers through the thatch of brown hair above his cock. Eddie responds by tightening his grip on your neck instinctively. The tips of your fingers find the searing hot head of his cock, precum leaking from the slit. With an audible mmmm, you swipe your thumb over it, smearing around the underside of the tip. Eddie hisses through his teeth, rutting his hips over and over again – forcing you to jerk him off a little. The tip slides through your fist, slippery and warm and you can’t help but let out a satisfied sound. 

“Wow,” you breathe, in awe. You weren’t sure what you expected, but feeling a cock this heavy wasn’t on the menu. You’d been with a few metalheads before, and they were all average at best. You thought he’d follow suit. Not heavy in your hand. But he is. God, he is. Eddie licks hungrily at your mouth before running his tongue along your bottom lip and taking it between his teeth, biting down slightly. You groan, pressing your head back against the wall. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” you say, breathlessly before squeezing his cock again. It twitches in your grip, hardening just a little bit further. You can feel the tension in his lower abdomen every time you slip your hand deeper into his boxers, tugging at his cock as you slide back up. 

His hands drop from your neck to your waist to your hips, his thumb making circles on the strip of exposed stomach flesh between your black leather skirt and your shirt. One hand sinks lower,  moving from your hip to your leg, sliding against the pillowy, cream soft flesh of your inner thigh.  It slides up your skirt, pressing against the nylons, and grazing your cunt from the outside. Inside his jeans, your hand starts to go slack, but Eddie quickly snaps you back to attention.

“I’m gonna’ need you to stay focused, baby. Don’t stop.”  

“S-sorry.” You pick up the pace, stroking his cock again at a much steadier speed. He lets out a soft groan, the feeling of your hand gently stroking his dick sending him into a haze of pleasure. But, he, too, has to focus. 

Eddie gets back to work, carefully undoing the zipper on the side of your skirt. He tugs, shimmying the skirt down over your hips and continues pulling until he pauses to pull your legs from the black circle, tossing it towards the van doors. Now, the only thing between him and your cunt is the fabric of your tights and your white satin underwear. You’re painfully aware of this fact and so is Eddie – the look on his face says it all. He sweeps you into another kiss. 

It’s almost as if he was using the kiss as a distraction from the adept way he’s rolling your nylons off your hips and down your thighs. You almost don’t feel it and don’t notice until he’s got them down around your ankles. 

“May I?” 

“May you? What is this –” You asked, trying to tease him, but your voice is so high pitched, so feathery with lust, that it just sounds ridiculous. You huff and nod, giving him whatever permission he felt he needed. 

His middle finger traces the visible slit in your underwear and embarrassingly, your whole body responds. From your legs snapping shut on his hand to the utterly humiliating moan that tumbled off your lips, there’s no coming back from that reaction. Eddie laughs quietly, almost devilishly and you relax your legs again. 

“Sorry, I’ve… I’ve been…. Um…” 

“Keep talkin’, sweetheart.”

“Oh god, fuck… I’ve kinda’ sorta’ had a thing for you since English with M–”

“Mrs. Lawrence? Last semester.” 

Your mouth hung slack. He knew? 

“You really thought you’d walk in, looking the way you do, and I wouldn’t remember?” 

Your stomach tightens underneath your shirt; butterflies are erupting beneath the skin. Any further jabs to your heart and they actually might rupture through your ribcage.

His finger sweeps along your center again, before hooking around the scalloped edge of the panties and pulling them down over the curve of your hip. A clear, slick strand stretches between your cunt and the fabric before snapping. Eddie growls, a deeply pleased sound erupting from his throat. 

Two fingers part your folds, sweeping tantalizingly at the underside of your clit before sliding down to your entrance. He prods the opening with his middle first, making tiny circles and spreading your arousal around your cunt. Finally, he inserts both fingers, sinking them to the knuckle. Moving his arm, you watch as the bats literally fly back and forth and let out a small, breathy laugh. The way he was working you felt so good, your hand instinctively tightened around his cock. Eddie shuffled closer, his knee in front of your cunt. Before you have time to react, Eddie abruptly takes hold of your left hand and brings it above your head, holding it tight against the wall of his van, his rings pressing into your fingers. Your digits tangle with his and he flays them open.

He continues thrusting his fingers in and out, watching your every move. You looked up and whined loudly; the sight of your smaller hand entangled with his larger one was divine, and sent another shockwave through your core. The coil in your stomach wound tighter, and tighter. Your body flushed with heat, and you were suddenly wishing you were naked underneath him. Eddie suddenly leans over you, pressing the side of his face against yours. 

“I’m your turbo lover…” He sings quietly in your ear, his tone honeyed and low, absolutely dripping with sex appeal. Your eyes roll back in your head, your jaw falling open. “...tell me there’s no other…” 

“Oh fuck, Eddie, oh my god-!”

At the singing, your needy pussy clenched around his digits, shivering violently. His thumb moves to your swollen, tender clit, rubbing it back and forth expertly. The coil snaps, and you moan loudly, banging your head against the wall a few times. 

“OH MY GOD!” 

You shouldn’t have found it so hot, but the way he sung the lyrics into your ear sent a wave of electricity through your entire body. As the sound of your moans reach his ears, Eddie groans and bucks his hips rhythmically, pumping himself closer to the edge of orgasm. 

After a few more pumps from you, his back arches and he groans your name – another surprise that he knows that – as his hot, sticky release coats your fingers as wave after wave of pleasure surges through him. The flushed, pink tip was exposed enough that when he does finally lose it, the first spurts of cum find their way onto your shirt. He doesn’t notice right away, still thrusting his hips into your loose fist. Finally, he brings his head forward to look at you again. His chest is heaving, panting from the exertion, and his eyes trail from your face down to your shirt. The wanton look is replaced with one of horror. 

“Jesus, I’m sorry! Here uh,” Eddie paused, stretching over to yank the shirt from the seat. “Wear this. I promise it’s clean. Decently… uh… clean.” 

You didn’t care if it wasn’t. The fact that he had given you his shirt because he accidentally came on yours was single handedly the cutest thing you’d ever had a guy do for you. You withdrew your hand from his boxers, and he let go of your other hand. Quickly, you pulled your shirt over your head and wadded it up in a ball, setting it next to you. His shirt was baggy, but you quickly remedy that by tying the front in a knot. The way that Eddie’s eyes skirted over your breasts wasn’t lost on you. You smirk. 

“Think Mr. Jenkins noticed we were both gone?” He asks as you fluff your hair. 

“Probably. F’s for both of us.” 

Eddie smiles.

You look down at the shirt, trying to talk your blushing cheeks down. “I’ll give this back to you. Remind me.” 

“Sure,” he says, not fully convinced he wants it back. He likes the idea of you wearing his shirt around school. A dirty little reminder of what occurred. “You should come to one of our meetings.” 

“Meetings?” You ask, quirking a brow. 

“Yeah,” he says, plucking his shirt. Your eyes drift down to the red, snarling demon on his chest. The words Hellfire Club crown the demon, decorated with medieval looking weapons.

“Right, right. Dungeons and Dragons… I’ve never played it.”

“I’ll teach you, sweetheart. Don’t worry.” 

[PART TWO HERE]

[sknyuz]

my quiet place | k.s.y. (hoshi)

synopsis: soonyoung comes home from practice and melts into your arms—finally letting himself rest in the quiet he only finds with you.

pairing: kwon soonyoung (hoshi) x gn!reader

genre: comfort, fluff, established relationship

warnings: maybe mentions of burnout? but other than that, just pure fluff

wc: ~650

a/n: self-indulgent hoshi blurb before i start on requests <3 they r still open btw !!

masterlist

he’s already half-asleep when you hear the door creak open. it’s almost 2 a.m., and he texted you hours ago with a simple:

soonyoung🐯: practice ran late again, i’ll come by after?

you don’t mind. he comes by almost every night after a rigorous dance rehearsal, your apartment much closer to the studio than his. he always does, even when he’s exhausted. especially when he’s exhausted.

soonyoung steps into your apartment with the same energy he carries all day—bouncing a little on his toes, flashing a tired but bright smile when he sees you curled up on the couch. but you know him. you see it—the way his shoulders slump once the door shuts behind him, like the weight of keeping everyone else lifted is finally slipping off.

“you wouldn’t believe the chaos in the studio,” he mumbles as he walks over, already falling into your open arms. “seungkwan kept trying to beat mingyu at footwork and then dino started pretending to have a nosebleed to distract me…”

he trails off as he tucks himself against you, as if on autopilot, face already buried in your neck, voice going softer.

“everyone’s so loud,” he whispers. “and i love it—i really do. it’s just… a lot.” your boyfriend sighs, warm breath fanning your skin.

you don’t say anything at first. just hold him, your fingers finding their place in his bleached hair, gentle and grounding. you feel him sink—like something tightly wound inside of him is slowly unraveling.

he’s their mood maker, their vitamin boost, the one who never runs out of energy. he jokes, dances, hypes everyone up. he laughs the loudest, cheers the hardest, always shining. but here—in your arms—he doesn’t have to be any of that. here, he can be soft. quiet. a star twinkling faintly in your arms. just soonyoung.

his hands clutch the back of your shirt as he exhales, breath warm against your skin.

“my feet hurt,” he mumbles. “and my brain’s all… fuzzy.”

you hum, pressing a kiss to his temple. “well, darling, do you wanna shower? or just wanna stay like this?”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even think twice when he answers:

“just this,” he says. “i don’t want anything or anyone else but you, y/n,” with that, you nod, chin resting against his head. “hmm, okay.”

minutes pass in comfortable silence. the kind only you can give him. and then, in that low, tired voice:

“thank you for being my quiet place.”

you freeze for a moment, heart aching at the way he says it. not dramatic or poetic—just honest. raw. in his most vulnerable.

you pull the blanket over both of you and guide him to lie back, curled into your chest, arms tangled together like you’re the only thing keeping him from floating off.

“you’re mine too, soonyoung,” you whisper.

and just like that, he’s recharging. breath by breath. heartbeat by heartbeat. in the only place that ever makes the noise fade away.

taglist: @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 || 𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚍𝚍 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you fall in love and never look back

warning : sexual content included - minors do not interact

you're used to pressure. you live for it. ninety-minute matches in front of tens of thousands, champions league nights under the floodlights, the roar of fans at the emirates singing your name. you’ve made your name in the football world with more than just talent. precision. composure. class. arsenal through and through. lioness by blood.

the media calls you “the rolls royce of english football.” you never let it get to your head. but there’s no denying—you’re top tier.

so when your agent sends you an invite to an exclusive athlete gala in los angeles—hosted by nike, packed with global stars—you don’t blink. you pack a tailored suit, hop on a private flight, and plan to shake hands, pose for photos, then bounce.

you didn’t plan on meeting her.

the event is all flashing lights and clinking glasses. you’re posted up at the open bar, sipping on whisky, nodding politely to athletes you recognize from the nba, the wnba, even tennis. but none of them really spark your interest—until she walks in.

azzi fudd.

you've seen her on social media. uconn guard. sharp shooter. but in person, she’s something else. her hair is soft and curled at the ends, makeup subtle, dress hugging her in all the right ways. she carries herself like someone who knows her worth, but doesn’t need to flaunt it.

she spots you first. somehow.

“english?” she said, tilting her head with a smirk when she reached you.

you raised a brow, sipping your champagne. “that obvious?”

azzi laughed, and you swear the sound settled something in you.

“it’s the posture,” she teased. “and the accent. and the fact that you’ve been silently judging everyone’s outfits for the last ten minutes.”

“fair,” you said, chuckling. “you lot dress different over here.”

“and what, you dress better?” she asked, eyeing your crisp black suit, your open collar, the single chain at your neck.

you smirked. “you tell me.”

she laughs, eyes lighting up. “azzi.”

“y/n,” you say, offering your hand.

her grip is firm. confident.

“i've watched your highlights,” she says. “you make the pitch look like art.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you’ve been watchin’ football?”

“i’ve been watching you.”

that was the beginning.

the night drifted by like something out of a movie. you talked and laughed like old friends catching up after years apart. she asked about your training, your matches, what it’s like playing in front of screaming north london crowds. you asked about uconn, her rehab, what drives her to push even harder despite the setbacks.

“no one ever asks me about that,” she said at one point, her voice softer, almost vulnerable.

you leaned in. “well, they should. you’ve done somethin’ incredible.”

after about thirty minutes of talking—real talking—azzi glanced around the busy crowd, then looked back at you.

“you wanna get outta here?” she asked.

you raised a brow. “and go where?”

she shrugged, grinning. “somewhere quieter.”

you ended up outside—on the rooftop patio, behind a velvet rope that no one seemed to be guarding. the music from inside was muffled now, just a thump beneath the hush of the evening breeze.

city lights shimmered in the distance. stars peeked between clouds.

you stood side-by-side at the edge of the railing, her arms resting on the stone, yours beside hers.

“it’s loud in there,” she said.

“too loud,” you agreed.

silence stretched between you—but it wasn’t awkward. it was easy. comforting. natural.

“i don’t usually do this,” she said quietly.

“do what?”

“talk to strangers this long. especially at these things. i hate the attention.”

you nodded. “same.”

she looked at you. really looked. “you’re not what i expected.”

you turned slightly toward her. “what did you expect?”

she smiled. “something more... intense. more guarded.”

you grinned. “you’re not far off. i just like your energy.”

that made her blush. you noticed. and she noticed that you noticed.

“you’re smooth,” she said.

you shrugged. “only when it’s worth it.”

and it was. god, it was.

you talked for over an hour out there. about music. childhood memories. dream matches. the kind of goals that weren’t just on the scoreboard.

she told you her favorite movie. you made fun of it. she told you she’d beat you in one-on-one. you challenged her to prove it.

eventually, someone called her back in. some media thing. she looked at you like she didn’t want to go.

“so… this was nice,” she said, playing with the edge of her ring.

“it was more than nice,” you replied. “you wanna do it again sometime?”

her eyes met yours. “i do.”

you both reached for your phones at the same time, laughing. you swapped numbers. she leaned in, gave you a hug—warm, slow, lingering just enough to tell you she meant it.

“don’t be a stranger,” she whispered.

“don’t give me a reason to be,” you whispered back.

and then she was gone.

but your phone buzzed that same night.

azzi fudd: u made that party 10x better lol. safe flight back. text me when u land? :)

you smiled.

and replied immediately.

your schedules are brutal. you’re back in london before the jet lag even clears, but she’s already waiting on facetime. she calls from her dorm room—head wrapped in a bonnet, hoodie too big, smile soft.

“hey, england,” she teases.

you’re in bed, shirtless, chain resting on your chest, tired from training but wide awake at the sight of her.

“hey, princess.”

you talk for an hour. then two. she plays you music she’s working out to. you show her your boots for the next match. she giggles when you call cleats “boots,” and you tease her for calling football “soccer.”

“you ever gonna come see what proper football looks like?” you ask one night.

she grins. “only if you come to a uconn game.”

“deal.”

you text daily. facetime every night. she sees you in the training room, laughing with teammates. you see her in the locker room, towel slung over her shoulder.

the connection isn’t just romantic—it’s real. she asks about your childhood. you ask about her faith. you start sharing things you haven’t told anyone. and somehow, even thousands of miles apart, she becomes your peace.

you start sending each other care packages. she sends you uconn merch. you send her your match-worn jersey with your name on the back.

one night, as you're lying in bed, watching her yawn on facetime, she says it first.

“i miss you.”

you bite your lip, feeling that warmth in your chest. “i miss you too, az.”

she flies out on her off-weekend.

you pick her up from heathrow yourself, hat low, hoodie up, trying to dodge paparazzi. she runs into your arms like you’ve known each other forever.

you show her london the way tourists never see it—quiet coffee shops in islington, rooftop views in shoreditch, a walk along the thames at midnight. she holds your hand when no one’s watching.

and then, match day.

you’re starting for arsenal. she's in your box seat, wearing your coat, scarf wrapped around her neck.

you score the winning goal. a screamer from outside the box. and when you run past the crowd, you point to her.

the cameras catch it. the internet loses its mind.

@/uclionesshq: y/n scores an absolute rocket… and points straight at azzi fudd? is this a soft launch or am i delusional??

@/bballxfooty: azzi fudd watching her girlfriend play for arsenal?? they’re so international it hurts. i’m sobbing.

@/woagzone: the way azzi’s smiling from the stands... yeah, we lost.

you’re back in your flat. she’s curled up in your bed, wearing your hoodie, skin glowing in the soft lamp light.

“i’ve never felt this safe,” she whispers, tracing her fingers down your forearm.

you kiss her temple. “you’ve got me now.”

you fall asleep holding her. the kind of sleep where nothing aches. where the world can’t reach you.

you show up in connecticut in a long coat, hat low again, but your frame unmistakable. when azzi checks into the game, she looks into the crowd and beams.

you watch her dominate the court—draining threes, quick cuts, fearless. you’re standing before the buzzer even sounds.

@/espnw: arsenal star y/n spotted court side for uconn vs. tennessee. came all the way from london for azzi fudd. love is real.

@/wosoqueens: y/n clapping court side like a proud wife is my roman empire.

you’re tangled up in her sheets. she’s wearing just a tee. you’ve got your arms wrapped around her waist as she rests her head on your chest.

“you ever think about what this is?” she asks.

you kiss her knuckles. “i think about it all the time.”

“we’re making it work.”

“'course we are. that’s what happens when you’ve got somethin’ worth holdin’ onto.”

she pulls the blanket over both of you and whispers, “stay a little longer?”

you do.

the world doesn’t know what you are.

not really.

they know you’re something, though.

the glances during games. the posts that show two mugs on a counter instead of one. the matching trainers. the way azzi was spotted in london twice in a single month. and you? you’ve suddenly developed a love for women’s college basketball.

you two never said a word publicly. but the internet doesn’t need confirmation. it’s already in love with the story.

you’re doing press before arsenal’s champions league tie against lyon. you sit on the set in a tailored track jacket, crisp fade, diamond stud glinting under the lights. you’ve done a hundred interviews—but this one feels different. because you know what’s coming.

the interviewer smiles, flipping through her notes with a glint in her eye. “y/n, your form lately has been phenomenal. and off the pitch, you’ve got fans speculating about some… cross-sport romance?”

you smirk, sitting back in your chair.

she pushes, teasing. “you’ve been spotted at a few uconn games recently… and i think the world noticed you pointing to a certain basketball player after your last goal.”

you chuckle, shaking your head. “you lot pay more attention to who i’m lookin’ at than the goal itself, clearly.”

the interviewer grins. “so no confirmation? nothing to share with the romantics out there?”

you lift an eyebrow, grin subtle. “i’m focused on arsenal. and my game.”

a beat.

“but i will say… i’m very proud of certain people in my life right now.”

the clip goes viral within minutes.

azzi’s sitting in front of the press after dropping 27 points against south carolina. she’s radiant—sweat still glistening, hair pulled into a bun, eyes bright.

a reporter raises a hand. “azzi, we’ve seen some famous faces court side for your games lately—one in particular. arsenal’s y/n. are they just a fan of basketball, or…?”

azzi smiles, biting her lip.

“y/n is an incredible athlete. and… a great person to have around.”

the room chuckles.

“would you say they motivate you?”

azzi leans forward. “let’s just say… i like having people in my corner who understand what pressure feels like.”

she never confirms. never denies. but the way she smiles as she says it says everything.

you’re in bed, shirtless, chain glinting in the low light. azzi’s curled up on her dorm bed, hoodie swallowing her frame.

“why do i feel like we’re dating and doing pr at the same time?” she says through a laugh.

you grin. “you handled that well, love. straight outta the ‘don’t kiss and tell’ handbook.”

she mimics your accent terribly. “just proud of certain people in my life, innit?”

you laugh hard, chest shaking. “oi, don’t ever do that again.”

her smile softens. “i miss you.”

you close your eyes for a moment. “i know. me too.”

there’s silence, but it’s full. comforting.

“you coming out for the next match?” she asks.

you nod. “wouldn’t miss it.”

it starts small. a video of you cooking in a kitchen that isn’t yours—azzi’s laugh in the background.

her story the next day: you driving, hand on the gearshift, ring on your pinky catching the light.

you post a photo of two nike duffle bags side-by-side on a hotel floor.

she posts a mirror selfie. you’re blurry in the back, sitting on the bed, scrolling your phone.

comments flood in:

@/bballxwoso: this is the softest soft launch in history. just say you’re in love already.

@/footyfangirl: they’ve posted each other’s fingertips and i’m still screaming.

you’ve got a rare week off. you fly to see her and stay in a low-key airbnb outside hartford. no cameras. no noise. just the two of you.

she’s laying on your chest after a movie, eyes half-lidded. you’re playing with her curls.

“you ever get scared?” she asks quietly.

you hum. “of what?”

“this… getting bigger. people knowing. what it means if we go fully public.”

you nod. “yeah. but i’m not afraid of us. just the noise around us.”

she looks up at you, eyes soft. “i’m not hiding you. just protecting us.”

you lean down, kissing her forehead. “i get it. and when you’re ready… i’m right there.”

you fall asleep like that, hearts in sync.

@/wagculture: azzi fudd just called y/n “someone in her corner” and now i’m crying in international couple.

@/ballinnboots: they won’t confirm, but my serotonin confirms for them.

@/sportsnships: this is like if christen press and tobin heath had a gen z reboot.

it’s late. you’re about to kick off in the champions league semis. she’s in her dorm, wearing your tee, facetime tilted just right.

“you got this,” she says, voice soft. “lock in. be brilliant.”

you smirk. “you’ll be watchin’, yeah?”

“always.”

you glance at the camera. “i love you, az.”

there’s a pause.

then her smile blooms. “i love you too, y/n.”

2026 creeps in with quiet ambition.

your days are full of football and facetimes. her nights are full of training and pressure, the wnba draft looming like a bright star on the horizon.

you’ve both gotten better at handling the distance—but the ache never goes away. every goodbye feels a little heavier. every hug at the airport feels like it's not long enough.

but you’re still hers. and she’s still yours.

new york is buzzing. cameras flash. reporters in sleek suits swarm the red carpet. inside the draft venue, azzi sits front and center, dressed in an all-white suit that hugs her like it was tailored by angels. calm on the surface. electric underneath.

you’re there too, seated a few rows back, behind her agent and team. dressed lowkey—black turtleneck, silver chain, dark coat. watching.

not to be seen. just to be near her. just to witness her moment.

when the commissioner steps up to the podium and says her name—

“with the first pick in the 2026 wnba draft, the los angeles sparks select… azzi fudd, university of connecticut.”

—it feels like your chest might crack open with pride.

the crowd erupts. cameras zoom in as she stands, dimpled smile lighting up the world. she hugs her mom, her teammates, her coaches—and just before she walks onto the stage, her eyes flick toward you.

she doesn’t say anything. just meets your gaze and gives you the tiniest, most intentional nod.

you nod back. hand on your heart.

that’s my girl.

later, after the chaos has died down and the press is over, you’re both back at the hotel. she’s taken off her heels, sitting in your lap on the balcony of the suite, city lights flickering below.

she’s still glowing. you’ve got your arms wrapped around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder.

"you looked like a goddess up there," you whisper.

she smiles, hands covering yours. "i kept thinking, ‘y/n’s watching.’ that kept me grounded."

you kiss the side of her neck. "you earned all of it. and then some."

she leans her head back against your shoulder, quiet for a beat. “i want you with me. in la. i know we’ve never said that out loud, but… i want you here.”

you hold her tighter.

“i know,” you say softly. “i want that too.”

you knew it was coming. you’ve known for a while.

but when the press release drops, the football world still spins on its axis.

"y/n to leave arsenal after eight seasons, signs with angel city fc in los angeles"

the post goes up on all platforms—black and red graphic with your profile, a quote from you in bold text: “sometimes, even home changes shape. i’m ready for a new chapter.”

you didn’t mention azzi.

you didn’t need to.

@/arsenalwosofans: y/n leaving arsenal? my world just shattered in four languages.

@/uswntdaily: y/n to angel city??? she’s really going to be in the same city as azzi. i’m eating this power couple up.

@/footygirlunited: they won’t say a word and yet i’m crying like they just proposed on live tv.

@/bballxfootycore: the way azzi went #1 to la… and a few months later y/n signs with angel city… do you believe in fate or do you believe in fudd x y/n?

you move into a place just outside downtown. a three-bedroom loft, all hardwood floors and open windows. azzi’s duffel is already by the door when you arrive.

she walks in, tank top and sweats, smile soft. “welcome home.”

you drop your bag and walk to her, arms sliding around her waist.

“i missed you,” you murmur into her neck.

she exhales, relief flooding her. “missed you more.”

you rest your forehead against hers.

“now i can be there for all of it,” you say. “your first game. your rookie season. your bad days. your best ones.”

she blinks slowly. “we’re really doing this.”

“we’ve been doing it.”

“but now we don’t have to leave.”

you kiss her—slow, deep, and full of promise. “not for a while, love.”

it’s late summer in l.a.

you play first—angel city vs. portland thorns. you assist a goal and nearly score one yourself. the crowd roars when azzi’s spotted in the stands, rocking your kit, hair in a bun, proudly clapping.

later that night, the roles reverse. you’re court side at crypto.com arena as the sparks face the liberty. she hits the game-winning three.

she points to you as she runs back on defense.

and you? you’re already standing, arms in the air, grin splitting your face.

and twitter? still losing it.

@/angelcityhq: y/n dropping dimes in the afternoon and cheering on her girl court side at night… this is the crossover episode we deserved.

@/wosoxwnba: power couple. first pick. big leagues. big love. big dreams.

you’d forgotten what it was like to not wake up next to her every morning.

no countdown to goodbye. no long-haul flights. no screen between you and her smile.

just sunlight pouring into the la loft and azzi, bare-faced and warm in your hoodie, mumbling something about coffee as she wraps her arms around your waist.

you’d give up the world to freeze this version of life.

you settle into a rhythm faster than expected. you train at angel city’s complex, she trains with the sparks. you both come home exhausted most days, but there's a new kind of peace in the tiredness—because it leads back to each other.

you take turns cooking. she sings in the kitchen sometimes, off-key but confident, while you season everything with a heavy hand and a smirk.

“why do you act like paprika is personality?” she teases, resting against the counter.

“and why do you act like boiled broccoli is gourmet?” you shoot back.

she throws a dishtowel at you. you catch it midair. she rolls her eyes and kisses you anyway.

you walk hand-in-hand through downtown when no one’s really paying attention—hoodies up, fingers intertwined. you sit together in low-lit corners of cafés, her leg pressed against yours beneath the table. it’s not hiding. it’s guarding.

but the city isn’t blind.

photos surface. grainy shots of the two of you laughing in line at trader joe’s. a blurry picture of you with your hand at the small of her back, guiding her through a crowd. a fan tiktok captures azzi running into your arms outside the sparks’ practice facility, her voice saying “baby” clear as day.

at a post-game interview, a reporter tries to slide it in, casual.

“you’ve been looking more settled off the court lately, azzi. happy. is there someone special we should know about?”

azzi just smiles, grabs her water bottle, and says, “i’m focused on basketball. but i’ve got good people around me.”

at an angel city press day, you’re cornered too.

“you’ve been in la for a few months now—fans have noticed you’ve been spending time with a certain sparks rookie. can we expect a power couple debut anytime soon?”

you chuckle, cool as ever.

“i think people should focus more on the way she plays than who she’s with. girl’s a star. let her shine.”

no confirmations. no denials.

just fire. just finesse.

@/wnbaxwoso: they’re so good at dodging questions it’s actually elite. ballers and pr-trained? iconic.

@/laduo_daily: they really said “mind your business but also yes we’re in love” and i respect it.

@/cuffingseason: the way azzi fudd lights up when she’s asked about y/n? i’m writing my vows now.

she’s fresh out the shower, hair damp, wearing just one of your oversized tees. you’re on the couch in grey sweats, watching highlights with the sound low.

azzi crawls into your lap, legs tucked on either side of you. her skin is warm. she smells like vanilla and citrus.

“you okay?” she asks, fingers resting lightly on your chest.

you nod. “just thinking.”

“about?”

you hesitate, then sigh. “feels like we’re on the edge of something. like… people are starting to really see us.”

she leans her forehead against yours. “and?”

“and i don’t want it to ruin this.”

“it won’t,” she whispers. “they can look all they want. what we have? they don’t get to touch it.”

you wrap your arms around her waist and pull her closer.

“you’re everything,” you murmur into her skin.

you start walking her into the tunnel before every sparks game now. you don’t even try to be discreet anymore. you stand behind the barrier while she warms up, nodding to her when she looks your way.

she always does.

before your own matches, she’s there too. in black sunglasses, fitted angel city gear, and your kit number in a chain around her neck.

fans notice. fans scream.

@/angelcityhearts: azzi waiting in the tunnel for y/n after the game? she’s giving supportive wife energy.

@/sparksxacfc: this isn’t just a crossover. this is an era.

@/wnbaxnwsl: they keep acting like they’re not the hottest couple in la. sweethearts, you are.

it’s quiet on the roof of your building. you’ve got a blanket over your shoulders, azzi between your legs, her back against your chest.

below, the lights of la shimmer. but you’re not looking at the city. you’re looking at her.

"you ever think about forever?" she asks suddenly.

you tilt your head, cheek against her curls. "yeah. with you? all the time."

she smiles, closing her eyes, fingers laced with yours.

neither of you says anything else.

because sometimes, love doesn’t need explaining.

it just needs space to breathe.

and in la—together—you’ve finally got it.

los angeles had changed everything.

what used to feel like distance now feels like grounding. you wake up next to her. you fall asleep with your hand resting lightly on her hip. the city buzzes around you, but all you care about is her voice in the morning and her laugh in your kitchen.

you never wanted the fame. you wanted football. but somehow, the world kept looking.

the pitch is clean. nike wants a joint campaign. you, the english footballing phenom. her, the wnba’s brightest new star. both in la. both on the rise.

“power. precision. partnership.”

that’s the tagline.

they film the campaign over two weeks—split screens of you in angel city black and pink, her in sparks gold and purple. shots of you sprinting down the wing. her launching a perfect three. your silhouettes passing in the tunnel. a final moment where you stand shoulder to shoulder, backs turned, “fudd” and “y/l/n” side by side on your jerseys.

the internet loses it.

@/nikewomen: two sports. two cities. one force. [#dualforce | coming soon]

@/sapphicsports: why is this the sexiest campaign in sports history? they didn’t even touch hands and i screamed.

@/ballerbaesunited: i saw a full second of eye contact in that trailer and now i believe in love again.

still, neither of you confirm anything. just coy smiles in interviews and “we respect each other’s game.”

but something is shifting.

you're tired of loving her in the shadows.

you rent a house away from the city for a weekend. just the two of you. no cameras. no fans. just ocean, pine trees, and silence. she’s been working nonstop, and you’ve watched her shoulders sink lower every time she checks her phone.

on the second night, you cook dinner. nothing fancy—grilled salmon, her favorite roasted potatoes, wine on the deck. she’s wearing your hoodie and her curls are loose and wild in the sea breeze.

you give her the ring after dessert.

no kneeling. no speeches.

you reach into your pocket, pull out the box, and slide it in front of her while she’s mid-laugh.

she freezes. looks at you. then the ring.

“y/n…”

“i want forever with you,” you say quietly. “i don’t care if the world knows. i just want you to know.”

she opens the box with trembling fingers. the diamond isn’t flashy—but it’s clean, clear, timeless.

tears rise in her eyes.

“yes,” she whispers. “yes, yes, yes.”

you pull her into your arms, holding her like you’ll never let go.

you don’t plan to.

back inside, rain begins tapping against the windows.

you lead her to the bedroom with your hand gently cradling her jaw, thumb brushing over her cheek. she’s still a little breathless, eyes wide and glistening. you kiss her like she’s sacred—like you’re thanking the universe for giving her to you.

clothes fall away in the quiet.

your hands are reverent, movements slow. her name leaves your lips like a prayer, whispered against her neck, her shoulder, her chest. you don’t rush. you trace every inch of her skin like it’s poetry you’ve waited your whole life to read.

she holds your face while you move over her, guiding your rhythm with soft touches and sighs. you kiss her fingers—especially the one with the ring. her hips rise to meet you, and when she comes undone, it’s with her head buried against your throat and your name on her lips like gospel.

after, you lie tangled in the sheets, heartbeats steady, her leg draped over your waist. she looks at the ring again, smiling so hard it hurts.

“this is ours,” she whispers.

you nod, eyes half-closed. “always.”

the invite arrives on crisp ivory card stock. your name printed in gold: y/n y/l/n – nominee, ballon d’or féminin.

you’ve dreamt about this moment since you were a kid in england, dribbling a ball on concrete playgrounds. and yet all you can think about is who you want by your side.

you ask azzi to come.

she says yes immediately.

it’s the first public event you attend together as a pair. no hiding. you walk the carpet first—tailored black suit, clean line fade, quiet confidence. cameras flash. reporters call your name.

then azzi steps out beside you.

she’s in a sleek black gown, hair slicked into a bun, the engagement ring tucked behind subtle waves. she’s radiant. and standing so close to you that it’s impossible not to notice.

reporters pounce.

“azzi, are you two…?”

you grin, arm around her waist. “we’re here to celebrate football tonight.”

a red carpet interviewer smiles slyly. “just football?”

azzi chuckles. “just greatness.”

they laugh. you both redirect. nothing confirmed. nothing denied. but the way you look at each other in between flashbulbs says more than words ever could.

“and the 2026 ballon d’or féminin goes to…”

a pause. a drumroll.

“…y/n y/l/n.”

the applause is thunderous. you rise slowly, heart thudding against your ribs. azzi grabs your hand as you pass, squeezing once, her eyes gleaming.

you take the stage, accepting the golden ball with both hands, blinking into the lights.

“thank you,” you say. “to my clubs. my country. my teammates. and to someone watching tonight… who’s shown me that love doesn’t weaken focus—it sharpens it.”

you glance toward azzi. she beams, eyes glassy.

a photo circulates from inside the ceremony—azzi cheering, hands raised, the ring catching the light on her finger.

@/femmesoffooty: that’s a ring. that’s an engagement ring. you can’t lie to me anymore.

@/gaysinsport: y/n just won the ballon d’or and she’s engaged to the love of her life. is this tomdaya all over again?

@/sportslesbians: azzi in that black dress with a diamond on her finger and y/n winning the biggest award in football. it’s their world. we’re just sobbing in it.

you toss your blazer on the couch, loosen your collar. azzi sits on the bed, scrolling through her phone with a half-smile.

“think they noticed?” she asks, showing you the zoomed-in ring tweet.

you laugh, walking over. “let ‘em.”

she looks up at you, pride and softness in her eyes. “you’re the best player in the world.”

you lean down, hands on either side of her face. “only thing i care about is being yours.”

she pulls you down into her arms.

the world is watching now.

and for the first time… you’re letting it.

you never thought you’d get excited about countertops.

but here you are—azzi by your side, hand in yours, arguing about quartz versus marble with an interior designer who is both frightened and fascinated by how seriously you take backsplash color schemes.

you’re standing in the middle of an empty living room, all high ceilings and sunlight and possibility, and she’s looking at the space like it already belongs to her.

to you both.

you squeeze her hand. she grins. “feels real now, huh?”

you nod. “yeah. real—and forever.”

you buy it just outside west hollywood. a spanish-style bungalow with arched doorways, a tiled patio, a garden in the back where azzi swears she’ll grow tomatoes but forgets to water succulents. you spend weekends building furniture, painting walls, and arguing over where the couch should go.

(it ends up in the exact spot she picked. you don't mind.)

one afternoon, you catch her slow-dancing to no music in the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon like a mic. you lean against the doorframe and watch her with a smile tugging at your mouth.

this is what peace looks like.

this is what love feels like.

the engagement is private. the wedding won’t be.

you both know the headlines are coming. wnba star and ballon d’or winner to tie the knot. you don’t care. not anymore.

you sit at the dining table one night, laptops open, pinterest boards synced, and a bottle of wine between you. she wants an outdoor wedding. you want something small, intimate. you settle on a coastal venue north of malibu—cliffside views, lots of open air, and the sea close enough to hear.

guest list? selective.

just friends. family. teammates. the people who know you, not just your stats.

you make the playlist yourselves—slow r&b, golden-era soul, a few old-school uk garage tracks that make her roll her eyes and laugh when you dance around the room like a fool.

you add “adorn” by miguel and “like i’m gonna lose you” by meghan trainor to the slow dance list. she adds “golden hour” and your eyes almost well up.

“why that one?” you ask softly.

she looks at you, eyes shining. “because that’s what being with you feels like.”

the night of the housewarming party, your home is filled with laughter, music, and the smell of grilled chicken and baked mac and cheese.

angel city teammates show up first, bringing ridiculous gifts—like a neon sign that says “goal diggers” and a framed picture of you mid-slide tackle with “our king” scribbled across it in gold marker.

then the sparks players roll in, loud and rowdy, and immediately start challenging your friends to beer pong in the backyard.

paige bueckers and nika mühl arrive with azzi’s old uconn friends. you’d met them once before, but this time they act like old family. paige throws her arms around you like a sister. caitlin hands you a bottle of wine and says, “if you ever hurt her, i’ll ruin your credit score.”

you laugh. “noted.”

your family had flown in the night before—your mum already tried to rearrange your spice rack, your dad had teared up walking through the garden.

azzi’s parents arrive last. her mom brings a massive casserole dish and her dad immediately grills you about wedding logistics.

“beach weddings get windy,” he warns, sipping lemonade. “i hope your suits are tailored tight.”

azzi rolls her eyes. “dad.”

you just smile and say, “they’re perfect.”

midway through the evening, you find her in the kitchen, crouched on the floor with a plate of cake and a fork in her hand.

she looks up at you, cheeks full.

you laugh. “you hiding?”

“they keep asking about the wedding,” she mumbles.

“mine keep asking when we’re having kids,” you say, crouching beside her.

she snorts. “they don’t waste time, do they?”

you brush a crumb off her lip. “we could run away.”

she hums. “we already did. just in a very well-furnished house.”

you kiss her softly, slow, ignoring the distant sounds of music and shouting and someone—probably paige—trying to start karaoke.

“i like this life,” she whispers.

“i like it with you.”

you collapse on the couch together, lights low, dishes half-washed. she’s in one of your tees again, hair up in a messy bun, bare feet resting in your lap.

you play with her fingers, gently spinning the ring on her hand.

“so this is it,” she says, half-asleep. “i’m excited for forever.”

you nod. “and it only gets better.”

she yawns, then turns into you, her body melting into your side.

and as you hold her in the quiet aftermath of celebration, in the home you built together, you realize something simple and beautiful:

this isn’t the beginning of the end of your story.

it’s the beginning of the best part.

the day of the wedding begins slow.

the world outside is still wrapped in fog, but inside the coastal venue, sunlight begins to filter through glass windows and soft white curtains. you wake up in separate rooms—old school tradition, azzi’s idea—and yet your first instinct is still to reach for her.

you resist. barely.

your suit is classic—clean black, tailored within an inch of its life. your cufflinks are a gift from her. “always yours,” engraved in tiny script.

the ceremony is outside. white flowers, pale green vines, and a view of the cliffs that seems to go on forever. every seat is filled with someone who’s shaped your story. your mum dabs at her eyes. azzi’s grandmother clutches a handkerchief like it’s holy. teammates whisper excitedly.

then she walks down the aisle.

you forget how to breathe.

she’s in a custom off-the-shoulder gown that hugs her body and moves like water. her hair is pinned back with soft curls brushing her cheeks. she meets your eyes and smiles—and in that moment, nothing else exists.

your hand shakes slightly when you reach for hers.

she grips it tight.

after the ceremony, you sneak away. just the two of you. up on the cliff, overlooking the sea.

no audience. no pressure. just love.

you sit together on a low stone wall, legs touching, holding hands.

“i wanted to say this without the world listening,” you begin, voice low. “because some things are too sacred for microphones.”

she nods, eyes already shimmering.

you breathe.

“i’ve spent most of my life being strong. stoic. people expect it. but with you, i learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s trust. and i trust you with every part of me. the loud ones. the quiet ones. the ones i still don’t understand. i choose you—every day, in every way.”

she blinks, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.

her voice is soft when she speaks.

“i used to wonder if someone like you could ever love someone like me. i never had the answers. but you didn’t give me answers—you gave me home. you gave me safety, joy, laughter i didn’t know i needed. i love you, y/n. all of you. and i’ll spend the rest of my life showing you how much.”

you kiss her like it’s your first and last time.

the wind dances around you.

you fly out two days later, in island villa over crystal blue water. just enough distance from the world to make it feel like paradise.

your days are sun-soaked. mornings with lazy breakfasts, late afternoon swims, dinners barefoot in the sand. azzi wears oversized sunglasses and your shirts as cover-ups. she’s never looked more at peace.

but the nights? the nights belong to you.

you take your time.

that first night, she’s in black lace, skin glowing from sun and champagne. you press her against the glass doors of the villa, the moonlight catching on her ring.

“i married the most beautiful woman in the world,” you whisper, lips trailing down her throat.

she moans. “prove it.”

her back hits the bed with a soft thud, legs parting on instinct as you crawl between them. azzi looks up at you with wide, expectant eyes, lips already parted, chest rising and falling with anticipation. she’s already breathless, and you haven’t even touched her properly yet.

your hands trail slowly down her sides, fingers teasing the hem of her shirt before pulling it over her head, revealing smooth skin and toned curves you’ve craved all day. she bites her lip when you lean in, mouth ghosting over her collarbone, not quite kissing—just letting your breath skim her skin until she shivers.

you smirk. “so needy already.”

azzi nods, flushed and eager. “please…”

you take your time stripping her, peeling off her shorts, then her underwear, slow and deliberate. she lifts her hips to help you, her thighs already twitching as your fingers graze the inside of them. you press a kiss just above her mound, and her fingers instantly knot into the sheets.

one long lick. that’s all it takes to have her gasping, her hips jolting up into your mouth.

you don’t let her set the pace.

your hands grip her thighs, holding her open as you flatten your tongue against her, dragging it in slow circles that have her moaning your name like a prayer. every time her hips buck, you press her down harder, forcing her to take it your way. her taste is addicting, sweet and slick, and every whimper she lets out just drives you deeper.

you swirl your tongue over her clit, then suck it between your lips until she cries out, legs trembling. she’s already close—you can feel it in the way her body tenses, the way her breathing stutters. but you don’t let her go over the edge just yet.

you pull back, fingers replacing your mouth. you slip one inside her, then two—tight, warm, soaking. she clenches around you hard, her hips grinding into your hand as you curl your fingers just right, stroking the spot that makes her eyes roll back.

“more,” she begs, barely able to speak.

you grin. “i’ve got you, baby.”

you reach for the strap, already harnessed and slick with anticipation. you tease her with it first, dragging the head through her folds, making her squirm and whine. then you press in, slow at first, inch by inch until she’s full, until her nails dig into your shoulders and her head drops back, jaw slack.

you set a rhythm that’s all dominance—deep, steady thrusts that leave her a moaning mess beneath you. her legs wrap around your waist, pulling you in harder, and you give her everything she wants. the sound of skin slapping, her desperate gasps, the creak of the bed—it’s all fuel.

you reach down to rub her clit again, syncing your thrusts with the motion of your fingers, and she’s gone—screaming your name as she cums hard around you, shaking and breathless.

but you don’t stop. not until her body’s limp and her voice is hoarse from moaning. not until she’s completely wrecked, ruined by your touch, your control.

and when you finally collapse beside her, she curls into you, lips brushing your shoulder, still trembling.

“god,” she whispers, “you’re gonna kill me one day.”

you just smirk, wrapping your arm around her. “only if you’re lucky.”

her breath is still shaky, skin flushed and damp as she tries to recover, her thighs trembling from the aftershocks. you don’t give her long. you slide your hand slowly up her stomach, fingers trailing lazy circles just under her breasts, watching her twitch under your touch.

“already done?” you murmur, voice low and taunting as your fingers skim back down to her inner thigh. “didn’t think you’d give out this fast.”

azzi’s eyes flutter open, dazed but defiant. “i’m not… done.”

you raise an eyebrow, pleased. “good girl.”

you kiss her—slow, deep, possessive. she moans into your mouth, her body already arching toward you like she’s begging for more. you don’t make her wait this time. one hand slides between her legs again, fingers slipping through the wet heat you left behind. still so sensitive—her whole body jerks when you touch her, but she doesn’t stop you. she spreads wider.

“such a mess for me,” you murmur against her throat, biting gently at the skin just beneath her ear.

she gasps when you push back in with your fingers—this time three—and her nails claw at your back as you set a slow, torturous pace. you feel every twitch, every squeeze, as you curl your fingers deep and press your palm right against her clit, keeping that pressure steady.

“f-fuck—” she pants, legs kicking a little.

you glance down, watching your fingers disappear into her over and over, her slick coating your skin. she’s dripping, her body reacting like you never stopped touching her. you lean in, lips brushing hers.

“you’re gonna take more.”

she nods before the words are even fully out of your mouth. you pull your fingers out with a wet sound and stroke them against her entrance once more before grabbing the base of the strap again. she barely gets a second to breathe before you're inside her again—deeper this time, rougher.

the rhythm is fast and hard, her body bouncing with every thrust. her legs are spread wide and trembling, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room. she’s completely undone—moaning nonstop, voice cracking, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes from the intensity.

you lean over her, one hand gripping her throat—not squeezing, just holding. just letting her feel your control. her eyes roll back when you start rubbing her clit again in quick circles, all while the strap pounds into her harder, deeper.

“i—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“again,” you growl, keeping the pressure on. “give it to me again.”

her back arches and she screams your name, body going rigid before falling apart in your arms. her whole body spasms through the second orgasm, her nails digging into your shoulders like she’s holding onto reality.

you don’t stop until her legs are shaking uncontrollably, until her whimpers fade into soft, overstimulated cries and her hands are pushing weakly at your chest.

then you slow. you pull out carefully, gently. she’s wrecked—flushed and soaked and twitching. you kiss her cheek, her shoulder, her chest, letting her breathe again.

azzi looks at you through heavy lashes, her voice hoarse. “you’re insane.”

you laugh softly, pulling her close. “you love it.”

she doesn’t even try to deny it. she just nods, curling into your chest, her fingers weakly gripping your side like she never wants to let go.

she’s sprawled out, thighs parted, skin slick with sweat and arousal, chest rising and falling like she just ran a marathon. her cheeks are flushed, lips kiss-swollen and slightly parted. you hover over her, watching her body twitch with aftershocks, your hand tracing lazy circles over her belly as her breath stutters beneath your touch.

“you done?” you whisper, voice low and teasing.

azzi shakes her head slowly, even though her legs are still trembling. “no… i want more.”

you grin, dark and hungry. “that’s my good girl.”

you don’t waste time. your fingers return to her swollen, dripping cunt—slicker than before, throbbing, oversensitive. the second you brush over her clit, she whines—high-pitched, desperate—but doesn’t pull away. she arches into you, aching for it.

“look at you,” you murmur, dragging your fingers through the mess between her legs. “this pussy’s soaked. so needy. still not satisfied?”

“n-no,” she stutters, face contorting as you press down on her clit with your thumb, making her hips jerk. “please—please, fuck me again.”

you grip her thighs and flip her effortlessly onto her stomach. her ass is round, flushed, begging for attention. you give it a sharp slap and she moans into the mattress, pushing back against you.

“goddamn,” you mutter, palming her ass as you guide the strap back to her soaked entrance. “you’re unreal.”

you slide it in again, deeper this time—different angle, fuller. her moan rips out of her like it’s been building, her hands fisting in the sheets as you bottom out inside her.

you don’t give her time to adjust. you set a brutal rhythm right from the start, snapping your hips forward, the sound of skin-on-skin bouncing off the walls. she’s a mess—drooling into the sheets, crying out with every thrust.

your hand comes down hard on her ass again, then you lean over her, your chest pressing against her slick back, lips brushing her ear. “say my name.”

she gasps, voice breaking. “y/n.”

“louder.”

“y/n! fuck—don’t stop!”

you reach around her body, fingers back on her clit, and she loses it. her body spasms, legs shaking, her moans growing louder, messier. you don’t ease up. you keep fucking into her hard, fucking through her orgasm as she thrashes beneath you, completely undone.

you pull her up by the hair, just enough to whisper against her mouth. “one more.”

she whimpers, nodding furiously. “yes—yes—please—do it.”

you shift again, pulling her into your lap as you sit back on your knees, keeping the strap deep inside her. you grip her hips and bounce her on it, hard and deep, her body limp and pliant in your arms. she’s so far gone—crying, moaning, begging—nothing left but want.

her head falls back on your shoulder as she grinds down, desperate to feel every inch of you.

“good girl,” you whisper, biting at her neck. “cum on my cock again. let me ruin you.”

and she does—again.

harder than before, louder than before. screaming your name, body convulsing, hips jerking erratically. her whole body tenses in your arms, then collapses completely. she falls forward, chest to the bed, shaking and soaked.

you pull out slowly, letting the strap fall against your thigh, then gently turn her over. she’s flushed, sweaty, lips parted, legs still twitching.

totally. fucking. wrecked.

you lean in and kiss her slow, soft, like a contrast to everything you just did.

she breathes against your lips, voice barely there. “i can’t move.”

you grin, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. “that was the point.”

you run your fingers down the inside of her thigh, watching her flinch at even the lightest touch. her pussy’s red, used, still leaking from the last orgasm—and you’re not done watching it tremble for you.

her eyes flutter open just enough to look at you, dazed, soaked in sweat, lips swollen from moaning your name for what must be the hundredth time.

“color?” you ask, hand paused right above her inner thigh, even though you already know the answer.

she nods, voice rough. “green.”

“good.”

you kiss her neck, soft and slow—contrast to the way your fingers dip back between her legs. she gasps, the sensitivity making her jolt, but she spreads her thighs again anyway. you hum in approval.

“still so good for me,” you whisper, sucking a fresh mark into her collarbone as your fingers circle her clit again—barely any pressure, just enough to make her body twitch. “still letting me have this sweet pussy.”

she lets out a shaky moan, back arching off the bed.

you press two fingers inside her—tight, so tight, even after taking you over and over. she clenches like her body’s not sure it can handle more, but her hips move, desperate for more depth. you give it to her slow this time—just your fingers first, curling deep, scissoring gently, dragging the swollen heat from her all over again.

“sensitive?” you ask against her ear, licking the shell of it.

she nods, but her legs still try to wrap around your waist. “i don’t care.”

you pull your fingers out, slow and wet, then suck them clean while she watches. her breath catches in her throat.

then you reach for the strap again.

this time, you flip her onto her side, spooning up behind her, sliding the tip between her folds. she whines, body shivering from head to toe as you tease her entrance.

you push in slowly. every inch dragging against oversensitive walls. her mouth drops open, no sound even coming out this time.

“shhh,” you murmur into her ear, hand sliding up to her chest, gripping a breast while your hips start moving. “you can take it. you were made for this.”

your thrusts are deep and angled perfectly. one leg slung over yours, her ass pressed right up against you. you slide your arm under her neck, cradling her as you fuck into her slow and punishing.

your hand drops between her thighs again, rubbing slow circles around her clit in sync with every thrust.

she starts crying.

not from pain. from being absolutely, thoroughly destroyed.

“please,” she sobs. “please, i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” you growl, thrusting harder now. “you’re gonna cum again for me. you’re gonna soak my cock like the filthy little slut you are.”

her whole body shakes.

you bite her shoulder as your pace builds, the slap of your hips against her ass getting louder, faster. her pussy tightens around the strap, and you feel it—she’s right there again. her cries grow high and choked, her legs spasming uncontrollably.

then she screams.

you hold her tight as she convulses in your arms, another orgasm ripping through her so violently she nearly pushes you out. but you hold her there. deep. still. letting her shake around you, her nails digging into your arm, tears wetting the pillow.

and finally—finally—you slow. you gently pull out, her body twitching at the loss, her legs unable to close.

you shift her onto her back, brushing the hair from her face. her eyes are barely open, lips trembling. she looks absolutely ruined. blissed-out. used in the best way.

she tries to speak, but all that comes out is a broken, “f-fuck…”

you kiss her forehead, her cheek, the tip of her nose.

“you’re perfect,” you whisper, stroking her stomach softly now, letting her finally come down. “all mine.”

she nods weakly, voice barely audible. “yours…”

the first thing you notice is the sunlight creeping across the sheets.

the second is azzi, curled into your chest, naked, her leg thrown lazily over your waist. her skin’s warm against yours, her cheek soft where it rests on your shoulder. you let your fingers trace lazy shapes into her hip, brushing over the faint red marks you left there the night before.

she stirs a little when you shift, letting out a soft, sleepy whine that turns into a broken, “mmm… don’t move.”

you smile. “didn’t think you had energy to complain.”

azzi groans, burying her face against your neck. “i don’t. everything hurts.”

your hand slides lower, brushing over the curve of her thigh. she tenses when your fingers graze the inside of it—still sore, still so used.

“you okay?” you ask softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

she nods, but her voice is hoarse. “i’m wrecked. my legs feel like they don’t work.”

“mm. wonder why that is,” you murmur, dragging your knuckles slowly along the inside of her thigh, right up to where she’s still slightly sticky between her legs.

she flinches. “y/n…”

“sensitive?”

“you’re evil.”

you chuckle, kissing her cheek as she squirms in your arms, trying to pull the sheet up higher to hide her face. but you don’t let her go. you roll her gently onto her back, sliding your leg between hers and leaning over her. she’s all flushed again, body remembering everything you did to her last night with every shift of her hips.

your hand glides down her stomach, and she catches your wrist—not stopping you, just holding you there.

“i can still feel it,” she whispers, not meeting your eyes. “you. inside me. i swear it’s still there.”

you hum, low and satisfied, kissing just beneath her jaw. “it should be.”

her breath hitches when your fingers drift lower, teasing again—just light pressure, not even pushing in. her whole body tenses.

“god, i’m so sore,” she mumbles, but her legs part anyway, muscles trembling.

you glance down at her—messy hair, love bites scattered across her chest and neck, thighs still flushed and twitching. she looks perfect.

“you want more?”

she bites her lip. “i want… a shower. and breakfast. and maybe… later.”

you grin and kiss her softly. “later, huh?”

she arches an eyebrow at you with a sleepy smirk. “maybe.”

you pull her into your chest again, hand still resting low on her hip, your fingers casually stroking the curve of her ass.

“we’re not leaving this bed for a while,” you say, voice low in her ear. “you’re not even ready to stand up.”

azzi groans, burying her face in your neck again. “don’t remind me. you broke me.”

you hum, satisfied, brushing your lips against her temple. “damn right i did.”

coming home feels… different now.

not because anything’s changed about the house—your keys still stick a little in the lock, the laundry’s still piled in the guest room, and the kitchen smells faintly of that candle azzi always lights when she bakes—but because you’re different.

married. still freshly sun-kissed from spending the days under the golden light. still catching yourself staring at her ring when she gestures in conversation.

still in awe.

azzi steps into the house first, barefoot, suitcase dragging behind her. she turns to look at you over her shoulder, eyes soft, mouth tilted into that half-smile you fell for.

“we’re home,” she says quietly.

you shut the door behind you and drop your bag. “we are.”

the first few days back are quiet. peaceful.

you wake up late, tangled in sheets and her limbs. you make coffee slowly, watching her dance around the kitchen in one of your oversized training shirts. you water the plants you forgot to set timers for before leaving. you rest.

there are no press tours. no practices yet. no calls you can’t ignore.

just her. just you.

one afternoon, you both sit on the living room floor with wedding photos spread out across the rug.

azzi’s in your lap, her head on your shoulder, scrolling through the digitals on your laptop. you hold one of the polaroids in your hand—one her grandmother snapped at the ceremony. the one where you’re looking at azzi like she’s the sun.

“i still can’t believe we did it,” she murmurs.

you glance down at her. “married or survived your mom’s guest list?”

she snorts, nudging your side. “both.”

you kiss her temple. “best decision i’ve ever made.”

she tilts her head up to kiss you, slow and full of quiet joy. the kind that lingers.

training resumes.

you return to the pitch with angel city, sharper than ever. the staff welcomes you with soft smiles and cheeky grins—everyone saw the ring. no one says a word. respect.

azzi’s season is winding down, playoffs approaching, but she still shows up to your practices with smoothies and baby carrots and that proud look she always wears when watching you play.

you find each other in between the chaos.

late-night facetime calls when she’s traveling. her falling asleep on your chest after your matches. cooking together in silence. folding laundry with music playing. sunday mornings spent reading on the patio, legs tangled under the same blanket.

everything feels like a shared rhythm now.

even your space.

you were already living together technically. but this?

this is your first time in your shared home as wives.

there’s a slow reverence to everything now—unspoken meaning behind the little things. when you rearrange the mugs, when she organizes the books by color. when you hang framed wedding photos in the hallway. when you both look at the guest room and wonder if maybe, soon, it’ll be something more.

one night, you’re curled on the couch, both in sweats, sharing a bowl of popcorn and watching a documentary neither of you are really paying attention to. azzi’s head is on your chest.

“you know,” she says softly, “i never thought i’d have this.”

“this?” you ask.

she looks up at you. “this love. this life. a home. a future.”

you press a kiss to her forehead. “i didn’t either. but now i can’t imagine anything else.”

your home is louder now.

years has passed. 

tiny feet run through hallways. giggles echo off walls. cartoons hum faintly from the living room.

you and azzi are moms to two beautiful children—your daughter, ava, and your son, zion. ava has azzi’s big eyes and your strong jaw. zion has your dimples and her curls.

your lives have changed—but the love? that’s only grown.

you still wake before sunrise for training. azzi still shoots hoops in the driveway with zion on her hip. ava already kicks a football around with frightening precision.

the world still watches. but you’ve built something untouchable.

until now, you’ve never confirmed your relationship publicly.

no statements. no interviews. just love in private.

but today, you decide it’s time.

@azzi35 & @yourinstagram “our greatest win. our forever team.”

[first photo]: you and azzi on your wedding day, foreheads pressed together, tears in your eyes. [second]: a quiet beach shot from your honeymoon—her laughing in your arms. [third]: you two in your home, ava between you, zion on your hip, the sun pouring through the windows. [fourth]: ava in an angel city kit and zion in a sparks jersey, both wearing custom “#1 mom” caps. [last slide]: your hands, fingers intertwined. her ring shining. yours next to it.

@/sportsqueens: azzi fudd and y/n have kids. kids!!! i didn’t even know they were dating and now i’m crying over a family i didn’t know i needed.

@/lesbianhoopsfc: we’ve been shipping them since that nike campaign and now they have two babies and a house and rings? i’m emotionally wrecked.

@/ballonbabes: when y/n said “forever team” i actually ascended.

@/wnbaxnwslfamily: this is what sports power couples should look like. loyalty. legacy. love.

you read the comments with azzi curled against your side, zion asleep on your chest, ava drawing nearby.

she looks up at you, smiling.

“you happy we posted it?”

you nod. “we’ve never hidden—but it feels good to share. on our terms.”

she kisses your jaw. “we deserve to be seen.”

and you are.

by the world. by each other. by the two beautiful kids who call you mama.

it’s not just the end of a love story.

it’s the beginning of a legacy.

[niilue]

I need more of grell w a male reader pls🤞😔

grell sutcliff — kuroshitsuji

cw: sub grell, dom male reader, desk sex, teasing, rough sex, verbal humiliation, begging, deep thrusts, slight choking, slutty behavior

a/n: well i was looking in my inbox and i found this at the bottom and i was literally looking for some grell to write sooo…. setting: the reaper office, late evening. everyone else is gone. grell stays behind to provoke you. you lock the door. she spreads her legs. the rest is inevitable.

oh~! are you here to scold me, mon chéri?” grell sat right on the edge of the desk, lips red, legs crossed, voice purring. “or are you finally going to do what you’ve been dying to?”

you didn’t answer.

you just locked the door.

and grell—oh, she bit her lip.

the sound of your footsteps was enough to make her squirm. corset tight. makeup flawless. those legs in sheer thigh-highs, already parting just slightly. all of it screamed look at me. come ruin me.

“don’t act mysterious now,” she said, voice deepening. “i know you wanna fuck me.”

you shoved her down against the desk before she could keep talking. her back hit the wood. her legs opened instantly.

perfect.

“ahh~ is this how you want me, darling? are you gonna punish me?”

your hand slid up her thigh—rough, firm. and grell arched. “ooh, so aggressive… so delicious…” ♡

“shut up,” you growled, pushing two fingers past her lips. she sucked on them. like a bitch in heat. like she wanted to be used. eyes lidded. lashes fluttering. tongue curling around you like she’d been waiting for this all week.

“mmhh…~ i love when you’re mean…”

you hiked up her skirt—no patience. no asking. she shivered at the exposure.

“you’re gonna stay quiet,” you said, hand closing around her throat, “and let me use you.”

“oh my god, yes—use your little red slut~!”

and so you did. you yanked her hair. lifted her legs. and fucked her hard. deep. no warm-up, no warning, no mercy. grell screamed, and then every sound turned to breathless, high-pitched moans.

lipstick? ruined. stockings? torn. nails? digging into the wood. and grell? only saying:

“more! harder! treat me like the whore i am~!” ♡

your hips slapped against her ass, rhythm hard and steady.

clap—clap—clap.

and grell—your filthy, dramatic, perfect slut—was past the point of control. no more witty remarks. no more teasing. just gasps. sobs. moans high and broken.

“ahhh—! fuck, fuck—nghh, harder! please don’t stop~!”

your hand stayed tight around her throat, not too hard, just enough to make her tremble. to remind her that she wasn’t in charge anymore.

“you like being fucked like this, don’t you?” you whispered, voice low against her ear. “no softness. no patience. just me—using you.”

“yes!” she cried, voice cracked, hips trembling. “i love it! use me, use my body, please—”

you bit her neck. marked her. and she moaned louder.

the whole office could’ve heard her, if the door weren’t locked and the blinds weren’t drawn.

your free hand slid down her stomach. slow. down to where she was leaking onto the desk.

you hadn’t even touched her there yet. she was already soaked.

“gonna cum without permission?” you asked, grinning against her flushed skin.

grell whimpered. legs shaking.

“n-no… not unless you—unless you let me—”

you shoved her back. one deep thrust.

and wrapped a black tie around her mouth.

“then stay quiet,” you growled. “and beg with your eyes.”

she obeyed.

eyes wide. wet. trembling.

every part of her body begging for it.

and you gave it to her.

harder. deeper. crueler.

until all she could do was sob and scream around the tie, hands gripping the desk like she’d fall apart without it.

your red slut. ♡ beautiful. ruined. exactly where she wanted to be.

[spookyji]

# dumb girl kink !! n.j.m

# nsfw + mdni. what can i say, back wifh another jaemin likes dumb girls (+ breeding this time tho lol)

it should be so shameful, the way jaemin’s got you on a semblance of on fours, grasping your cute ass firmly in his hands, your cheek pressed to the soft rug on the floor, pretty nails scratching the tufting as your fingers struggle to hold on. come on, beg for nana, jaemin drawls teasingly, his gaze adoring in such a mocking way. after all, jaemin loves it most when you’re so dumb, teary, and obedient, doesn’t he?

a hard slap sounds as you whine in response, drooling at the sharp hit to your ass, jaemin’s fingers affectionately rubbing the warm spot, flipping up your too short skirt, as if it made much of a difference. n-nana, want your cock already—! you whine, frustrated pout peeking up at him, impatiently whimpering as his fingers drag up your drooling folds, a grin on his pretty lips at the sight of your glistening cunt, heavy bulge straining in his pants,, such a turn on to have a girl who can only think about his dick, hmm?

yeah? not going to complain ‘m too big for you this time? jaemin smirks, his fingers deftly unzipping his fly as you protest, want it now, don’t wanna wait— ah-nana! you cry out, whine pitching as his bulging tip pushes into your dripping folds, just enough to feel your warm walls clenching down, stupidly loud whines and whimpers bursting from your lips as his thick girth slowly stretches you open, ah—nana, s-s’ too big—!

thought you wanted my cock so bad, ‘s too big for you now, princess? jaemin teases, his fingers gripping your hips as he adoringly strokes your curves, biting his lip as he watches your cute cunt suck him in slowly, splitting you open from behind the way he likes it,, can’t beat the view of a dumb, pretty girl at his mercy, can he? and just to tease, he pulls out a little, only for you to whine, no, no, w-wanna be full! you cry, pushing your hips back into his cock, trying to hump him like a bunny in heat? god, he’d make you do the work if you weren’t so dumb once full of dick, all needy n needing him to do everything for you,,

so loud for me, hmm? my princess wants everyone to know she’s a slut, jaemin smirks, you going to let them all know? his housemates, all the boys who he knows stare at you a little too much, and jaemin’s more than willing to flaunt his girl, isn’t he? his fingers shamelessly groping your curves in full view, cooing affectionately when you try to hump his leg during dinner nights,, so why bother hiding when he’s fucking his dumb bunny,, and jaemin thinks it’s cute that you’re so noisy for him, hmm? s-so full—w-want more, you beg, your pretty voice pitched and so easy to hear, jaemin’s cock buried in your cunt, balls deep n cunt stretched out for him so nice and tight, who is he to refuse his pretty girl when you want it so bad?

nana, nana—! your whines crying his name as you cling to the soft rug, jaemin’s hips slamming roughly into yours without mercy, forcefully gripping your hips hard, bruises in the shapes of his fingers inevitable as you try to hold on, endless whines and cries of his name falling freely from your lips, cute, tight cunt taking him so well, aren’t you? clenching down hard on the vein lacing his girthy length, can’t think of much else but his cock? and your hips dumbly trying to push back into his, barely doing anything to fulfill your need to be full of him, always needing him to do it all, huh? and your movements slowing as pleasure consumes your conscious, giving him those cute, dumb eyes that beg for love and lewd pleasure as your pouty lips drool spit, his name and cock all you’re thinking about?

god, so loud for me, bunny, jaemin grins, just a cute exhibitionist aren’t you? nngh— n-nana, ‘m not a— e-exhibitionist, you whimper, volume pitching as jaemin thrusts hard, slapping your ass when you clench down on his cock just from his pretty eyes gazing into yours so lovingly, if only you knew what one was. no? you don’t wanna get fucked by nana in front of all of them, jaemin teases, because he knows you a little too well, the way you clench down on his cock at the mention of those boys, watching you get fucked by your nana. yeah? my bunny wants them to watch you take my cock like a slut? can’t lie to me, princess, jaemin grunts, tight cunt clenching down so nicely for him.

his voice dropping low, deepening as he leans over and whispers into your ear, heat rushing to your face at his dirty words. gonna let nana fill you up, hmm? make it feel good when you’re full n warm, yeah?

nana, n-nana, w-wanna be f-full! you cry out, so loud and noisy for him, so shameless. lewd slaps of skin on skin, squelching sounds of your juices spilling over his cock as you cry his name, ‘s all you can manage now, hmm? nana, nana, nana, god, does jaemin love it when you sob his name when you’re all dumbed out.

and as you tearily give him those dumb, pretty eyes glistening with tears, jaemin can’t help but fall in love a little more,, could knock my pretty bunny up, he groans, make you all swollen with my baby, ‘s all mine,, god, you’d be even more helpless, wouldn’t you? ‘m gonna take care of you, yeah? knock up my dumb princess,, and jaemin’s heavy cock splitting your swollen cunt open, slamming in hard as hot cum spurts into your womb, tip kissing your cervix as you wail in pleasure, sudden rush of warm fullness clouding over your eyes in a dumb haze, feels so good to have jaemin so in love with you, doesn’t it? and his adoring gaze never leaving you, fingers reaching down to wipe the drool from the corner of your lip,, and he’ll take care of everything. anything for his dumb darling.

[tfwbluu]

PAIRING — heeseung + f!reader

WARNINGS — praising/degrading, indirect mentions of exhibitionism, there’s safe words involved but its not directly mentioned.

WORDCOUNT — 0.6K

NOTE — more kink talk people, u guys are Hornee. making a whole masterlist for all of enha for this so yeah. . lmk if i missed anything in the warnings !

He’s definitely a service top. Always prioritizes your pleasure over his own, because making you feel good gets him off too. The sweetest boy, he’d follow your lead but not without a bit of teasing here and there. Be a good girl, and he’ll treat you like royalty.

“Feels good, baby?” he asked, watching you writhe beneath him. “You sound so pretty… are you close? Cum f’ me.”

“Is this where you want me to touch?” he teased, rubbing your clothed pussy. “I need words, baby. Guide me, and I’ll follow every command.”

Hair pulling was his weakness. He loved the way it made you arch for him when he was pounding into you from behind, or how it gave him control when your lips were wrapped around him.

“Stop hiding, baby,” he growled, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling your face up. “Let me hear you.” Your choked moans spilled out, only fueling his desire.

Watching you suck his cock was a sight he couldn’t get enough of. “That’s it…” he groaned, his grip on your hair tightening as he started thrusting into your mouth, losing himself in the pleasure.

Lingerie. He loves when you’re all dolled up for him in the prettiest sets, especially after a long day. He’d worship your body, leaving marks on every inch of skin exposed. Tease him while he’s practicing—just a little peek of lace under comfy clothes—and he’d lose his mind, dragging you to the studio to fuck.

“Shit, baby. Did you have to tease me like that?” he muttered, gripping your neck as he pounded into you from behind. “Wearing slutty lingerie under baggy clothes? You planned this, didn’t you? Well, now take it.”

Cockwarming. Whether he’s gaming or producing, he loves having you cockwarm him. He’ll tease you with light thrusts, loving the way you yelp. If you get too needy and start moving, he’ll immediately abandon everything else and take you properly.

“Sit still, baby,” he murmured, holding your hips as you sank down on him. “Be good, and I’ll reward you.”

But when you couldn’t, he’d mute his mic and toss his headphones aside before fucking you properly.

“Couldn’t stay still, huh?” he growled, thrusting up into you. “Don’t want them hearing what a cockslut you are for me, hmm?”

“Fuck, if you’re needy, just say so,” he groaned, thrusting up into you, his headset forgotten.

He thrived on the balance between praising and degrading you, alternating between the two as he drove you insane. He’d worship how good you felt, only to follow it up by calling you a needy slut, loving the way you clenched around him whenever he whispered filthy things in your ear.

“Your pussy’s taking me so well, princess,” he murmured, his thumb teasing your clit. “Always such a slut for my cock, hmm?”

“Shit… just a cocksleeve for me, yeah? You like it when I use you, baby?” he groaned, smirking as he felt you tighten around him.

Considering how busy he was, he never hesitated to drag you somewhere for a quickie. He didn’t care who was around—he just needed to feel you. You could be a good girl and not get caught, right?

“Shh, baby,” he hushed, covering your mouth with his hand as he pounded into you against the wall. “Don’t want us getting caught, do you?” When he felt you clench, his smirk deepened. “Oh? Does getting caught turn you on? My dirty girl, wanna show everyone what a cockslut you are for me?”

Corruption was his favorite game. You could act all innocent for him, but he knew your body better than you knew it yourself. He adored watching you fall into his trap, craving him more with every touch.

“You can tell me to stop, and I will… but I know you won’t, right?” he teased, his lips brushing over your skin as his hands squeezed your breasts.

“Haa… that’s it, angel,” he murmured, his smile dark and full of intent as he finally tugged your panties off. “Let me take care of you, make you feel so good.”

“Too much?” he teased, a sly grin on his lips. “You know what to say if you want me to stop, angel… but you haven’t,” he murmured, his fingers curling inside you as he coaxed out more of your juices, the squelching sounds only fueling his pace.

[steveseddie]

foolproof

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles | prompt: mistletoe | rating: t | wc: 995 | tags: eddie has a crush, and a plan, getting together, jealous eddie, spicy six

read on ao3

After the third time Steve ends up under the mistletoe with someone who isn’t him, Eddie is ready to burn every single sprig of that fucking plant from the face of the earth. It’s like the mistletoe has something against him with the way it insists on making Steve kiss everyone here except Eddie. 

“Maybe you jinxed yourself by calling it a foolproof plan,” Robin says, her eyes twinkling with amusement at how Eddie glares at Steve and Argyle as the former kisses the latter’s cheek. 

“It was a good plan!” Eddie protests, crossing his arms. They hurt a little from spending all afternoon hanging mistletoe around Steve’s house, hoping to end up under it with him. 

“It was a dingus plan,” Robin huffs. “A good plan would’ve been to tell Steve you wanna kiss him.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “And where’s the fun in that, Buckley?”

“Oh because you’re having so much fun watching Steve make out with everyone except you,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“There hasn’t been any making out!” Eddie says through gritted teeth. 

There was a sloppy kiss to Robin’s forehead, a quick kiss to Argyle’s cheek, and an awkward peck to Nancy’s lips. 

“Not yet,” Robin says, gesturing at Steve standing under another mistletoe with Jonathan this time.

“Motherfucker!” Eddie grumbles angrily. Next to him, Robin giggles. “How does it keep happening?”

Robin shrugs as Nancy and Argyle notice the other two and start chanting, “kiss, kiss, kiss!”

Eddie wants to yell at them to shut up but bites his lip and glares– at them, the mistletoe, and Jonathan.

Especially when he leans in, whispering something that makes Steve blush. Eddie doesn’t know what he’ll do if they kiss. “Buckley, you need to stop them. I can’t watch this,” he says, grabbing Robin’s shoulders and shaking them. 

She shoves him away. “Dude, what do you want me to do?”

Eddie shrugs. “Start a fire?”

“I’m not burning Steve’s house down because you’re a dumbass who refuses to admit his feelings.” 

Eddie lets out a whiny, “Buckleyyyyy.” 

But she shows no mercy and joins Argyle and Nancy’s chanting instead. 

When he glances at Jonathan and Steve again, their faces are only inches apart, twin smiles playing at their lips– lips that are too close.  

“Fuck.”

Fuck this. Fuck his plan. Fuck his life. 

“Nope,” Eddie mutters as Jonathan leans even closer. “I need a smoke.” 

“Wait, Eddie–” Robin starts but he walks away before she can say anything else. 

He stands on the porch and grabs a cigarette. He’s about to light it up when something falls on his hair.

“The fuck?” Eddie bats away whatever just landed on him, hoping it’s not a dying bird. When it ends up on the porch steps, he lets out a humorless laugh. “Of fucking course!”

It’s the mistletoe Eddie hung on the porch when he arrived, hoping to lead Steve outside at some point and get caught under it with him. Foolproof plan, my ass. 

“Fuck you,” Eddie tells the plant, and in a fit of rage, flicks open his Zippo and lights that up instead of the cigarette. “Ha! Who’s laughing now, you piece of shit?” 

“Who are you talking to?” A voice behind him says, startling Eddie.

“Jesus!” He yelps, turning around to find Steve. He freezes like a deer caught in headlights, forgetting about the mistletoe burning away in his hand until it singes his finger. He drops it with a hiss and puts it out with his foot. “Christ, Harrington! They should put a bell on you!” 

Steve holds his hands up. “Sorry, what are you– is that mistletoe?” He asks, glancing at the blackened sprig. 

“Um, yes.”

“And why are you lighting it on fire?”

“I was trying to smoke it?” Eddie tries but gets a skeptical eyebrow raise in return. “No, I just hate it.”

“You were the one who insisted we put it everywhere,” he deadpans. 

Eddie pouts. “Well, I changed my mind, but you sure love it, don’t you? Or it loves you at least. You’ve been under it all night.”

Steve hangs a hand from his neck. “I don’t know how it keeps happening.”

“You seemed quite pleased about it,” Eddie says bitterly, making Steve frown. “At least you did with Jonathan. You were all–” He gestures at Steve’s face, “–blushy and shit. Actually I’m surprised you’re out here– what? Did you need some fresh air after making out with him?” 

Steve’s eyes go wide. “Making out with– What? He kissed my cheek and sent me looking for you.” 

Eddie blinks. “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Steve huffs, “so stop being jealous.”

“I’m– not !” 

“You are,” Steve says with a snort. “It was Jon who pointed it out. He said you were trying to murder him with your eyes.”

Eddie winces, embarrassed. 

“Then he said he knew I was disappointed it wasn’t you under the mistletoe and started teasing me. That’s why I was blushing, Eddie.”

“You wanted it to be me?” Eddie asks softly. 

“Duh.”

“Oh. I– uh, brought all this mistletoe because I wanted an excuse to kiss you.” 

Steve chuckles amusedly. “You could’ve just said you wanted to.”

“Yeah, I get that now,” Eddie says, tugging some hair in front of his face. 

“So,” Steve says, nudging Eddie with his elbow. “Anything you want to say to me now?”

Eddie purses his lips. “Yeah, uh, do you have some cream or lotion? I think I gave myself a rash from all the mistletoe–”

Steve laughs then glances down at Eddie’s hands and notices the tiny red splotches. “Wait, really? Shit, Eddie.”

“Guess I’m as allergic to mistletoe as mistletoe is to me,” he says with a snigger.

Steve shakes his head fondly. “C’mon, let’s take care of that.”

“Will you kiss it better after?” 

“Sure, Eds,” Steve grins as he guides him inside. “And then I’ll kiss you for real.”

Eddie grins. Sounds like a great plan.

Take that, Buckley.

[its-avalon-08]

📣 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕖 📣

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10

🏁 pairing : Lando Norris x Piastri!Sister!Reader

🏎️ summary: she’s oscar piastri’s little sister — sarcastic, sharp, and completely uninterested in drivers. he’s lando norris — charming, persistent, and suddenly very interested in her. she came for oscar. she didn’t plan on falling for the one person she should’ve stayed away from.

themes : fluff, flirting, over protective brother, anxiety

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

chapter 1 : the science of flirting

Y/N Piastri had mastered the art of multitasking: conducting enzyme research for her thesis while roasting Oscar over FaceTime. It was a talent. A gift. A lifestyle. She did it in a perfectly tailored cream blazer and high-waisted trousers that screamed effortlessly intimidating, because—despite what her brother liked to say frankly coming from a guy who wore unironed polo shirts and team merch his opinion did not matter much—she had taste. In fashion. In men. In careers.

“Are you seriously wearing Crocs in the paddock?” she asked flatly, watching Oscar through the screen with one perfectly raised brow. “What are you trying to do? Blind your fans with bad footwear? Ruin my very FASHIONABLE reputation?”

Oscar scoffed, adjusting the phone so only half his face was visible. “They’re comfortable. Unlike some people I know who wear uncomfortable shoes and then steal mine at the end of the day.”

“Bold of you to talk about comfort while driving at 300 km/h for a living.”

He ignored her jab. “You sure you still wanna come to the race this weekend? You’ll have to talk to people who don’t know the molecular structure of caffeine.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, tucking a pen behind her ear. “I talk to normal people, Oscar. Just not ones who try to flirt with me using car metaphors.”

“Right,” he snorted. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you if Lando tries something.”

Y/N smirked, deadpan. “If he hits on me using anything remotely car-related, I'll puncture all the tyres”

Oscar stared at her. “That’s not funny because you don't know which car is his and which one is mine.”

“Neither is him saying ‘Are you a pit stop? Because you take my breath away.’”

He groaned. “I hate that I can actually imagine him saying that.” The two siblings scoff as they left their house.

—

The Melbourne paddock buzzed with energy, camera flashes popping and engines growling in the background. Everyone seemed to glide through the place like they’d been born on four wheels.

Y/N wasn’t out of place—far from it. She didn’t look like someone’s plus-one. She looked like someone people should already know. Black sunglasses perched on her head, silk scarf tied neatly around her ponytail, and a two piece outfit that was sophisticated but cool, like if fashion week collided with a TED Talk.

Oscar walked beside her, mildly regretting this already.

“You sure you’re not here to network with the media team?” he asked.

“I’m here for the free food and to make you nervous,” she replied sweetly. “So far, ten out of ten experience.”

They turned the corner into McLaren hospitality, and that’s when he appeared.

Lando Norris. In all his chaotic-haired, golden-boy glory. Grinning like he knew a joke no one else did and wearing a hoodie like he hadn’t just gotten out of a multi-million-dollar race car. He was leaning against a table, talking to a team member, but his eyes flicked up the moment Oscar and Y/N walked in.

And stayed.

“Oh no,” Oscar muttered.

“Oh yes,” Y/N replied under her breath.

She could feel it—the pause, the instant shift in the air. Lando’s gaze lingered longer than polite, but not creepy. Curious. Interested. That annoying kind of confident that made you feel it.

“Oi, Piastri,” Lando greeted, walking over. “Didn’t know you had a sister. You’ve been hiding her?”

Oscar sighed. “Lando, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is the mistake I told you about.”

“Charmed,” she said dryly, holding out a hand.

Lando shook it, his smile widening. “Y/N, huh? Is that short for ‘You’re Not Real’? Because you’ve just messed with my whole concept of beauty.”

She blinked. “Wow. That was so bad it physically hurt. Cmon mate, you have to try better than that.”

Oscar scoffed.

He laughed, full and unbothered. “You’re quick.”

“I’m usually quicker, but I left my will to flirt at home. Tragic.”

Oscar looked up at the sky, silently begging for strength.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” he said to Lando, already walking off with a grimace. “Good luck, mate. She bites.”

Y/N didn’t look away from Lando, arms folded. “You always this forward, or am I just lucky?”

“I like to think I’m selectively charming,” Lando replied, leaning in just enough. “But you... you’re different.”

“And you’re persistent. But I’m not here for any of that.” She gestured vaguely at his entire being.

Lando chuckled. “Noted. So, what are you here for?”

“My brother. Research. Maybe a snack.”

He tilted his head. “Research?”

“I’m in postgrad. Molecular biology.” She gave him a look. “That’s the study of very tiny things. Like your chances and dick.”

Lando whistled, genuinely impressed. “Brutal.”

“Honest,” she corrected, then raised a brow. “And yet, you’re still here.”

He shrugged. “I’m an optimist.”

“Must be exhausting.”

And yet... as she walked away with a perfectly timed pivot, Y/N felt it. That weird, fluttering, infuriating buzz in her stomach. Not nausea. Not anxiety.

Interest.

God help her.

She was in trouble.

-

Y/N had wandered off from Oscar after her snark-off with Lando, her heels clicking softly against the pavement as she slipped into the casual bustle of the McLaren garage.

It wasn’t stiff or uptight the way she’d half-expected. It felt... human. Laughter rang from a group of engineers huddled near a monitor. A young mechanic wiped his hands on a rag, grinning as someone handed him a coffee. She liked this. People who worked hard, spoke fast, and loved what they did.

She stepped into a small circle of staff sharing snacks by a fold-up table.

“Is that banana bread?” she asked, lips curved into an easy smile.

A blonde woman in a McLaren polo turned, brightening. “Yeah! I baked it last night. Want some?”

“Obviously,” Y/N said seriously, accepting a slice. “You’ve just instantly become my favorite person here. Sorry to everyone else.”

The group laughed, easing around her like she’d always been part of it. No awkward introductions. No ‘who is she?’ whispers. Just instant comfort, the kind she was so good at creating.

One of the older crew members raised an eyebrow. “You’re Oscar’s sister, right?”

“That’s the rumor,” she said, taking a bite. “Don’t hold it against me.”

Someone snorted. “Honestly, you’re already cooler.”

“That’s because you haven’t seen me trying to parallel park,” she said. “It evens out.”

She chatted with them for a while—asking about their roles, teasing the data analyst for choosing numbers over sleep, complimenting someone’s sneakers, laughing so genuinely that one of the interns looked a little starstruck.

“You’re not what I expected,” one of the women admitted after a while, sipping her drink.

“Oh really? Why's that??” Y/N arched a brow.

“Just... usually when someone’s related to a driver, they’re either intimidating or completely disinterested in the team. I mean, you should see some of the people who wander in here. They don't have a whiff of interest about what actually builds the car y'know? Just the flashy driver who drives and sometimes crashes it. But you’re—”

“Unreasonably obsessed with banana bread?” Y/N offered.

The woman laughed. “No. Just really warm.”

Y/N gave her a soft smile. “I like people who love what they do. You all work your asses off. You deserve to feel seen and I'm here to do just that. Like seriously I'm in a research position too. I know the reality of how many people it really takes to get anything done. ”

That was the thing about her. She didn’t try to win people over. She just noticed things. The subtle stuff. The nervous smile of an intern on their first day. The quiet pride in someone’s voice when they talked about tweaking tire strategy. She made them feel like they mattered.

And all the while, as she stood with her arms folded, leaning casually against a table, she let her eyes flick across the garage—

Lando.

He wasn’t being flashy. Wasn’t surrounded by fans or lights. Just... being him. He ruffled the hair of a younger mechanic who looked like he’d just joined, cracking a joke that made the guy laugh so hard he nearly dropped his clipboard. He waited for an older engineer to finish her sentence before responding—nodding like he actually cared, and not just because he had to. When someone spilled water near the rear tires, Lando knelt without hesitation to help mop it up.

He was annoyingly charismatic. In that ‘you’d-hate-it-if-it-wasn’t-so-genuine’ kind of way.

Y/N watched, casually sipping her drink, saying nothing.

“You’re looking at him,” the blonde woman beside her said suddenly.

Y/N’s lips twitched. “Am I?”

The woman smirked. “You didn’t blink for a full minute.”

“Maybe I was admiring the floor,” Y/N replied dryly. “Stunning linoleum work.”

The girl chuckled. “He’s a good one. Bit of a menace. But he remembers everyone’s birthdays and helps me fix my laptop when IT ghosts me.”

“Dangerous combination,” Y/N murmured. “Menace with emotional intelligence.”

Across the way, Lando caught her eye.

Just a flicker. Barely more than a moment.

But he winked.

She didn’t look away. Just tilted her head slightly and gave him a tiny smile. Not flirty. Not dismissive. Just... amused.

“I swear,” someone whispered, “he’s been on his best behavior since you walked in.”

“Maybe he’s just scared I’ll out-sarcasm him in public,” Y/N replied sweetly, brushing a crumb off her jumpsuit.

But as the group laughed again, falling back into easy conversation, she didn’t say another word about Lando.

Not one.

Just let her eyes drift now and then, as if noticing him had become a habit she didn’t quite want to break.

taglist: @landofotographyy @doofenshmirtzevil-inc @rd14

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩ KISS IT BETTER — GETO SUGURU.

contents. post hidden inventory arc, healing suguru agenda !!, fluff + established relationships, suguru has nightmares :(, chest kissies for sugu <3, reader lays on top of him, like very cheesy banter my bad

suguru gets nightmares—it’s expected, but it’s not easy. it breaks your heart—very painfully so—every time he jolts up with frantic eyes and labored breaths.

he tries to shake you off and pretend he’s fine the first few times, but by the time it’s happened enough, he resigns himself to letting you handle things, just like you always do.

it’s easier when you handle things—he’s starting to realize that more.

“another one?” you mumble through a yawn, sitting up and hugging him from behind as your cheek rests on his bare back. he grunts, hunched over with his head in his hands.

“‘s okay,” he says quietly, “you can go back to sleep.”

“we both know i’m not doing that, suguru,” you hum, palm rubbing slow circles into his abs. he sighs, melting into your touch eventually as he leans against you, head falling back to lay on your shoulder.

“sorry,” he whispers, “i didn’t wanna wake you.”

“i wish you would,” you hum, tracing his nose delicately as you kiss the side of his head, “i wish you’d let me help, baby.”

“you already help enough,” he mutters—almost bitterly, you note, “i don’t need to make you lose sleep over it.”

“you’d do the same for me,” you say gently, “wouldn’t you?”

“of course,” he says instantly.

sometimes, suguru is too kind for the world. it tramples him and leaves him curled on the floor under its cruelty. sometimes, he gives too much and forgets to take, to ask, and it’s starting to show. it’s starting to pile up and become too much and you think, just for once, someone should give to suguru too—because he deserves it.

“it’s a two way street, y’know,” you smile against his temple, “wake me up next time. please?”

“you really wanna see me at my lowest, huh?” he tries to crack a joke and dodge the question—but you know suguru, and you know what he needs. sometimes before he knows himself, even.

“everyone needs someone in their lowest, baby,” you mumble, “it helps more than you think.”

it’s silent for a bit. it’s like that more often than not with suguru these days—he’s silent, prefers the quiet and tender moments alone with you when you happen to catch them. he doesn’t have the energy to talk, and you don’t make him, and he’s grateful. he’s grateful when your fingers weave into his hair and your lips find his cheek, when you’re content with laying your head on his chest and just being there as he thinks.

you look down as he lays against you, his back to your chest and his body slotted between your legs, resting in your hold. it’s silent—he doesn’t always want to talk, and you don’t make him.

and he’s grateful.

finally, he breaks the silence first. “i felt it all over again,” he mumbles, “the…on my…”

his hand instinctively covers his chest, and you know what he means—he doesn’t have to finish, doesn’t have to say anything else before you press a tender kiss to his head. suguru doesn’t have scars on his chest. shoko’s reverse cursed technique heals well enough that the scars on his chest don’t remain even a little. it’s almost like it never happened—no proof of the x shaped slashes from blades to his chest.

but suguru can still feel his skin slicing sometimes—in fact, he thinks he can never forget it.

“hmm,” you think out loud, “well, there’s only one remedy for this i’m afraid.”

he looks up and raises a brow, staring at you before you crawl from under him, letting him plop down against the pillows as your body turns to hover over his.

“what are you—”

“mwah,” you press a wet kiss to his chest, starting from his collarbone before continuing in a diagonal line down the rest of his sternum. he can’t help but let his lips slowly widen into a smile with each one, letting out a soft chuckle when you tickle the skin slightly. “i read somewhere that kisses are really good for healing,” you murmur.

“ah yes, your doctorate from webmd is really coming in handy,” he teases, grinning when your lips press against his collarbone once more, on the other side this time as you peck along his chest in another diagonal line. it’s silly, a little pointless even—the wounds have long healed and you can’t even be sure you’re kissing where the scars would be, but suguru seems to brighten considerably with every touch of your lips.

it’s enough.

“well, my handsome patient,” you say cheekily, “did that help?”

“oh yes,” he nods dramatically, “i feel better than ever. thank god i have a gorgeous doctor like you.”

“hmm, i am rather gorgeous,” you brighten, giggling as he pulls you down by the wrist to kiss you softly. his hands are on your cheeks, cupping your face delicately as you hum against his mouth. “better?” you ask pulling away, pecking the corner of his mouth.

he nods, wrapping two strong arms around you as you lay over his body, grinning up at you.

“better,” he assures, “they should let you open up your own clinic. you’d put the hospitals out of business.”

“but suguru,” you gasp, “then i would have to kiss random men—surely you can’t let that happen!”

“you’re right,” he plays along, eyes widening in faux concern, “i can’t. i guess i’ll have to be your only patient.”

you smile at him—it’s radiant enough to clear the dark clouds of his shoulders, gentle enough that he feels the hardened parts of him start to go soft just a little. sometimes, suguru gets nightmares—they’re not easy, but you make them feel a lot less impossible.

it’s enough.

“what a waste of my higher education,” you sigh, “but fine. you’ll be the only one i kiss better.”

“i’m so grateful,” he snorts, pulling the blanket over your bodies as he holds you close.

sleep comes easier that night—and every night after.

i’ve decided to give this lil healing sugu series a tag so it’s: #operation: heal suguru! and you can click the tag below on this post to read the earlier drabbles !!

anyway unseen footage from this moment is that i actually sucked his tiddies as i kissed his chest. bc lord knows he just needed his tiddies sucked and he’d have been 100% happier and fine

[goonforgeto]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 01

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (2.7k)

CONTENT — pre hidden inventory, smooches, idk

a/n: this isnt edited enjoy! first couple chs are slow cuz i dont plan my fics😁

series m. list | m. list | next >

Mid-summer, 2005

Tap, tap, tap.

You’re somewhere unfamiliar. The sky’s a little brighter than it’s been all summer over Jujutsu High’s Tokyo campus, washed in a soft blue that makes everything feel just a bit too normal. Your knuckles are pale in comparison to the usual red on your skin — left over from hours of sparring. It kind of looks like your old middle school, but bigger and louder and packed with faces you don’t recognize.

Tap, tap, tap.

Some of your new friends are there — the ones from your new school. But something's... off. Gojo’s suddenly taller, towering over you in a way he wasn’t just a few days ago. Geto’s hair is much longer, and he’s quiet in a way that makes your stomach twist. And Shoko... she smells like cigarettes now, almost like she’s been smoking for years. It all feels real — the air, the sounds, the ache in your shoulders — but none of it is the way it should be, the way it is.

Tap, tap, tap.

Your eyes open, with a start, focusing on the sounds coming from the door. You rub the weight from your eyes and turn toward the bedside table. The old alarm clock you brought from home blinks back at you, the red numbers a little too bright in the dim room.

3:17 AM.

“Coming,” you say groggily, sliding into a pair of slippers and making your way to the door. The floor is cool against your bare feet.

You swing the door open, and there he is. One of your classmates, but the real one this time. Not the off-version from your dream, with hollow eyes and a too-quiet mouth.

His arm is still midair, like he was about to knock again. “I’ve been knocking for a while,” he says softly, almost like he’s afraid to wake the hallway.

“Geto,” you breathe. “What are you doing here?”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, gaze flicking down to your torso. That’s when you realize — the tank top. Thin straps. Bare shoulders. Cleavage. His eyes drop to the floor, like the hallway suddenly got really interesting.

“I just got back from that thing they sent me on with Shoko,” he says, voice low. “But I don’t wanna sleep.”

You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself more out of habit than modesty. “Well, you can’t be here.” It comes out sharper than you meant. “I know,” he says, taking a few steps back. His hands slip into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders drawn up like he’s bracing for a no. “Walk with me? Please?” He nods toward the door that leads out to the fields.

You hesitate, your fingers tightening around your arms. The air’s cold for a summer night, and so is the look in your eyes — but not for long.

“You’re buying me lunch tomorrow,” you mutter, already turning back inside. “Let me grab a hoodie.”

He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding. Doesn’t say anything, he just waits in the hallway.

You pull the hoodie over your head, the fabric still warm from where it sat folded on your chair. It smells like your room at home still — detergent, a little lavender, and something faintly burnt by your dad in the kitchen. You tug the sleeves over your hands and step back into the hallway, door clicking softly shut behind you.

Geto doesn’t say anything, just glances at you and starts walking. You fall into step beside him.

The corridors are quiet. Everyone else is asleep. The kind of silence that only exists past midnight, where the world feels more fragile.

Outside, the air bites at your skin, cool and sharp. The grass is damp beneath your slippers, and the field stretches out like a shadow under the moonlight.

Neither of you speak at first. You walk side by side, your arms tucked into your sleeves, his hands still buried in his pockets. The only sound is the soft crunch of gravel and the distant hum of campus lights.

Finally, he says, “It was hard.”

You glance at him. He’s staring straight ahead, like if he looks at you he’ll fall apart.

“I figured,” you say gently.

He nods. Swallows hard. “I kept thinking about coming back. About seeing someone who… wouldn’t ask me to explain it.”

You stay quiet. That part, you understand.

He stops walking, and you do too. The trees ahead sway slightly in the breeze, tall and dark against the pale sky.

“I didn’t wanna be alone,” he says. “But I didn’t wanna talk either.”

You look at him. “So… you picked me?”

He finally meets your eyes, a small, tired smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the only one I’d want to say nothing with.” “It’s alright,” you say softly. “It’ll be better in a few days.” You’re not sure if it’s true, but it’s the only thing you can offer. The only thing that feels safe to say.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes still distant.

But when he speaks again, his tone’s lighter.

“We’re still going to Shinjuku this weekend, right?” he asks, elbow nudging you gently in the side.

You nod. “Gojo wants us to try that new bakery that opened up on the corner.”

He huffs a laugh. “Imagine how much money his dentist makes off his cavities.”

“He probably just blinds them with his eyes and skips the bill,” you mutter.

“That’s not even a joke, that’s probably real.”

You walk past the field, your steps quiet against the damp earth. Up ahead, the faint outline of the baseball diamond comes into view, tucked near the edge of the boys' dorms. It’s hard to see in the dark, but the soft glow from the school’s main building spills just enough light to make it feel safe.

“You know,” he says, pulling his hands out of his pockets, fingers flexing in the cool air. “I actually really like it here.”

“Yeah,” you reply, your voice low. “Me too.”

“I mean—” he pauses, eyes trained on the path ahead, “—when we moved in back in April, I was so hyped. Like, I thought I knew what to expect. But then school actually started, and everything hit at once. Training. Missions. I don’t think I was used to… my body hurting all the time.”

You let out a soft laugh. Yeah. That part still surprises you too.

“But,” he goes on, glancing at you, “I’m glad I met you. I mean—” he corrects quickly, “—you guys. All of you.”

You smile, not bothering to correct him.

“Yeah,” you say. “I know what you mean. I’m glad I met you too.”

You look up at him.

He’s only slightly taller than you — just enough that you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes, if he ever let you see them. But right now, his hair falls in loose strands around his face, just past his shoulders, hiding most of it in shadow.

It moves a little with the breeze, brushing against his jaw. You wonder if he notices, or if he’s too caught up in whatever he’s thinking to care.

For a second, you consider brushing it back for him.

You don’t.

Instead, you tuck your hands deeper into your sleeves and look forward again, pretending you didn’t feel whatever that was.

“Hungry?” he asks.

You glance up briefly.

The boys' dorms have two vending machines on the first floor. Everyone knows that. It's the unofficial late-night pit stop — the place you all end up when the cafeteria food is disappointing or training’s left you too wrecked to make the trek for anything better.

“Yeah,” you say, “I could eat something.”

Before you even shift your weight, his hand wraps around your wrist, unthinking, like muscle memory. You don’t pull away. Instead, curiosity flickers in your chest. You glance down and tug up your sleeve with your free hand, just a little, like you need to see it to understand it.

His fingers are warm. Steady. There’s no pressure in his grip.

“Come on,” he says, already turning toward the dorm entrance, still holding onto you like this is something the two of you have always done.

You feel the cool rush of the air conditioning the moment you step inside. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead fills the quiet, and your slippers make soft, muffled sounds against the tile.

He doesn’t let go of your wrist until you’re halfway down the hallway — not that you mind.

The vending machines glow at the end of the corridor, casting soft blue and orange light across the floor like some kind of cheap, modern campfire.

“Ice cream?” he offers,.

“Nah,” you shake your head. “I don’t want a sore throat tomorrow.”

He snorts. “You sound like Shoko.”

“Well, one of us has to be the responsible one.”

“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically, crouching down to scan the options. “Guess I’ll eat my feelings alone.”

You roll your eyes but step up beside him anyway, peering into the vending machine like it holds the answers to life. It doesn’t — but maybe a bag of chips will do for now.

You point to the bag of Lay’s tucked in the corner slot. “That one.”

He follows your gaze, nods, and punches in the numbers. The machine whirs to life.

Sleep starts to pull at you again, soft and heavy, wrapping around your limbs like fog. You blink slowly, shoulders sinking just a little.

“Getting tired?” he asks without looking at you, focused on catching the chips before they drop too hard.

“A little,” you murmur. “Thought I was past it, but… guess not.”

He straightens up, chips in hand, and glances over at you. “You always look kind of half-asleep.”

You yawn, not bothering to hide it. “Thanks. I try.”

He grins and hands you the bag. “C’mon. Let’s go sit. Just for a bit.”

And even though the hallway is cold and the machines are humming and your bed is calling, you follow him anyway.

He walks a few steps up the stairs and drops down onto a middle step, resting his elbows on his knees. Without thinking, he uses his teeth to tear open the wrapper of his popsicle, the plastic crinkling softly in the quiet.

You follow, settling beside him with the bag of chips rustling in your hands. You fish one out, pop it into your mouth, and chew slowly, the salt waking your senses just enough to keep your eyes open.

The stairwell is still. Dim light spills in from the hallway, casting soft shadows on the floor. Neither of you says anything for a moment — just the occasional crunch from your chips and the faint, wet sound of him biting into the popsicle.

It's peaceful in that odd, late-night kind of way. Not quite awake, not quite dreaming. Just enough.

You glance at him. “What flavor?”

He looks down at the popsicle, then at you. “Blue. Always blue.”

You hum in response, barely audible, and rest your head lightly against his arm. He stiffens just a little — not because he minds, but because he wasn’t expecting it. After a second, he relaxes.

You feel him turn his head to look at you, the subtle shift of his weight beneath your cheek.

“You’re really pretty, you know,” he says. He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but didn’t stop himself either.

You stay still for a beat, lips parting like you might say something back — but nothing comes out.

“…Thanks,” you whisper, voice barely above the hum of the vending machine behind you. “You’re really pretty, too.”

That makes him laugh.

“Pretty, huh?” he repeats, glancing down at you with a lopsided smile. “That’s a new one.”

You shrug, your cheek still resting against his arm. “Felt accurate.”

He doesn’t argue.

Instead, he leans back against the stairwell wall, popsicle balanced loosely in his fingers, and lets the silence settle again.

“I’m sorry if this is weird,” he says after a while, voice quieter now. There’s a hesitation there — not nervous, just careful.

You pause, fingers brushing the bottom of the chip bag. Almost empty.

“What’s weird?” you ask, not looking at him yet.

There’s a beat.

“Can I kiss you?” he says. “Please, I really want to kiss you.”

He doesn’t say it like a line. Doesn’t try to make it cool or clever. He just says it like it’s the only thing that feels true in this moment — like it’s been sitting on his tongue all night.

You finally look up, your eyes meeting his, and everything feels still again. The hallway is quiet, the air still. Even the hum of the vending machine feels distant now, like it’s waiting too.

You don’t say anything right away. Just study his face — the way his bangs fall a little into his eyes, the faint color in his cheeks, the way he’s trying so hard not to move unless you give him something back.

Your fingers crinkle the chip bag as you fold it closed, setting it gently beside you on the step.

“…Okay,” you say, so softly it barely counts as a word. “You can.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he asked.

And then he leans in — slow, careful, like he’s afraid he’ll break the moment if he moves too fast. His hand brushes your cheek, thumb tracing just below your eye, and you close the distance between you both without even thinking.

The kiss is soft. Hesitant, at first. Then warmth takes over your body.

It’s not perfect — his popsicle hand is still a little cold and your hoodie sleeve gets caught between you for a second — but it doesn’t matter. Because in that moment, everything else fades.

You pull apart a minute later, your breath just a little uneven.

“You taste cold,” you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He huffs a laugh, eyes still half-lidded as he leans back against the wall again. “That’s the popsicle. Blue. Premium flavor.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tastes more like a potential brain freeze.”

He grins, that lazy, sleepy kind of grin that only shows up when he’s too tired to pretend. “Still kissed me anyway.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite behind it. “Yeah, well… I wanted to.”

He doesn’t say anything to that — just looks at you like you’ve handed him something delicate, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it yet. So instead, he bumps his shoulder gently against yours.

“C’mon,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “I’ll walk you back.”

You glance at him, not quite ready for the moment to end, but you nod anyway. “Okay.”

He stands first, offering you a hand without thinking. You take it, and he pulls you up with an ease that makes your chest feel warm in a way that has nothing to do with body heat.

You both toss your wrappers into the bin on the way out, your footsteps echoing softly in the stairwell. The vending machines hum behind you as the door clicks shut, sealing the quiet moment between their glowing lights.

Outside, the night is still cool, the campus quiet. The path back to your dorm feels shorter now, like the space between you has shifted — something small, something subtle.

You walk in step, side by side, fingers brushing now and then but not holding. Not yet.

And when you reach your door, he stops, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze lingering on you, like there’s something he wants to say but hasn’t figured out how.

You step forward, hands resting on his shoulders as you press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Goodnight, Geto,” you say, pulling back.

You’re halfway through closing the door when he calls your name, voice barely above a whisper.

“You know you can call me Suguru,” he says.

There’s a beat. Then a sheepish smile tugs at your lips.

“Goodnight, Suguru.”

You close the door the rest of the way, the latch clicking gently behind you.

In the quiet of your room, you tug off your sweatshirt, letting it fall to the floor, and slip back into bed. 

taglist : @twilightsumu @mik4kn0x @bubblegumcat229 @poopooindamouf @se-phi-roth @twinkling-moonlillie @11thlife02 @perqbeth @love-me-satoru @pillkits @not-a-glad-gladiator @xarnesss

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